The facebook post is September 19th and this is what it has written:

"Saving the 56 game hitting streak" Joe DiMaggio, Richie the Boot, (standing) Jerry Spatola and Tony Boy. Rumor had it that the Boot had Funeral Director, Jerry Spatola and Jimmy “Peanuts” Ceres assist in the1941 recovery of “Joltin” Joe DiMaggio’s Stolen Bat during his 56 game hitting streak.
As the story goes in the late 1930’s, a Newark Funeral Director, Jerry Spatola, introduced Joe DiMaggio to Richie the Boot at his Vittorio Castle restaurant and they remained lifelong friends. “And the way Richie treated Joe, it just confirmed for everybody who saw, the worth, the stature, of these two giants: Joltin’ Joe and Richie the Boot. Nothing was too good. Whatever Joe wanted, Richie wanted to have offered it yesterday. More often, it was something Richie thought without Joe asking one word. That car Joe got at the dinner (sure Richie helped with that)-he was gonna need someone to drive him, wasn’t he? So how about Peanuts?” Peanuts was Jimmy Ceres an associate of the Boot’s. Joe DiMaggio, The Hero’s Life by Richard Ben Cramer, p.143.
“By the time the Yankees took the field on an unsparingly steamy Sunday afternoon of June 29 in Washington, they rumbled head-long into an extraordinary baseball extravaganza, 31,008 people jamming the place, filling every aisle, every promenade, every corridor, every concourse, some of them actually spilling onto the field, blocking DiMaggio from the batting cage.
It was the bottom of the first of the nightcap. Henrich, hitting in the three-hole, was about to dig into the batter's box when he heard a screeching voice.
"TOMMY!"
It was DiMaggio.
"You got my ball bat!"
In later years, players would call their favorite bats "gamers." In the'40s, they were "ball bats." Now, he was missing his ball bat, the one he'd named "Betsy Ann," and he was frantic.
"Jeez, Tommy," DiMaggio said. "Someone stole my ball bat."
It had happened between games, and it had happened despite the fact that one of the batboys had been ordered to guard the Yankee bat rack. DiMaggio grabbed another, smoked a scorching line drive off Senators pitcher Sid Hudson, but it soared right into rightfielder Buddy Lewis' glove. "If that had been my ball bat," DiMaggio muttered, "that would've dropped in. All of that pent-up strain found a welcome release on the train back to New York's Penn Station. DiMaggio ordered bottles of beer all around for his teammates in the club car, and he was in a grand mood -- until someone brought up his dear departed Betsy Ann.
"Of course the guy had to pick out the best one," he muttered, shaking his head. "I had three of my bats on the ground in front of the dugout but he got the one I wouldn't take money for. Most of my models are 36 inches long and weigh 36 ounces, but I had sandpapered the handle of this one to thin it just a trifle. That bat was just right for me. I liked the feel of it. I hate to lose it."
He sighed. Lit a cigarette. Shook his head again. Then ordered another round of beers for the boys. What the hell. Life was still pretty good if you happened to be Joe DiMaggio in the final hours of June 1941, even with Betsy Ann off on her own.
She returned to him a week later, an unknowing courier delivering a plain brown package to the Yankee clubhouse, and the team celebrated as if they'd just won the pennant, such was the delight when DiMaggio finally gripped Betsy Ann firmly for the first time in nearly a week, smiling as he felt the familiar handle.
She hadn't made her way home easily. One of DiMaggio's running mates, a small-time Jersey rackets guy named Jimmy "Peanuts" Ceres who spent a lot of his down time driving DiMaggio's car and running his errands, had spent five full days hunting for the bat once it turned out that the guy who'd taken it in Washington didn't only happen to run a little bit in Newark, Peanuts' home turf, but also had the great misfortune of bragging a little too loudly about his acquisition.
The streets of Newark had ears, and most of those ears funneled back to Peanuts, and one day he and another friend, a funeral director named Jerry Spatola, paid the chatty grifter a visit. Now, this appointment went down one of three ways, depending on whose account you read and how gullible you happened to be.
The thief either a) had an attack of conscience after reading how badly Joe missed Betsy Ann, and handed the club back with sincere apologies; b) negotiated with Ceres and Spatola and accepted fair recompense for his booty; c) was "convinced" that it would be best for everyone involved if he just gave the bat back so everyone could forget the whole thing." New York Post, “How DiMaggio’s Pal Tracked Down the Stick that Made the Streak”, 6/3/07 by Mike Viccaro, “1941: The Greatest Year in Sports by Mike Vaccaro, Doubleday.