But in 1998, the Yankees didn’t need a DiMaggio Day. The Pinstripes were winning more ballgames than any AL club had ever won–that was baseball history. The Yanks were the darlings of New York, and the stands were full. Why not save DiMaggio Day for next year–say, early in the ‘99 season? It could put some fannies in the seats on some solemn Sunday when Minnesota or K.C. was in town.
It was Joe who wanted to schedule his day before the ‘98 season ended. Or, to be precise, the pressure came from Yankee Clipper Enterprises, of Hollywood, Florida–YCE, as it was called by Morris Engelberg,* Esq., who ran it. Engelberg was a Florida tax lawyer who’d been Joe’s business buddy through the 1990s. It was Morris who spurred Joe to pile up the millions–to build the estate, which Morris would control. Now, Joe told Morris, DiMaggio Day had to be this year, or never–and Morris jumped on the case big-time. Joe didn’t tell Morris why the big day had to happen now. Joe didn’t tell anyone, when he started coughing up blood.
What Morris knew was, he had to come through. No mistakes! This was the biggest payday he’d ever attempted for DiMaggio. Morris ran the numbers in his head, over and over. If that special Yankee Clipper baseball (autographed by the Clipper) could be retailed for four hundred dollars (Morris was sure it could), this deal could add up to five million bucks–or better. Even if they had to wholesale Joe’s signed balls (say, at two hundred a pop), that would net three million. And there was no one to look over Engelberg’s shoulder–this one would be just Morris and Joe. They’d been talking about this deal for so long–since that day in 1995 when the Yankees unveiled Mantle’s monument–and played the game with a Mickey Mantle ball… Morris had been working to create an official DiMaggio baseball for three years.
That was how Engelberg, Esq. complained of his exertions to his new business buddy–Scott DiStefano, who was a young memorabilia salesman with the Lakewood, New Jersey, firm called B & J Collectibles. By long-distance telephone, Morris was at pains to impress young DiStefano with the amount of work that had gone into this DiMaggio Day, with the importance of the DiMaggio ball, with the seriousness of this deal as a whole. “This is a very big deal, Scott.”
“I know that,” said DiStefano, who agreed with Morris often.
“I mean, you’re selling two thousand balls that go for four hundred thousand dollars with no overhead and no cost.”
“I know.”
“It’s major,” said Engelberg.
“Major,” said DiStefano.
“Biggest deal you’re going to have for next year.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Okay?” said Morris. “So, we’ve got to get this wrapped up.”
In the months to come, Morris would claim that he knew all about DiMaggio’s illness. He just couldn’t talk about it, because Joe insisted on privacy. Of course, that was when Engelberg was promoting himself as “Joe’s longtime personal attorney, confidant, and closest friend.”
But Engelberg didn’t know.
Scott said he wanted to be in business on his own, so he wouldn’t have to share the big windfall when DiMaggio died.
“Yeah, but Joe’s worth ten more years,” Morris said.
That was why he and Scott had to make their money now.
What would Morris do to keep Joe?
What would he not do?
Just for starters, Engelberg, Esq. undertook all of Joe’s legal work, got him his Florida residency, got California off Joe’s back, and made Joe compliant with the federal tax authorities. (That was a great worry off Joe’s mind. He had fretted unceasingly through the investigation that busted Darryl Strawberry and Duke Snider–among others–for taking unreported cash at autograph shows and personal appearances. No one had taken more cash than Joe.) And Morris undertook those labors without ever sending Joe a bill.
Morris would name his office for Joe, and would park in front of it the van he’d bought with the pinstripes, and the dimag 5 vanity plate, and the words painted on–yankee clipper. But the van would not be parked directly in front of the door. That prime space–“Number 5”–would be “Reserved for Mr. Joseph P. DiMaggio.”
Whenever Joe cared to use that space, Morris would host him in the office for hours, and take Joe to lunch every day, and dinner maybe once or twice a week. He would make a great and talky show of involving Joe D. in Engelberg family events–for instance, the wedding of Morris’s daughter Laurie to a young man named Herb Milgrim. (And Morris would complain for years–but never where Joe could hear–about Joe’s failure to bring a gift.)
