The Kid: The Immortal Life of Ted Williams (97 page)

“We had several conversations,” recalled Reardon. “He was always coming back to, ‘This isn’t the right thing for me. I’d be very uncomfortable. I did not earn it.’ And he’d say, ‘The biggest mistake I ever made was not getting a college education.’ I told him he joined Fred Astaire and Katharine Hepburn among those who turned us down. He laughed and said he thought that was pretty good company.”
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On May 10 and 11, during a homestand against the Texas Rangers, the Red Sox hosted a weekend Tedfest. On the first day, the team paid homage to the great DiMaggio as well, saluting his famed hitting streak of 1941. The Kid and the Clipper met underneath the center-field bleachers and had a few quiet moments together before they emerged in separate golf carts—Ted’s heading toward left field and Joe’s through center toward right—and rendezvoused at home plate, where they shared a poignant embrace.

Ted had John-Henry, then twenty-two, and Claudia, nineteen, there that day. He’d arranged for them to throw out the first ball and insisted they spend some time practicing the day before. As their father beamed, they both delivered crisp pitches.

The following day was just for Williams, and 33,196 fans turned out. Each received a folder containing a collage of photos and news clippings commemorating Ted’s career. In the Red Sox clubhouse before the game, as Williams bantered with manager Joe Morgan, players like Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs, who had also gotten the Ted folders, were lined up, waiting for him to autograph them. Williams signed and chatted with Boggs, telling him he watched Sox games through his satellite dish in Florida now. He asked why Wade had chased a bad pitch on a three-and-one count the other day. Boggs was stunned to be asked such a specific question, but knew which pitch Ted meant.

“Well, Ted, it was 3–1 and I was looking for a fastball in, and sometimes a fastball can look like a slider, you know, Ted,” Boggs explained.
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Two of the opposing Rangers also came over to pay their respects. Williams asked one, Julio Franco, how he could hit with such a contorted
stance, and he quizzed the other, pitcher Scott Chiamparino, on his knowledge of Bernoulli’s principle.
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Curt Gowdy, who had called Williams’s last home run and toasted him before that game, was to be the master of ceremonies again this day, and Ted had thought carefully about what he wanted to say and do when he addressed the fans. One nice touch, he decided, would be to finally do something he had stopped doing as a player for twenty years: tip his cap to the fans. He confided his plans to John-Henry the night before with instructions not to tell anyone and to get him a Red Sox cap when the time came.

But as he accompanied his father onto the field for the ceremony, John-Henry suddenly realized he’d forgotten to get the hat, so he raced into the clubhouse and borrowed the cap of Red Sox closer Jeff Reardon. Then he came back to the field and discreetly slipped the hat to Ted, who stuffed it in the back pocket of his pants, beneath his sport jacket.

After Gowdy introduced him and the cheers rang out, Williams soaked up the moment, smiled broadly, and, like the showman he was, delivered one of his signature imaginary swings of the bat, clasped hands slashing through the air as the wrists rolled over and the hips turned, still smoothly.

In his remarks, and with the intended hat tip, Williams wanted to bury the hatchet forever with his public, but as he did when he retired that day in 1960, he couldn’t resist taking another dig or two at the Boston press.

“I used to get just a little annoyed when some of my teammates would kid me about how lucky a hitter I was, and I didn’t mind that because I knew how lucky I was,” Williams announced. “But when they started writing, or when they would even intimate in any way that I was hard-headed, that did bother me a little bit. And it really annoyed me when the Knights”—he pointed up to the press box—“elaborated on it in print. That did annoy me a lot.”

Then the Kid started his windup. “So they can never write ever again that I was hard-headed, never write again that I never tipped my hat to the crowd”—at this he pulled out the hat from his hip pocket, threw his head back, and laughed, perhaps both in delight at the cleverness of his own gambit and at himself as he could sense the crowd catching on to the caper—“because today, I tip my hat to A-A-ALL the people of New England, without question the greatest fans on earth.”
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Williams and DiMaggio made another joint appearance on July 9, this time at the White House. The appearance came about because the
All-Star Game that year was to be played in Toronto on the same day, and then-commissioner Fay Vincent had invited President George H. W. Bush to be his guest at the game. Bush suggested to Vincent that they honor Ted and Joe at the White House first with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, then they would all fly together to Toronto on Air Force One for the game.

