Yogi Berra and Kevin McLaughlin are chatting in the lobby of the Otesaga Hotel, the historic luxury resort in Cooperstown, New York. It’s July 22, 2000, and the two men and Carmen Berra are waiting for the bus to the Saturday night cocktail party at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. It’s Induction Weekend, and 45 Hall of Famers have gathered to welcome their newest members.
Yogi has traveled to this village in upstate New York every year since 1991, and he’s pleased to see old friends: Whitey Ford, Larry Doby, Al Kaline, Willie Mays, Brooks Robinson, and many others. It’s the biggest gathering of Hall of Famers since it opened in 1939.
Suddenly McLaughlin pokes Yogi. Sandy Koufax has just entered the lobby. The Dodger left-hander posted six of the greatest seasons in baseball history—averaging 22 wins, 286 strikeouts, and a 2.19 ERA; winning three Cy Young Awards in four seasons; throwing four no-hitters—the last a perfect game. Then Koufax listened to the pain shouting at him from his arthritic left arm and retired in 1966 at age 30—one year after Kevin was born.
Koufax and Berra entered the Hall together in 1972 and have been fast friends ever since. Yogi hasn’t seen Sandy here often; the reclusive Koufax has been back to Cooperstown only twice in the past 10 years. And now McLaughlin is begging Yogi to introduce him.
“Sure,” Yogi says, walking over to Koufax. “Sandy, this is Kevin McLaughlin. He wants to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Kevin,” Koufax replies.
Almost speechless, McLaughlin returns the greeting and pushes himself to ask for a photo with both Berra and Koufax.
“I don’t know,” says Koufax, winking at Berra. “What do you think, Yogi? Should we take a picture with this guy?”
Yogi can see Kevin’s embarrassment. “Sandy, he’s my guy,” Yogi says. “He takes care of me.”
And that does it.
“Okay, then,” Koufax says. “Let’s get this picture taken.”
It was only a few hours earlier that McLaughlin was taking care of Yogi, who, like dozens of other Hall of Famers, signs autographs in makeshift booths up and down Main Street. Thousands of fans come to Cooperstown from all parts of the country for this weekend every summer, and collecting autographs from their heroes is a major draw. In 2000, a player of Yogi’s stature gets $50 or more to sign photos, programs, and baseballs—$125 for a bat or a jersey.
The line of autograph seekers leading to Yogi’s booth is always long, and it’s McLaughlin’s job to organize them—find out what fans want signed, give them a color-coded ticket, and collect the money. He also matches tickets to items and keeps the line moving. Baseball fans of all ages—male and female—will stand for an hour or longer on a sunbaked sidewalk in 90-degree heat and stifling humidity to have a quick chat with Yogi and get his autograph.
Yogi always signs in front of TJ’s Place, a restaurant whose owner—Ted Hargrove—is credited with starting these autograph sessions on Main Street. McLaughlin keeps a watchful eye over Berra, making sure he has enough water and takes breaks inside Hargrove’s air-conditioned restaurant. Kevin’s been by Yogi’s side so long that Induction Weekend regulars sometimes ask if he’s a Berra.
It was in 1993 when Tim Berra—McLaughlin’s friend and former co-worker at a small investment firm—was just launching LTD Enterprises with his wife and brother Dale. Tim had asked Kevin whether he’d like to help at the 20 or so autograph shows Yogi did each year. Kevin, then 28 years old and a big baseball fan, leaped at the chance.
And for the past seven years he’s been Berra’s volunteer companion at memorabilia shows once or twice a month from April through December. Yogi concentrates on shows in the tri-state area, often teaming with Whitey Ford, Phil Rizzuto, Ralph Branca, and other former players who live close by. Don Larsen is a regular partner—thanks to their perfect World Series performance—flying in from his home in Hayden Lake, Idaho. Big stars like Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Brooks Robinson enjoy doing shows with Yogi, too. The venues are usually shopping malls, hotels, and colleges—places that can accommodate large crowds.
And the money is good—$15,000 to $50,000 a show, depending on crowd size, Yogi’s stamina, and whether LTD has negotiated an appearance fee. McLaughlin has never asked to be paid and protests to Carmen every summer in Cooperstown when she wants to cover his hotel room. In Kevin’s mind, he’s holding the winning lottery ticket. How many people become friends with Yogi Berra and gain entrée to the world of baseball royalty?
McLaughlin still gets a kick out of watching Yogi, who enjoys meeting his fans—especially the kids—and listens intently when older fans tell him about their favorite moments of his career. But the part Yogi loves best is spending time with former players, which makes the trip to Cooperstown a reunion.
