I have a dilemma. Who is the Yankees’ greatest center fielder?

My heart says Mickey Mantle, my buddy, my teammate, my running mate. He was the brother I never had.

But my head says Joe DiMaggio.

How can you ignore the .325 lifetime batting average, the two batting titles, the two home-run championships, the two RBI titles? How can you discount the 56-game hitting streak? It’s a record I feel safe in saying will never be broken—at least not in my lifetime.

There’s also what I consider DiMag’s greatest accomplishment and his most unbelievable statistic—only 369 strikeouts in a 13-year career covering 6,829 at-bats. Hell, Mantle had 371 strikeouts in three seasons, 1958 through 1960. In 1941, when he hit in those 56 consecutive games, DiMaggio struck out only 13 times in 541 at-bats.

As a kid growing up in Astoria, Queens, I was always a Yankees fan, and the main reason was DiMaggio. I idolized him. I remember every morning my father would buy the New York Daily News for two cents, and the first thing I would do when he brought the paper home was turn to the sports section and look at the box score to see how many hits DiMaggio got the day before.

In school, we used to have this betting pool where you would pick three players for a penny, and if your three players got six hits among them, you would get back 6-to-1 odds. I would always pick Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams and one other player. It was a sucker bet because it’s hard to pick three players who would get six hits, even with DiMaggio and Williams—especially Williams because he walked so much, he sometimes would get only two at-bats in a game.

The best time for me when I was a kid was when my uncles would take me up to Yankee Stadium. For a nickel, we’d ride the subway from Astoria all the way up to the Bronx, which took about an hour. We’d sit in the bleachers, where tickets cost 25 cents. So for 35 cents for the ticket and round-trip subway fare, and maybe another 25 cents for a hot dog and a Coke, I’d get to see my idol, the great DiMaggio, in person.

Imagine how I felt when, only 10 years later, I was on the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium pitching for my favorite team, and my idol was behind me in center field.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw DiMag up close. It was the spring of 1950. I had been invited to spring training in St. Petersburg after going 16–5 in Binghamton the previous season. I boarded a train at Grand Central Station for the 24-hour trip to Florida and checked into the Soreno Hotel.

The next day, I reported to Miller Huggins Field and walked into the clubhouse for the first time. There were about 50 guys crowded into this one little room. I was scared to death just being there, too scared to even talk to anybody. I looked around and I could see some familiar faces, veteran players like Tommy Henrich, Johnny Lindell, Cliff Mapes, Gene Woodling, and Ralph Houk. I recognized Yogi Berra, or Larry Berra, as he was introduced to me the day I signed with the Yankees. And I recognized Charlie Silvera because I had played against him in Mexico.

Pete Sheehy, the clubhouse man, had all the veteran players on one side of the room, and you could tell how much status each player had by the size of his locker and where it was placed. All the rookies were in the back. That’s when I met Billy Martin for the first time, but I can’t remember anything special that he said or did.

I was in the clubhouse about 15 minutes when the door flew open and in walked Joe DiMaggio, my idol, all dressed up in a suit and tie. I had never seen a suit that good in my life. He looked so dapper, and when he walked through the door, it was like a senator or an ambassador entering a room. I’m sure I remained with my mouth wide open staring at him. I kept sneaking peeks at him, and if DiMaggio happened to turn and look in my direction, I’d turn away so he wouldn’t catch me staring at him.

The first thing DiMaggio did when he came in every morning was yell out to Pete Sheehy, “Half a cup of coffee, Petey boy.”

And Sheehy would bring him his coffee, and DiMaggio would sit in front of his locker, sipping his coffee and talking with veteran players like Lindell, Mapes, Henrich, and Joe Page. I never saw him talking to any rookies, except Billy Martin, and that was because Martin started the conversation. Martin was so outgoing that by the time spring training was over, he was not only talking to Joe like he was DiMag’s equal, he was hanging out with him.

I don’t think I said a word to DiMaggio all spring. I was so nervous, I wasn’t about to go over to him and introduce myself. I was afraid if I did, I’d get so tongue-tied I was liable to forget my own name.

When spring training was over, I was sent down to Kansas City, where I stayed until July. Then I came up to the Yankees, and there I was, pitching for them with DiMaggio behind me in center field.

By the time I came up, DiMaggio was at the end of his career, and he was hurting because of a bone spur on his heel. He was not the same player he had been, but he was still pretty good. He couldn’t run like he used to, but he got such a great jump on the ball in center field that he was still a graceful and excellent outfielder.

When I joined the team, DiMaggio was hitting about .235, but he ended up hitting .301 for the season, so he must have batted about .370 in the time I was there. He was still so graceful in the field and such a good hitter, it made me realize how great he must have been in his prime.

We won the pennant in 1950 and swept the Phillies in the World Series in four games. DiMaggio homered in the tenth inning of the second game to give us a 2–1 win. I started the fourth game, and Joe doubled in a run in the first. We won the game, 5–2, and took the Series.

DiMaggio batted .308 for the Series, and that would be the last time I played with him. I spent 1951 and 1952 in the army, and Joe retired after the 1951 season.

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