Morris would take Joe to the doctors. (Doctors mostly of Engelberg’s choosing.) Morris would detail the women of his office to pick up Joe’s dry cleaning, to get Joe’s car washed, to go to Joe’s house and clean it up. Ultimately Morris would get a free house for Joe in the gated community where Morris lived. In fact, Joe’s new house would stand no more than fifty feet from Morris’s house–so Joe couldn’t open up his front door to get his newspaper without Morris knowing.
But mostly–most of all and constantly–Morris would have to make Joe money, and scheme for Joe’s money, and talk about Joe’s money, and pile up millions upon millions for DiMaggio. Morris would raise Joe’s prices, and enforce Joe’s prices, and make prices on things any other man might do for free. (A consortium of Reno, Nevada, promoters would be asked to pony up a million, guaranteed, for the honor of hosting the Great DiMag on his eightieth birthday.)
But there was one more thing:
When Morris made money, Joe could never know.
See, the most important part of this deal for Morris was not Joe DiMaggio Day–not even the fifteen thousand Yankee Clipper balls that Joe could sign and market for three million dollars or more. That would be Joe’s three million. It would add to the estate, sure. And Morris was counting on a piece of that estate–but when?… Morris could not wait.
So the crucial part of the deal was the two thousand balls that Morris would buy, secretly, through DiStefano. And then, Engelberg, Esq. could mix those in, while Joe was signing…. And the price of those balls–say, a cool four hundred grand–would be all for Morris…. Or Morris and Scott–of course, Morris would share! (He wanted Scott to know that.)
Joe Dimaggio day was a one-thirty start with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. The ‘98 Yanks had long since clinched–they were on cruise control, and waiting for the playoffs. The action for New Yorkers was on TV–where fans could watch the crosstown Mets scrambling for (and losing) a wildcard spot… Still, fifty thousand faithful filled the grandstand and most of the bleachers in the Bronx.
But at one-fifteen, most of those fans were still walking in, or finding their seats, or getting food, when the big black score-board in center field came to light and life with three words: “Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio.” And the loudspeakers filled the Stadium with a strangely familiar sound–the voices of two young men, singing:
The big TV screen in right center frizzled to life, and there were video and film clips of Joe hitting, Joe sliding, Joe running, Joe waving…. And then, the gate at the old bullpen swung open–and there he was–riding a white ‘56 T-bird convertible around the outfield track and down the third base line… both hands lifted in the Pope wave, to acknowledge the cheers that swelled to a roar, as the fans caught on to what was happening. Joe DiMaggio Day had begun.
With the cheers and the music and the sunshine glinting off the car, it looked fine–a happy day at the ballpark. And you could count on one hand the people in the Stadium who knew enough to see how quickly this had been thrown together–and how it failed to live up to the standard. There was the car: the only person Joe knew with a T-bird convertible was Marilyn–Joe never liked that car…. Those three words on the scoreboard: no capitalization for the M in DiMaggio…. The film clips on the big TV: there was the newsreel footage from the day Joe got put out of Marilyn’s house on North Palm Drive…. And the big problem: that bent old man, who looked frail and ill, as the T-bird drew to a stop at the Yankee dugout. Joe could barely get out of the car–and almost killed himself when he stumbled on the dugout steps.
But not many people could see how bad Joe looked–only the ones who got close, like Joe Torre, the Yankee skipper, who walked Joe out from the dugout, to the microphone behind home plate, where the big interlocking NY was limed onto the Stadium grass.
“He has been called baseball’s greatest living player…” said the voice of the public address man, Bob Sheppard. “Please welcome…”
Joe was carrying a sheet of paper–a speech that Morris had written for him. Torre had come along to the mike to read Mayor Giuliani’s proclamation for Joe DiMaggio Day. But there would be no reading of the proclamation–and no speech. The microphone didn’t work. So, all that was left was to bring out an officer of Major League Baseball, Paul Beeston, who presented Joe with a boxy frame, inside which was mounted one authorized and genuine American League baseball, with a blue number 5 printed on, with a picture of Joe swinging his bat in front of the NY logo, and with Yankee-blue stitching–the official Joe DiMaggio ball, to be used in that day’s game. Joe took his ball and started back to the dugout….
But wait! Bob Sheppard’s voice on the PA introduced the Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, on whom the crowd rained cheers as he climbed out of the dugout, and stopped Joe–brought him back to home plate. And while the scoreboard flashed, one after the other, Joe’s World Series wins–1936, 1937, 1938, 1939, 1941, 1947, 1949, 1950, 1951… Phil handed Joe a box of replica World Series rings. And Joe lifted it, as if to show it to the crowd. He would never wear any of them. He had his ring–from ‘36–but the great-grandchildren might enjoy seeing these. And then, Joe tottered off the field for good. DiMaggio’s Day was done.
