Even ‘Yankee haters’ loved Yogi

WEDNESDAY: As Yogi used to say, it ain’t over until it’s over. Sadly, the saying is true of life as well as baseball. Though maybe not in Yogi Berra’s case. The Yankee legend died yesterday at age 90. But he will live on forever thanks to his wonderfully varied wit and his on-field accomplishments.

There is only one catcher in baseball history featured in a photo on my office wall. Yogi Berra. That he is immortalized in a photo celebrating a pitcher’s achievement is not typical of the former Yankee great, but it is of his position. Berra was a catcher, one of the best of all time. But he was more than just another man behind a mask. At least to our family he was. My dad hated the Yankees but loved Berra.

It’s not hard to see why.

Their lives ran parallel courses. Though when they came to the biggest fork in the road, they each took one. Different ones. Born less than two months apart in different parts of the country, they each grew up in poverty. When each reached 16, the U.S. entered World War II. My dad lied about his age and enlisted, putting a promising baseball career behind to fight in the South Pacific. Berra was untouched for a while, signing with the Yankees and playing in the minors until joining the Navy in 1943.

When the war ended, both returned to their “normal” life. Berra went on to become the best catcher of his generation – my dad’s generation – and my father turned down two offers to sign a professional contract, instead choosing to stay at home with a growing family.

Of such decisions are lives changed. But my dad always followed Berra’s career. Talked of him often. Forgave the fact Berra’s family was from Northern Italy – for my dad, of Sicilian and Neapolitan ancestry, that was, foremost, an unforgivable sin.

Berra was incredible on the field, one of the best hitting catchers of all time. A three-time MVP. The consummate winner. He even made himself into a more-than-decent defensive catcher. But it was off the field, after he retired, that Yogi became part of the American consciousness. He was credited with thousands of twisted sayings – my favorite: “No one goes there because it’s too crowded” – that endeared him to the average American. But my dad had already been hooked. No amount of Miller Lite commercials were going to change his opinion of Yogi. No cartoons would tarnish the legacy.

Berra was one of his own who had made it. Got out of the poverty of “The Hill” in St. Louis and became an American legend. It was everything my father had wanted – and forfeited first through a too-young stint in the service and then a too-early marriage.

So Berra would be venerated. Not just in our house, I’m sure, but in Italian households all over America.