Oblivious to my sarcasm, he continued, "Ya know, Doc, I always said that a little coaching helps no matter how good you are. McCarthy, the manager of the Yankees, who won seven World Series, always reviewed the finer points of the game with me."
Then Joe delivered an insight that made me look at sports differently - all sports, not just baseball.
"Did you know, Doc, that most games are won or lost because of mental errors - the wrong cut-off guy, not thinking before throwing the ball, forgetting how many outs there were?"
"Yeah. Joe?" I wanted to hear more.
Joe gazed out the car window and continued, "I may or may not have been the most physically gifted athlete, like Ted Williams or Hank Greenberg, but one thing I had over everybody else was my brains. I was a thinking ballplayer, and that's what made me stand out. I made very few mental errors," Joe finished enlightening me.
What he said seemed profound to me. Of course, sports were at least as much mental as physical. Joe DiMaggio, the greatest athlete of the last century and maybe all time, was squarely placing his vote for mental agility
We hit some traffic on Surf Avenue in Brooklyn. As Marco took a small detour, Joe studied the neighborhood and saw the sign for Nathan's Famous approaching.
"Hey, Doc, look over there. It's Nathan's. It hasn't changed a bit since I was here over fifty years ago. Let's stop for a hot dog and some of those great French fries."
I started to envision Joe's swollen ankles from the high salt content. I loved Nathan's and was happy to stop. We ordered several hot dogs each and a serving of fries. We stood at the stainless steel tables devouring the Coney Island delicacies. Joe made sure we brought Marco some hot dogs, too. He doted on him and appreciated him. He took pictures with Marco and signed baseballs and pictures without hesitation.
I was ready to put my plan into action. There was a nearby batting cage concession, which was down the garish strip of fading amusement rides and honky-tonk tourist traps.
"I have an Idea," I said to my unsuspecting friend. "How about some batting practice?" I had often dreamed about getting hitting instruction from one of the best players who every played the game.
"I'm sure you could use it," Joe said. "I'll give you some pointers." I brought Joe to the cages where an attendant met us. The kid was clueless as to the identity of this old man.
"Thanks, young man," Joe responded. "We have some work to do here tonight. I don't want the Doc to make a fool of himself next month at a big celebrity charity game. He'll never hear the end of it, and neither will I."
Sunset bathed the boardwalk in a golden light, the perfect illumination for what was about to happen. The smell of cotton candy being spun in ancient, dinky vats, the greasy smell of fries and grilled hot dogs, and the laughter of kids and grownups created the perfect atmosphere for Joe's last time at bat in New York. 1 was still pinching myself. Wakeup!
I looked at the forlorn, rusting tower of the parachute ride in weed-riddled Steeplechase Park and remembered better days. Judging from the way Joe was looking around, I'm sure he did, too.
Disco music blared from the batting-cage speakers. One look at Joe's face was enough for me to return to the car for Joe's favorite Glenn Miller CD. Marco pulled it out of the CD holder. I slapped the kid attendant a twenty to put on the Glenn Miller CD. Joe smiled, mellow again.
I entered the batting cage feeling extremely self-conscious, Though I had been a good ballplayer, hitting under the scrutiny of the greatest mental and physical athlete of all time made me more than a little uncomfortable. All I could think about was my mother telling Joe Di in my waiting room what a great baseball player I was. I took the stance at the mechanical home plate expecting to humiliate myself.
Joe was watching with a big grin on his face. He was having a great time. "Doc, let me see you hit a few before I tell you how lousy you are," he called out to me.
Now, that was encouraging.
"Jesus Christ, I feel like an altar boy reciting the Latin Mass in front of the Pope," I said to Joe's further amusement.
The pitches started coming, and to my surprise, I hit the ball with power and confidence. I didn't think I'd do so well. I beamed proudly with every hit.
Joe was not impressed. Twenty pitches from the robot arm, and I had hit most, if not all, of them.