Two weeks later, Joe was in the hospital–memorial Hospital in Hollywood, Florida–though the Baseball Nation didn’t find out for almost a week, till the World Series began, and Joe wasn’t there to throw out the first ball.
“Joe DiMaggio has walking pneumonia,” the Associated Press quoted Morris Engelberg (“attorney and longtime friend”)… “He’s had it three or four months. He’s fine. He’s eating like a horse.”
In the days that followed there were further bulletins. DiMaggio was up, watching the Series on TV. He’d ordered in pizza. “He’ll eventually be out… maybe three or four days,” said (“close friend and personal attorney”) Morris Engelberg. “He has six doctors. They aren’t going to discharge this guy unless he’s perfect.”
The hospital refused all requests for information. “All inquiries regarding Mr. DiMaggio, at Mr. Engelberg’s request, must be directed to Mr. Engelberg,” said Lisa Kronhaus, director of public relations.
" ‘He was sitting in a chair watching the news on television when I walked in,’ Morris Engelberg, the Hall of Famer’s lawyer and confidant told the Associated Press after visiting DiMaggio today…. The lawyer said DiMaggio would be hospitalized at least three more weeks. ‘Then I hope to have him to dinner at my house for his 84th birthday, November 25.’…"
But Joe wouldn’t be out for his birthday. He wasn’t up to watching news, ordering pizza–and pneumonia wasn’t his big problem. Except for the date of Joe’s birthday, it was all lies. Two days after Joe was admitted, doctors operated to remove a cancerous tumor in his right lung. And Joe had never recovered. Infection set in. Then pneumonia beset Joe’s other lung. X-rays showed Joe’s lungs all whited out. He couldn’t breathe on his own. A respirator pushed air into him through a tube in the base of his neck. He was fed through a tube in his stomach. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t talk. And he often didn’t know who else was in the room.
George Steinbrenner wanted to come for a visit. He was told to stay away. Joe wouldn’t know him.
Dominic DiMaggio arrived to see his brother. But Morris lied to Dominic, too–and when he was called on the lies, he wouldn’t tell Dom anything. Then he tried to keep Dom out of Joe’s room. The fifty-nine-year-old Morris and eighty-one-year-old Dominic had a push-and-shove fight in the hospital hallway.
Still, the lies kept coming:
“DiMaggio’s Health Improving…”
“Yankee Clipper Battling Back…”
“I’m being misquoted,” Engelberg protested to the AP. The strain of being a name in the news was almost too much for Morris. “My [telephone] lines are being tied up. My practice has been hurt daily by what’s happened.” (Only later would Morris claim that he’d dropped his practice–to stay at the bedside–from the moment Joe got sick.) For a while, one of Joe’s doctors (and Morris’s pal), Earl Barron, took over the bulletins. Then, the news was different:
“Joe DiMaggio Had Cancer Surgery…”
“His Outlook Is Very Poor…”
“DiMaggio Family Holds Vigil.”
But Morris had become a Big Name in another way–the way he’d always wanted to be. “Every ball,” as the Internet offers informed potential buyers, “will be accompanied by a letter of authenticity, signed by Morris Engelberg, attorney for Yankee Clipper Enterprises.”… News of Joe’s cancer had kicked the memorabilia merchants into high gear. Now, in the Christmas rush, prices were sky-high. And Morris himself had become a Signature.
As Christmas neared, Joe woke up from a coma that his doctors had feared was fatal. (Two months into Joe’s hospital stay, they’d discovered that the antibiotics weren’t getting to Joe’s bloodstream–so they gave him the drug intravenously and, miraculously, Joe improved.) He was still in intensive care. He couldn’t talk, unless they unhooked him from his ventilator and even then it was only a rasping few words. (“No more news,” he told the doctor one day–and that put an end to the bulletins.) But in this case, no news was good news–or at least better than it had been. Joe needed less sedation. He sat up more. He knew who came into his room. He made signals with his hands.
Morris, for one, noticed Joe’s hands were fine. Later, Engelberg would sell sixty-eight Yankee Clipper balls, with pen marks upon them… which were Joe’s attempted signatures on the balls Morris gave him in the hospital.
