Joe DiMaggio: The end of the streak

Seventy summers ago, Joe DiMaggio hit safely in 56 straight games. This is the story of the 57th

THE FANS ARRIVED early, herding together outside Cleveland’s vast Municipal Stadium, spilling in a great throng onto Lakeside Drive. The weather had broken clear, and a mild evening breeze blew off Lake Erie. By the time the Yankees took batting practice, fans had crowded into the double-decker grandstand and the outfield bleachers. Down in the infield seats there was scarcely room to move in the aisles.

A few had come to see Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak stopped by their Indians, but many wanted to see it continue. And some people, like Cleveland’s ace pitcher Bob Feller, felt both things at once. He couldn’t quite bring himself to root for DiMaggio to get a hit against his team, but at the same time, as he sat in the dugout looking out at the great, soughing crowd, Feller found himself thinking, “I’d sure like to get a crack at stopping that streak tomorrow. I’d like to be the one on the mound.”

What pitcher wouldn’t? The Yankee Clipper, as DiMaggio was known, had hit successfully in 56 straight games, a feat unequalled before or since in modern baseball. For two months in the tense summer of 1941, as the Nazis marched relentlessly through Europe and hundreds of thousands of young men were drafted, America was captivated by DiMaggio’s streak. Great crowds came out to see the Yankees, and there was excitement each time DiMaggio stepped up to bat. Whoever finally shut him down would be known forever as the pitcher who stopped Superman. The Indians’ Al Smith, tonight’s starter, was skinny and left-handed, and threw a lot of soft stuff. He rarely appeared excited. His teammates called him Silent Al.

“GROUND’S STILL WET,” DiMaggio thought as he took his batting stance in the top of the first inning. “Might be a slog to first base.” Rain had fallen earlier in the day, and he could feel the mud sticking to his spikes. The Yankees already led 1–0. With one out, Tommy Henrich stood on second base. Smith started DiMaggio with a fastball, missing high and away.

At third base, Ken Keltner shifted his weight, rubbed the palm of his glove, reassumed his crouch. He approached the art of fielding assiduously, positioning himself carefully and differently for each batter. Against DiMaggio he played very deep and near the foul line. “I would rather have him sneak a single through the hole than put a double past me,” Keltner reasoned.

Smith’s second pitch was a curveball that broke to the inside corner of the plate. DiMaggio lashed at it, pulling the ball hard and on the ground down that third-base line. It zipped fair past the bag, then into foul territory. Keltner backhanded the ball, straightened his body, and threw a pellet to first baseman Oscar Grimes. DiMaggio, on a close play, was out.

Cheers erupted from the stands—“Did you see that play?” “Best third baseman in the league, I tell you!” “Woulda been a double.” When the half-inning ended, applause thundered down again on Keltner as he trotted off the field.

In the top of the fourth, the score was still 1–0. Smith had run the count to 3 and 2 on DiMaggio. Smith relied on his curveball, changeup, middling fastball, and a screwball that could fool you. What he really had going for him was the element of surprise. He would use any of his pitches at any time. He threw a full-count changeup, and DiMaggio fouled it into the stands. Still 3 and 2. “Hang back on this guy,” DiMaggio said to himself. “You can always adjust to that fastball.” The curveball that followed bent too far inside; DiMaggio restrained himself and did not swing. Ball four. Boos rained out of the crowd. Walking a hitter on a streak like this, even unintentionally, was rotten play. DiMaggio was now hitless in two times at the plate.