Sometime around 1957, I was in the fourth grade. And on
Channel 11 (WPIX in New York) there was a Yankee baseball game on nearly every
day or night. The announcers were Mel Allen, Red Barber and a young upstart
named Phil Rizzuto.
Yogi Berra was the catcher, but with Ellie Howard, a fellow
resident of the Yankees famous Monument Park, backing him up, Yogi often wound
up playing the outfield as well, giving his legs a rest.
I remember one week where Yogi was especially hot. For three
nights in a row, he went up to the plate while the Bombers were losing and
jacked a home run on a pitch way off the plate to ensure the win. From then on,
except for a few short seasons when Roger Maris arrived, Yogi was “my” man.
But despite winning three MVPs and being on 10 World Series
champions, he never was the “Star” player. That was the role of DiMaggio,
Mantle and Ford. But unlike so many egomaniacs, Yogi seemed to fit right in.
Despite dropping out of the 8th grade, he was smart enough to manage
both the Yankees (twice) and the Mets. He also coached on other clubs, finally
giving in to father time and simply becoming a spring training fixture.
During his second turn as the Yanks manager, I was furious
at then Yankee owner George Steinbrenner. I never went to Yankee Stadium again
until George and Yogi patched things up. I took my sons and nephews to Shea to
watch the Mets instead.
In other words, I really liked the guy. And he taught me a
very valuable lesson. While managing a moribund Mets team in the middle of the
1973 season, he was quoted as saying “it ain’t over ‘till it’s over.” The Mets
won the eastern division with a record of just 82-79 but then beat the Reds’
powerful “big red machine” before losing the World Series in seven games to the
Oakland A’s, whose roster included folks like Reggie Jackson and Mark
McGuire. He was also a coach on
the 1969 “Miracle Mets.” The Yankees were winners, and Yogi helped turned the
Mets into that. And so my life has been one of hanging in there and keeping on.
Now if you’re under 60, chances are this means little to
you. But as I was listening to sports radio today, Yogi was being hailed as
part of the Yankees “Mount Rushmore,” right up there with Ruth, Gehrig, Mickey
and Joe D. It was deserved.
But Yogi hasn’t really left us. He simply went to be with
his wife, Carmen, whom he married in 1949. She died in 2014 and I suppose Yogi
was just too lonely without her.
I haven’t even begun to express my sorrow or the way I feel
about Yogi’s death today. But he was simply a part of my life since I was able
to hold a baseball and I will miss him. A long-delayed pilgrimage to his museum
in nearby Montclair, NJ is in order.
