“A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain
resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.”
~HW Longfellow on Remembering Days Gone By
“There was an aura about him. He walked like no one else walked. He
did things so easily. He was immaculate in everything he did. Kings
of State wanted to meet him and be with him. He carried himself
so well. He could fit in anyplace in the world.”
~Yankee Great, Phil Rizzuto on Joe DiMaggio
In the sweltering heat that comes along with the dog days of summer, I can’t help but think what it would have been like to be alive when Joltin’ Joe was putting together his 56-game hitting streak–a feat that has yet to be bested to this day.
As the temperature tops the century mark, I imagine old men in t-shirts congregating on tenement fire escapes listening to the afternoon games on WNYC from the Philco blaring in the neighbors kitchen window. Leaning back on rickety wooden chairs and wiping their sweat with crumpled handkerchiefs, they look over their shoulders and shout out updates to salesmen pounding the pavement down below in their drape-cut suits and freshly-shined Brogues.
I imagine newpaper stands adorned with headlines printed in thick serif fonts, “Cleveland Invades Polo Grounds…Yankee Clipper Chases 56.” Nickels change hands at dizzying speeds and papers are snapped up as the streak rages seemingly ever onward.
And as legions of kids play stickball in the crowded streets hoping to become the next DiMaggio, an entire country holds its breath as a native son performs a once-in-a-lifetime feat.
There are days when I indeed dream of DiMaggio. And as I move my hand over the warm red bricks and watch the worn paint fall to the sidewalk, I have a pretty good idea of what transpired in the summer of 1941–I only wish that I could have witnessed it firsthand.
In the summer of 1941, Joe DiMaggio hit safely in 56 consecutive games–a feat that may never be matched. But like all things good and magical; there is an end. On July 17th, Al smith and Jim Bagby of the Cleveland Indians held the great DiMaggio hitless. Less than five months later, America would enter WWII and those remarkable summer days would somehow never be the same again.
Leave a note.