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And he had a sense of civilization, hierarchy and order that went beyond decorum to the center of middle-class values. He sent flowers; he wore blue suits with white shirts. Late in a game, deep into DiMaggio's hitting streak, a pitcher, aiming to walk him, threw three straight balls. DiMaggio asked the permission of his manager to swing at the next pitch.
On TV, Paul Simon surmised that DiMaggio disliked Mrs. Robinson because he probably thought "we were just a bunch of hippies making fun of him." Simon meant only homage, but DiMaggio may have been right. The fact is that he was above being a mere nostalgic icon. His appeal went deeper into human nature and was not attached to a particular time or ethnic group or nation. That he understood--and cultivated--his distant place in the world may have burdened him with loneliness, but he had the compensating satisfaction of leading a dignified life.
At TIME's 75th anniversary party, among the vast convention of celebrities that included the Clintons, Mikhail Gorbachev, Tom Cruise and on and on, I spotted DiMaggio seated by himself, bony and a little bent, yet perfect in his tux. I stared a minute, then summoned the nerve to approach. I told him about that first game I saw, and his home run, and we talked baseball, which for me was worth a life. After his death last week, much of America also talked baseball, momentarily lifting itself out of pettiness and cheapness into the realm of a man we did not know and will never forget.