It was the first time I'd ever been moved by a broadcast of baseball. Indeed, it was the first time a mystifying code had become clear to me. In Berlin in 1947, when I was told it was World Series time, I dutifully went home and listened to every broadcast of the games between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Yankees on the Armed Forces Radio Network. Years later I came to understand that I'd heard one of the more dramatic Series in history. But at the time, between the static and my own ignorance, I barely understood a word of what I heard.
Now Joe DiMaggio had nailed a home run into my head.
Half an hour later, I found myself at the enthralling open door once again. The bed had become a couch. The woman had put on a dress; the man was in a robe. But the radio buzzed on.
"Who's up now?"
" Tommy Henrich. Then comes DiMaggio. Come on in. Sit down."
DiMaggio came to bat again. Feller pitched. Against the noise of the crowd the announcer's voice went metallic: "Going, going, gah-own!"
"He did it again!" I yelled.
"I'll say he did. Joe DiMaggio."
"But that's amazing, isn't it?"
"It's really something. Not a record, though."