Boston, Massachusetts. November, 1941, late afternoon. The kind of gray November day when darkness arrives early and cold seeps through windows. Ted Williams sits alone in his apartment, still wearing his Red Sox jacket even though the season ended weeks ago. The phone rings, sharp, insistent. He knows what this call is.
Every baseball writer in America has been debating it for weeks. The most valuable player award. The recognition that matters more than any statistic. Williams walks to the phone, hand reaches for the receiver, hesitates just a moment, then picks up. Voice on the other end, professional, detached.
Reporter from the Boston Globe. The MVP results have been announced. Williams listens. Numbers come through the line like a verdict being read. Joe DiMaggio, 291 points. Ted Williams, 254 points. 37 points. Um, that is the difference between being recognized as the best player in baseball and being second best.
Williams thanks the reporter, voice steady, controlled. “Congratulations to Joe,” he says, three words, that is all. Then hangs up and stands in quiet apartment, alone with what just happened. Outside, Boston moving into winter. Inside this room, Ted Williams processing something that will define how the world sees him forever. He just completed one of the greatest offensive seasons in baseball history. Hit .
406, becoming first player to finish above .400 since Bill Terry hit .400 111 years earlier. Led American League in home runs with 37. Led in runs scored with 135. Led in walks with 147. Led in on-base percentage at .553. Led in slugging percentage at .735. In almost every meaningful offensive category, Ted Williams was the best.
Oh, but most valuable player award going to Joe DiMaggio. And Williams knows why, has always known why. Yankees won the pennant. Won it by 17 games, won the World Series. Red Sox finished second, 17 games back. In baseball, as in most of American life, winning matters more than individual excellence.
Team success trumps personal achievement. And there is something else. Joe DiMaggio did something this season that captured nation’s imagination in ways statistics alone never could. Hit safely in 56 consecutive games. From May 15th to July 16th, DiMaggio got at least one hit in every single game he played. Not the best statistical performance of season, but most dramatic.
Story that built day by day until entire country watching. Williams knows this. Was there. Watched it happen. And in strange twist few people talk about, Williams had his own hitting streak during same period. Starting May 20th, just 5 days after DiMaggio’s streak began, Williams hit safely in 23 consecutive games.
During those 23 games, Williams batted .489, but 23 games is not 56 games, not even close. And when Williams’ streak ended, barely anyone noticed because all eyes were on DiMaggio. Spring, 1941. Yankees and Red Sox, rivals with young superstars. DiMaggio 26, entering sixth season. Williams 22, entering third. DiMaggio, elegant, graceful.
Williams, intense, focused. Different in every way except one. Both among best hitters in baseball. Season begins poorly. Williams chips bone in ankle, hitting below .300 in early May. Then, May 15th, DiMaggio singles against Chicago. Yankees lose 13 to 1, unremarkable hit. But first in what becomes most famous streak in history.
Williams fights his own battle. By early June, hitting over .400. Baseball writers notice. Hitting .400 is rare. Williams, 22 years old, approaching it. But everyone talks about DiMaggio’s streak. Late June, 40 games. June 29th, breaks Sisler’s record. July 2nd, hits home run. 45 games, record his. Newspapers run daily updates.
Radio interrupts programming. Song Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio on jukeboxes. National phenomenon. And through it all, Ted Williams keeps hitting. July 8th, All-Star game played at Briggs Stadium in Detroit. Williams and DiMaggio teammates for one day, both wearing American League uniforms. Game tied 5 to 5 going into bottom of ninth inning.
With two outs and bases loaded, Williams comes to plate. National League brings in relief pitcher who throws him hanging slider. Williams swings with everything he has. Ball rockets off bat, towering drive that keeps rising, rising until slams into facade of third deck. Three-run home run. American League wins 7 to 5.
Williams skips around bases like kid on playground, clapping hands, grinning ear to ear. His moment. Chance to shine on national stage. But next day, headlines not about Williams’ home run, about DiMaggio’s streak continuing. At 48 games now. 50 seems impossible, but getting close. Williams reads papers and understands.
Home run in All-Star game, exciting, but it is one moment. DiMaggio’s streak is sustained excellence that builds narrative tension every single day. Streak continues, 50 games, 55 games. July 16th, eating night game at Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium, DiMaggio goes three for four. 56 games, seems like it will never end. But next night, July 17th, Cleveland’s third baseman Ken Keltner makes two spectacular defensive plays, turning hard-hit balls into outs.