A problem emerged. It seemed Joe had already received a Medal of Freedom—from Gerald Ford in 1977. “Please thank the President, but I already have one,” DiMaggio told Bush’s chief of staff, John Sununu—with some delight, according to Morris Engelberg’s book.
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It was agreed both men would be given presidential citations instead, and Williams would get his Medal of Freedom separately later that year. Vincent recalled that when he invited DiMaggio to attend, Joe responded: “Do you want me to come, Commissioner? Is it personal to you?” Joe made it quite clear he was keeping track of favors.
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Ted needed coaxing, too. Sununu invited Williams by letter, but received no reply. Vincent suspected that the reason Williams hadn’t answered was because he didn’t want to wear a tie. Sununu said he wouldn’t have to, whereupon Vincent called Ted with that message, and he accepted.

Ted had brought Louise Kaufman with him, and they spent the night before the ceremony in the Lincoln Bedroom. Rob Kaufman, Louise’s son, said that was the highlight of his mother’s later life. Late that night, Bush suddenly appeared in the Lincoln Bedroom. He wanted to talk fishing with Ted and took him to the adjacent room, to two large dressers. Bush opened a drawer and revealed a gorgeous collection of fishing flies, all beautifully tied in a variety of colors—red, green, orange, and yellow—and made of goose feathers, sealskin, and other exotic materials. Then Bush showed him a collection of reels, and they talked about those. Williams liked a president who knew his fishing.
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The morning of the ceremony, a Marine, saying he was risking going to the brig, asked Ted and Joe to sign his white glove. Then Sununu appeared and gave each of them forty-eight balls to sign. Ted cheerfully obliged and plunged into the assignment with gusto, but Joe turned to Vincent and asked, “Is he kidding?”

“He’s not kidding,” Vincent replied.

Joe fumed, but gave in. “I’m going to do it, Commissioner, but I don’t like it.”
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After a private meeting and photo session in the Oval Office, Bush, Ted, and Joe emerged for the ceremony in the Rose Garden, where a throng of senators, congressmen, White House staffers, and guests, most
of a certain age, had gathered for a glimpse of the two great men. Also present was the Louisiana State University baseball team, which was being honored for winning the College World Series. DiMaggio looked characteristically elegant in a tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and purple paisley tie. Ted wore an ill-fitting gray sport coat, his bolo tie, and blue-gray slacks over brown-and-tan suede saddle shoes.

Bush, the good-field-no-hit former Yale first baseman, was plainly delighted to be in the presence of baseball royalty. He recalled that in 1941, when Ted and Joe had had their sterling seasons, he’d been seventeen, “and like many American kids in those days… I followed those box scores closely, watched the magnificent season unfurl.” Then the president turned to DiMaggio. “In those days I was, Joe, a Red Sox fan.” The Clipper nodded as Bush, hoping to make amends, added that his brother had been a Yankees fan. “Fifty years later, that ’41 season just remains a season of dreams.… Who even now does not marvel at the Splendid Splinter and the Yankee Clipper?

“These genuine heroes thrilled Americans with real deeds,” Bush said. “Both men put off their baseball careers to serve their country. Their service deprived them, I think every baseball lover will tell you, of even greater statistics, but also enhanced their greatness in the eyes of their countrymen.” Williams, the president added, was “John Wayne in a Red Sox uniform,” while DiMaggio “bespoke excellence.”

Ted accepted his citation first. “I’ve always realized what a lucky guy I’ve been in my life,” he said. “I was born in America. I was a Marine. I served my country. I’m very, very proud of that. I got to play baseball. Had a chance to hit. I owe so very, very much to this game that I love so much. And I want to thank you, Mr. President.” Williams, the staunch Republican, then looked at Bush and added: “I think you’re doing a tremendous job. And I want you to know that you’re looking at one of the greatest supporters you’ll ever have.” The bipartisan crowd laughed.

