wasn ’ t scheduled for parole until 2005 . He ended up being released in 1986 after years of a religious conversion . My father used to say , anybody with any intelligence would have a “ religious conversion ” if their sentence was that long . Murph ’ s been working as a minister in Crystal River , Florida since getting out of prison . He talks openly now about his other scams before the big ones . He and some other guys used to rob wealthy Miami homes by riding up and down the Intracoastal Waterway in a speed boat , pulling into backyards , and getting away with the stolen goods . My mother and father said there were plenty of rumors about those heists . I grew up with many stories of criminal beach boy types .
My brother and I were still in Little League . “ DiMaggio was the fi rst real fi ve-tool player ,” Joe said . “ He could hit , hit with power , fi eld , run , and throw .” Joe discreetly sipped his Schlitz , placing the bottle between his legs as he spoke . I had to remember not to rest my hands on the seats of his Pontiac Tempest , because the seats were sticky from spilt beer . The 1967 Tempest was only three years old , but had not aged well . There were stained racing forms on the seat and a couple of empty beer bottles rolling around , clanging every few minutes . Rust was making its way onto the unwashed body . The windows were cracked open , but not enough to ventilate us from the smell of stale beer and smoke . The interior looked like the photos of post-communist Eastern Europe : the unproductive factory where the Peace Corps intervenes , or the smoke-fi lled car from the dream sequence at the beginning of Fellini ’ s 8 . Now , I imagine a larger-than-life balloon looking like Joe , tethered and fl oating above the car , like at the end of the dream .
“ Your arm might be stronger in the end ,” Joe continued . He took a drag as he assessed my ten-year-old brother ’ s baseball abilities and looked him in the eye . “ You could be another Clemente as far as that goes .”
“ Did you know DiMaggio ?” I asked Joe .
“ I met him a few times . He may not remember me . I was covering baseball for the Cleveland Plain Dealer in the ’ 30s . I met his brother Dom a few times — hell of a player , too . Dom was a better fi elder , and faster . You know Joe D . injured his knee getting out of a cab when he was in the minors ? He was supposed to have had blazing speed prior to that .”
As he spoke , Joe maneuvered the steering wheel as if we were on a ride at a fair . We
Orlando Arts & Culture , v . 2.1 slid in and out of lanes , narrowly missing other cars and occasionally brushing curbs . Rain drizzled down from a sunny sky . The windows fogged up as the Tempest fl oated through the mist .
“ Do you think he was as fast as Jesse Owens ?” I asked .
“ Hell no . Jesse was the fastest human of all time . His records have been broken , but the equipment was crap then . Track shoes were much heavier . Starting blocks didn ’ t exist . Most of the tracks were gravel , and were much slower . With today ’ s training , Jesse would have blown anybody away , including Bob Hayes [ the 100-yard dash record-holder at the time ].”
We continued to talk about Jesse Owens as we headed down the palm tree-lined Sunrise Boulevard towards the hotel on the corner of Sunrise and A1A , Ft . Lauderdale . After we passed Highway 1 , I saw the Wolfi e ’ s neon sign on the left . I wished we could eat lunch there . It was one of my favorite places to eat . The Jewish deli is now long gone . Ft . Lauderdale seemed to be on a tear to erase the past .
We drove over the drawbridge that crosses the Intracoastal Waterway after waiting for the bridge to come back up . I watched the large sailboats cross under , and I looked across the water towards Hugh Taylor Birch State Park . My brother and I loved riding the 3-mile-long tourist railroad that took us around the small park . The park was touted as a stop on the route for the almost mythical “ barefoot mailmen .” The carriers travelled up and down the coast of south Florida delivering mail on foot . At the time , I pictured it being one guy delivering all of the mail . Now I know it was several postmen .
Joe had arranged for us all to meet with Jesse Owens for lunch at the hotel restaurant . My father was also supposed to meet us there . He didn ’ t seem too excited about the lunch date . He never encouraged my brother ’ s and my interest in sports . Joe had gone to Ohio State in the early ’ 30s , the same time as Jesse . I had been reading a lot about Jesse Owens and how Hitler wouldn ’ t acknowledge him when he won four gold medals in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin . Joe told my brother and me that he was good friends with our hero in college . My father seemed doubtful ; he was usually a skeptic . My father was staying at the Sunrise Inn , too . He was there on business .
Joe was my step-grandfather , married to my father ’ s mother , Edee . Edee and Joe seemed more like drinking buddies than a couple . Joe had apparently drank his way out of several good jobs , including some foreign correspondent positions . Now , he worked as a sports reporter for the local paper in Ft . Lauderdale . The job may have been closer to entry-level , but had plenty of perks for sports fans like my brother and me . We got a tour of the Yankees ’ locker room when Mickey Mantle was there . He had retired a year prior , just before the 1969 season , but he was still active with the organization .
It was common knowledge that my father didn ’ t take Joe very seriously . He often referred to him as a fuck-up .
We pulled up in front of the hotel . My father was standing out front . He looked dapper , wearing a dark suit and Ray Bans . He was uncharacteristically punctual . As the car approached , Dad made his way towards the driver ’ s side window . Joe rolled the window all the way down . He asked my father if he would mind him leaving to pick up his dry cleaning around the corner , since he was a little early . My father agreed . We got out of the car as Joe drove away . My father seemed to be playing down our lunch meeting . I was annoyed that he wasn ’ t taking it seriously . We were getting ready to have lunch with one of the greatest athletes of all time , and my father acted as if it was kid ’ s stuff .
Jesse Owens walked out a few minutes later dressed in a crisp , gray suit , smoking a cigarette . He was in his mid-50s . He looked dapper and lean . He put his cigarette out in an ashtray in front of the lobby . I was surprised and disappointed to see him smoking . I later read that he was a chain smoker . He died in 1980 of lung cancer .
My father walked over to my brother and me . He asked if he could have a minute to talk to Mr . Owens . We waited . They stepped far enough away that we couldn ’ t hear their conversation . It seemed like they were talking for a while , but in reality it was probably only a few minutes . Afterward , my father walked toward us and said , “ Stop by my room when you ’ re fi nished .” Jesse introduced himself to us . He was very polite .
“ Dad , aren ’ t you coming to lunch with us ? What about Joe ?” I asked .
“ I ’ ve got some work to do . Don ’ t worry about Joe . He ’ s not coming back .” He sounded a lit-
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