DiMaggio goes hitless. Streak ends at 56 games. Entire country exhales. It is over, and immediately attention shifts. What will happen next? DiMaggio’s season batting average .357, excellent, but not historic. Williams, meanwhile, hitting .406. With 2 months left in season, question becomes, can Williams hold on and finish above .
400? Pressure on him different from pressure DiMaggio faced. DiMaggio’s streak built day by day. Williams’ .400. Challenge about maintaining excellence over time, about not having slump, about staying consistent for entire season. Late July, thumb Williams re-injures ankle. Misses 12 days. Returns, goes 12 for 22. Average stays above .400.
August, back-to-back doubleheaders, eight for 14, five homers. Locked in. September 27th, one day left. Williams hitting .39955. Rounds to .400. Manager Cronin offers choice. Sit out. Record as .400 or play, risk dropping below. Williams doesn’t hesitate. “If I’m going to be a .
400 hitter, I want more than my toenails on the line.” That night, walks Philadelphia streets. Stops twice for ice cream, twice for scotch. Nervous. Next day’s pitchers are call-ups he’s never faced. September 28th. Williams singles. Singles again. Home run. Finishes first game four for five. Cronin offers to let him sit. Williams refuses. Plays second game, goes two for three.
Day total, six for eight. Final average, .406. Season ends. Yankees win World Series. And DiMaggio’s line, .357, 30 homers, 125 RBIs, 56 game streak. Williams’ line, .406, 37 homers, 120 RBIs, league-leading marks everywhere. MVP voting, 24 writers. Criteria below. Actual value to his team. November, votes tallied.
DiMaggio 15 first-place votes. Williams eight. Final, DiMaggio 291, Williams 254. DiMaggio wins. This is phone call Williams receives in his Boston apartment. News that arrives on that gray November afternoon. And Williams’ response, his public response, three words. “Congratulations to Joe.” Does not complain, does not argue, does not point to statistics.
Accepts decision with grace and moves on. At least, that is what everyone sees. But later that night, alone in apartment, Williams opens his diary. Does not keep diary regularly, but tonight needs to write something down. They needs to process what feeling. And writes sentence he will later include in autobiography decades later.
“In my heart, I have always felt I was a better hitter than Joe, which was always my first consideration. But I have to say that he was the greatest player of our time.” This sentence reveals everything. Williams believes he is better hitter. Statistics support this belief, but also understands that being better hitter not same as being more valuable player.
DiMaggio, complete player. Excellent center fielder, smart base runner, winner, and most importantly, plays for Yankees, most successful franchise in baseball. Team success matters, matters in voting, matters in how history remembers players. And Williams playing for Red Sox will always be fighting uphill in that comparison.
When a rivalry between Williams and DiMaggio continues for rest of their careers, in 1942, Williams has another phenomenal season. Wins triple crown, leading league in batting average .356, home runs 36, runs batted in 137. Surely this time will win MVP award, but no. Yankees win pennant again. Joe Gordon, DiMaggio’s teammate, wins MVP.
Williams finishes second, again. In 1947, Williams wins triple crown for second time. Hits .343 with 32 home runs and 114 RBIs. This time surely will win, but Yankees win pennant again. And in one of closest MVP votes in history, DiMaggio beats Williams by single point, 202 to 201, one point. One writer’s vote makes difference.
Williams finishes second, again. Pattern clear. As long as Yankees winning, DiMaggio will have advantage in MVP voting. As long as Red Sox finish second, his Williams will be viewed as inferior player, regardless of statistics. And there is another factor. Williams difficult with press, refuses to tip cap to fans after home runs.
Moody, temperamental, honest to point of being abrasive. DiMaggio, smooth, polished, careful with words, cultivates image. Yankee Clipper, elegant and untouchable. Williams, Splendid Splinter, brilliant but prickly. When Williams and DiMaggio face each other on field, mutual respect, but also distance. Not friends, rivals.
In one famous story, Boston sportswriter visits DiMaggio’s hotel room with friend. As soon as enter, friend asks DiMaggio, “What do you think of Ted Williams?” DiMaggio responds immediately, “Greatest left-handed hitter I’ve ever seen.” Friend presses further, “I know that, but what do you think of him as a ball player?” DiMaggio repeats all word for word, “Greatest left-handed hitter I’ve ever seen.” Message clear.