Nope. Joe was not impressed, and he had to say so. "Ya think you're doing good, huh, Doc? It's easy to hit a pitch when you know where and when it's coming from every time," he began his lecture. "In the big leagues, the pitcher has the advantage, because he knows where the ball is going but you, the batter, do not."
I could feel myself deflating.
"Hitting in batting cages is nothing like hitting a great pitcher like Bobby Feller or Warren Spahn. That's the problem with these cages. The public comes here and thinks that they can hit a first-class pitcher, because they can hit a pitching machine. Pitching machines don't have brains. Some pitchers do, though, but most are stupid."
Joe continued his batting seminar. "Doc, let me tell you something: Hitting is one of the most difficult things to do. It requires coordination, timing, physical ability, concentration, and most important, smarts. Becoming a good guesser is just as important as trying to put the fat of the bat on the ball."
I was listening to the ultimate authority on hitting, second only to Ted Williams.
"The best skill I developed for baseball was my memory. I would memorize the pitch, speed, approach of every thrown ball, and order of the pitches.
"Williams and I would study a pitcher and remember the combinations of pitches the guy was throwing. I could remember a pitcher's attack not just from the game he was playing but also from the same pitcher last week, last month, last season. Williams and I would study a pitcher's motions and his delivery, then we would step up to the plate and put it all together," the professor finished.
I was moved that he wanted to instruct me. I remembered being at a gala at which Joe and Ted Williams were asked why they were such great hitters. They blamed the pitchers. Both men agreed, an unusual occurrence to begin with, that pitchers were "stupid."
As I recall, Williams said, "Pitchers are Just plain stupid."
Both icons believed that pitchers forgot what they threw you. What made DiMaggio and Williams great batters was the fact that they would remember pitcher combinations through the years well before computers could track these things and the gathering of statistics. They knew what the next pitch would be and positioned themselves in the batter's box accordingly. This was mental acuity writ large. We mortals would call it guessing, but it was so much more than that. For them, it was about educated prediction.
"Listening to you, Joe, is a real education. Few people realize just how mental hitting that ball is," I said that day at Coney Island.
"Doc, flattery will get you nowhere with me." Joe laughed. "This is my operating room, and this is where I call the shots. Now, move that right foot a little more and bring your left foot a little farther up. You want your feet to be on a parallel line. It will give you better leverage on a pitch that's coming in at over a hundred miles per hour."
I tried to comply with Joe's instructions. 'Jesus Christ!" I muttered through clenched teeth as I began missing all the robot balls.
"What are you calling Him for, Doc?" asked Joe. "He ain't gonna help you in the batter's box."
I continued to miss what seemed like jinxed balls with a glowering sports icon observing.
"You see, Doc, you're not watching the ball. Your eyes should be on that ball from the second it leaves the pitcher's hand until you see it popping off the sweet part of the bat," Joe advised.
More balls eluded my bat.
"Doc, you're still not watching the ball." Joe was stern. "And ... now .. there goes your foot again. Move it back a little."
I was twistmg like a pretzel as I followed Joe's barked commands.
The batting cage attendant, who remained clueless to the identity of my batting coach, was watchmg from a very safe distance. He found my batting practice cheap entertainment. He probably thought I was with my grandfather.
Joe got hypercntical as I kept missing the robot balls. "Doc! Doc, youjust struck out again," Joe scolded me. "You're going to embarrass me next month at that charity softball game. Do I have to get into the cage myself to show you how it's done?"
Of course, I had this in mind when I drove us to Coney Island in the first place.
More missed balls.
"This is serious business! Baseball IS not a game!" Oblivious to the small and unknowing audience gathering at the fence of the batting cage,Joe yelled at me. Nobody recogmzed the coach who was relaying all these mstrucnons to me from outside the cages, which was a relief.
I had always considered baseball a game, but wasn't about to contradict him. I felt as if steam was coming out of my ears.
I turned and handed the bat to the Yankee Clipper when he entered the cage. "Joe, here's the bat ... why don't you take a few swings to show me what the hell you're talking about?" I was a little worned about Joe swmging the bat, because Joe had a pacemaker in his left chest wall, which could limit his mobility, as well as severe neck and shoulder arthritis. Swinging could disrupt the wiring.