Then it was Joe’s turn. “Thank you Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’m honored. Thank you so much. And to you LSU players out there, congratulations on your championship. I know the feeling. I’ve been in one or two myself.”
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After the ceremony, it was off to Toronto for the All-Star Game aboard Air Force One. Joe was awed by the plane, later describing its interior in great detail for his agent, Morris Engelberg. And the Clipper was anxious to tell Ted that he had already received a Medal of Freedom, to which, as Joe later wrote in his diary, Ted responded that they were now even when it came to medals.
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This was apparently a reference to
the fact that Ted’s service record, when all was said and done, was longer and far more substantive than Joe’s, because the Clipper had mostly sat out World War II playing ball.

Williams also enthused over the plane and inquired how much thrust the engines put out. While they were airborne, Bush placed a surprise call to Ted’s daughter Claudia, who thought it was a prankster on the line.
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Barbara Bush brought some more baseballs back for Ted and Joe to sign—mostly for the traveling press corps. The amiable Mrs. Bush was harder for DiMaggio to resist than Sununu, so he complied without a fuss this time.

The two talked baseball with anyone who asked. “It was unbelievable,” remembered Sununu.
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“Here were two icons of baseball talking and reminiscing. They were friendly. By that time they had accommodated themselves to each other.”

Canadian prime minister Brian Mulroney was on board, and Williams seized the occasion to lobby the startled Mulroney, demanding to know what he intended to do about Indians overfishing the Miramichi for Atlantic salmon.

When the day was finished, DiMaggio told Vincent bluntly that while he’d enjoyed himself, he would never do it again.
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Later, taking inventory of his various awards, Joe couldn’t find the Medal of Freedom that he had received in 1977, so he called Sununu to see if he could get another.

“I said, ‘That’s almost impossible to do, but I’ll do it,’ ” Sununu said. “I had also gotten Williams and Joe to sign a picture of them and Bush for the president, and I wanted one for myself. So I sent Joe the new Medal of Freedom and the picture, asking that he sign it. He returned the picture unsigned, saying he couldn’t sign it.” He said when he told Bush about this, the president gave him his own signed photo.

“DiMaggio was revered during his playing years and became more of a difficult personality as years went on, and [it] hurt his reputation,” Sununu said. “Ted was aloof during his playing years, but his heart got bigger than ever as he aged. They were just the opposite.”

Bush remembered another mercenary moment concerning Joe and the pictures they had taken at the White House. “That one famous picture of DiMaggio, me, and Ted, we had a hundred signed copies and agreed that each would get a third. One of us got thirty-four. Joe didn’t want his share.” Williams was happy to take the extras, and DiMaggio was happy to provide them—for $500 each. Ted paid.

That November, the president wanted Ted to return to the White House to accept a Medal of Freedom along with nine others, including Betty
Ford and William F. Buckley Jr. But Williams was tardy in responding to the official invitation, again wary of attending another spectacle that would require his wearing a tie.

Commissioner Vincent intervened and, after consulting with Sununu, brokered a deal whereby Williams would attend without having to wear a tie.

John Dowd, Ted’s lawyer in the Antonucci affair, greeted Williams at the airport, and they repaired to the Hay-Adams Hotel. Dowd, who, like Williams, was a retired Marine captain, had a stricter sense of decorum than Ted when it came to proper attire when visiting the president of the United States, their commander in chief.

“The morning comes, Ted’s wearing gray slacks and a powder-blue shirt, and he’s saying, ‘I’m not wearing a tie,’ ” recalled Dowd. “I got everybody out of the room. I said, ‘This is your commander in chief. I’m not going over there with you if you’re gonna look like Joe Shit the Rag Man.’ Then he weakened a little and said, ‘I don’t even know how to tie the fuckin’ thing.’ So I tied it. He’s mumbling out of the side of his mouth, ‘This is the last time.’ ” Dowd even persuaded the Kid to add a handkerchief to his ensemble.

“At the White House, we go in the north gate. A Secret Service guy yells out, ‘Yo, Mr. Williams, you look terrific.’ ‘I don’t want to hear that,’ says Ted. Then we’re in the receiving line waiting to meet the president. No one can be more gracious than the Bush family. Ted puts me in front of him in the line. I meet the president. Bush says, ‘I don’t recognize this fellow with the tie on.’ Ted had steam coming out his ears.’

“He had a ball. Then, when it was time to leave, as soon as we got out, he ripped that tie and handkerchief off and threw them at me. You can imagine the calls I got asking for the tie. I gave it to John Sununu. I kept the handkerchief.”