Williams is hitter. That is what he does. That is what he is. But being great hitter not same as being great player. DiMaggio saying, without saying directly, that Williams incomplete, one-dimensional, not winner. Williams hears these stories, knows what people think, and bothers him, though rarely admits publicly. In autobiography, writes about DiMaggio with grudging admiration.
“Joe DiMaggio was the greatest all-around player I ever saw. His career cannot be summed up in numbers and awards. It might sound corny, but he had a profound and lasting impact on the country.” But then Williams adds something telling. “It is probably my misfortune that I have been and will inevitably be compared with Joe DiMaggio.
” Misfortune. That is word Williams uses. Uh being compared to DiMaggio is misfortune because comparison will always favor DiMaggio. Not because DiMaggio better hitter, but because DiMaggio on better team, has better image, and fits better into what baseball writers think great player should be. 1941. MVP vote never forgotten.
Decades later, when baseball analysts with modern statistical tools revisit that season, many conclude Williams should have won. His WAR higher. Offensive production superior in almost every category. During DiMaggio’s 56-game streak, Williams actually outhit him, batting .412 to DiMaggio’s .408. If award truly went to most valuable player, player who contributed most to team success, argument for Williams strong.
But award did not go to Williams, went to DiMaggio. And Williams’ response three words, “Congratulations to Joe.” Could have complained. Could have pointed to statistics. Could have argued that hitting .406 more impressive than hitting streak. That leading league in almost every offensive category should matter more than team success.
But did not. Accepted decision with grace, at least publicly. Privately, Williams felt differently. In his heart, knew he was better hitter. Numbers proved it. But baseball not just about numbers, about narratives, about moments, about team success. And in 1941, Joe DiMaggio’s narrative more compelling.
His streak captured nation’s imagination in way Williams’ point .406 average, as impressive as it was, simply could not match. Williams went on to have Hall of Fame career. Finished with .344 lifetime average, 521 home runs, .482 on-base percentage that remains highest in baseball history. Won six batting titles. Won two MVP awards.
All finally breaking through in 1946 and 1949. Served country in both World War II and Korean War, missing nearly five full seasons in prime of career. When retired in 1960, hit home run in final at-bat. Perfect ending for man who lived and breathed hitting. DiMaggio also had Hall of Fame career. Finished with .
325 lifetime average, 361 home runs, nine World Series championships. Three-time MVP winner. Married Marilyn Monroe. Became American icon, symbol of grace and excellence. When died in 1999, funeral attended by baseball royalty and legacy as one of greatest players ever was secure. But 1941 season remains point of debate.
Who was better that year? Who more valuable? Answer depends on what you value. If you value sustained statistical excellence, if you value offensive production, if you value rarity of hitting a .406, then Williams was better. If you value dramatic moments, if you value team success, if you value ability to perform under pressure on biggest stage, then DiMaggio was better.
Williams and DiMaggio themselves seem to understand this. In later years, when asked about each other, both men spoke with respect, but also with certain distance. Williams admitted he thought he was better hitter, but conceded DiMaggio was greater player. DiMaggio praised Williams’ hitting, but never quite elevated him to status of complete player.
Truth is, both men were extraordinary. Both men had career-defining seasons in 1941. Both men deserve to be remembered as among greatest to ever play game. But in November 1941, when MVP votes were counted, only one man won. And other man, sitting in apartment in Boston, it responded with three words that revealed everything and nothing at same time.
“Congratulations to Joe.” Three words spoken out loud, but inside, in heart, in diary, in quiet moments alone, Ted Williams knew what he believed. He was better hitter. Had numbers to prove it. But award went to someone else. Recognition went to someone else. Validation went to someone else. And Williams learned lesson that would follow him for rest of career.
Sometimes being best at what you do is not enough. Sometimes story matters more than statistics. Sometimes winning matters more than individual excellence. And sometimes, no matter how hard you work, no matter how well you perform, you finish second. Phone call ended. Gray November afternoon turned into evening.
Ted Williams sat in apartment alone with thoughts. 1941 season over. Award given. And history written. And somewhere in New York, Joe DiMaggio was celebrating. In Boston, Ted Williams learning to live with being second best. It was position he would occupy many times in career. And every time, response would be same. Gracious in public, bitter in private, convinced he was better.
Unable to prove it in only way that mattered. Silence after that phone call said more than any words ever could.