Joe was game. He was in the box again, nostalgic and fierce at the same time, He took the bat and choked up on the handle to get better
"You see, Doc, you're not watching the ball. Your eyes should be on that ball from the second it leaves the pitcher's hand until you see it popping off the sweet part of the bat," Joe advised.
More balls eluded my bat.
"Doc, you're still not watching the ball." Joe was stern. "And ... now .. there goes your foot again. Move it back a little."
I was twisting like a pretzel as I followed Joe's barked commands.
The batting cage attendant, who remained clueless to the identity of my batting coach, was watching from a very safe distance. He found my batting practice cheap entertainment. He probably thought I was with my grandfather.
Joe got hypercritical as I kept missing the robot balls. "Doc! Doc, you just struck out again," Joe scolded me. "You're going to embarrass me next month at that charity softball game. Do I have to get into the cage myself to show you how it's done?"
Of course, I had this in mind when I drove us to Coney Island in the first place.
More missed balls.
"This is serious business! Baseball is not a game!" Oblivious to the small and unknowing audience gathering at the fence of the batting cage, Joe yelled at me. Nobody recognized the coach who was relaying all these instructions to me from outside the cages, which was a relief.
I had always considered baseball a game, but wasn't about to contradict him. I felt as if steam was coming out of my ears.
I turned and handed the bat to the Yankee Clipper when he entered the cage. "Joe, here's the bat ... why don't you take a few swings to show me what the hell you're talking about?" I was a little worried about Joe swinging the bat, because Joe had a pacemaker in his left chest wall, which could limit his mobility, as well as severe neck and shoulder arthritis. Swinging could disrupt the wiring.
Joe was game. He was in the box again, nostalgic and fierce at the same time, He took the bat and choked up on the handle to get better leverage and speed as the small and clueless audience began to congregate to watch a baseball miracle - the octogenarian baseball legend swinging at robot balls to the gaudy music of the Boardwalk in the light of the setting sun. As if on cue, Glenn Miller's "American Patrol" blasted through the speakers for the last at-bat for the greatest all-around athlete in history.
Joe shrank in concentration, his facial expression changed. He was back in 1941. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Okay, Doc, watch carefully, and learn how it's done!"
The motley crowd looked on with me in amazement as the Yankee Clipper hit ball after ball in a batting cage on the Boardwalk on Coney Island. This is what I had wanted to see - Joe Di back in the batter's box, slugging them out, and dropping fifty years while he was at it. Joe's swings were disciplined, beautiful, and flowing as he hit ball after ball without fail. His timing was impeccable.
As "American Patrol" blared, Joe was there in the music and in the cleanly bashed robot balls, a perfect symmetry of man, music, and machinery. I could almost see Lefty, and Ty, and Babe, and all the other Yankees there. The hushed crowd, their fingers gripping the chain link fence, witnessed the great DiMaggio's last time at bat without knowing it or having a clue of who this eighty-plus-year-old phenom really was. He only hit ten balls, but it seemed that time stood still for a while that evening.
Joe was pleased with his performance, and I suspect he was surprised as well.
"Yes, Doc, that's how it's done, and that's how you have to hit 'em next month." He was tired, winded, and visibly sore, but he was supremely happy.
I was beaming.
"Joe, that was really beautiful. Your swing is still choreographed like a dancer's move. This was a real treat."
Joe, as usual, was unimpressed by an amateur's praise. "Okay, Doc, enough of the bullshit," he said, trying to catch his breath as he handed the bat to me. "Get back in there and let's see what you've learned."
I got back into the batting cage and hit more robot balls as dusk turned to night. Marco was watching this spectacle and was grinning from ear to ear. He was moved by the scene.
This is an account of Joe's last at-bat, a part of New York history, not known to anyone except for those lucky fans who happened to be strolling on the Boardwalk that night. It was just the way he wanted it.
Rock Positano "Dinner With DiMaggio" (2016)