Yogi is always the first player to tell Jeff Idelson, the Hall of Fame’s communications director, that he and Carmen will attend, and he’s always the first to arrive, ready to greet all the other players. Friday includes an autograph signing before a private dinner for Hall of Famers given by chairman Jane Forbes Clark, whose family’s philanthropic foundation founded the Hall of Fame here in 1939. Saturday offers a golf tournament and more autographs on Main Street before the cocktail party Saturday evening with Carmen and Kevin.
And on Sunday, Berra, Koufax, and the 43 other Hall of Famers are on the big platform set up for the Induction Ceremony, now held on the rolling meadow of the Clark Sports Center. More than 20,000 baseball fans gather to watch the pinnacle of the weekend—Boston catcher Carlton Fisk, Cincinnati manager Sparky Anderson, and Reds first baseman Tony Perez accept their Hall of Fame plaques.
It all ends Monday morning. Sometimes Yogi will spend an hour or so on Mondays signing autographs, but this time he’s ready for home. There is just one more thing he’d like Kevin to do: please ask Jeff Idelson for the date of next year’s Induction Weekend.
Dave Kaplan is driving his dark gray minivan across the George Washington Bridge toward Yankee Stadium for Game 4 of the 2001 World Series. Sitting beside him is Yogi Berra, still talking about the previous night’s game. Baseball’s exciting postseason has been a balm for the grief-stricken country after the September 11 terrorist attacks, but Kaplan and Berra can see smoke still rising from the fallen towers—15 miles away on the southern tip of Manhattan—as they cross into the Bronx.
Game 3 of the Series between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the Yankees had been full of drama. Kaplan and Berra watched from Steinbrenner’s box as President George Bush strode confidently to the pitcher’s mound, dozens of snipers stationed along the Stadium’s roof. Bush gave the 55,820 fans a thumbs-up and threw the ceremonial first pitch to chants of “USA! USA!” The Yankees won it, 2–1, behind the overpowering pitching of Roger Clemens and Mariano Rivera.
But it’s this game on a cool October 31 night that sets this Series on the path to greatness. Last night’s Game 3 win cut the Yankees’ Series deficit in half, but Yogi’s team is in deep trouble in the closing moments tonight, trailing 3–1 with two outs and a man on first in the 9th inning. Only five teams have ever come back to win a World Series title after trailing three games to one, the last doing it 16 years ago.
And that’s when the Yankee first baseman Tino Martinez slams the first pitch he sees for a two-run homer to deep right center field, tying the game and setting off a wild celebration. It gets wilder still one inning later when Derek Jeter slices the game-winning homer just over the fence into right field, evening the Series at two games apiece.
By that time, though, Yogi and Kaplan had left Steinbrenner’s suite, departing as always in the 6th inning to watch the excitement from their Montclair homes. No one knows better than Yogi that the game isn’t over ’til it’s over, but Berra has his routine. Kaplan always takes him to the Stadium hours before the first pitch—sometimes early enough to turn on the lights in manager Joe Torre’s office so Yogi can make his rounds, talking to Torre and his coaches, the trainer and assistant trainer, the clubhouse men and the security guards—anyone connected to baseball. No one is beneath his notice.
He’ll check in with the players, who enjoy Berra’s visits—part baseball talk, part friendly jabs. Yogi especially loves teasing Jeter, the face of this Yankee team, which has won four of the last five World Series. Everyone within earshot remembers the day Yogi asked Jeter why he’d struck out on a pitch far out of the strike zone, ending the game with the winning runs on base.
“Why not?” Jeter said. “You did!”
“Yeah, but I hit those pitches,” Yogi replied. “You don’t.”
Yogi’s next stop is always the opposing clubhouse, where he seeks out players he coached with the Yankees, Mets, and Astros and the coaches and managers whose fathers he knew back in his playing days. When Yogi arrives in George Steinbrenner’s suite 40 minutes before game time, the bartender knows to serve him exactly four ounces of vodka—his daily limit in his mid-70s. Berra talks a bit with George—a former adversary, now a good friend—calming the owner’s nerves.
Celebrities invariably fill the suite—Billy Crystal, Barbara Walters, Tom Brokaw, Donald Trump, Henry Kissinger, and Mayor Rudy Giuliani, among others—all but Trump wanting time with Yogi. Berra, unfailingly polite, shakes hands and chats but soon finds a corner where he can watch the game.
And like clockwork he asks Dave Kaplan to leave by the 6th inning, beating the traffic to watch the game’s end in his comfortable den. His oldest son Larry, soon to be 52, moved back home in 2001 and is Yogi’s baseball companion there. Only a Series-ending game will hold Berra until the final out so he can congratulate the winners and console the losers.
At his side for every game at Yankee Stadium is Kaplan, the executive director of the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center. Once Yogi realized upon returning to the Stadium on Opening Day in 1999 just how much he had missed it—and how much the fans missed him—he started calling Kaplan about attending games together.
So now Yogi routinely parks his tan Jaguar at the museum at 1 p.m. and jumps into Kaplan’s minivan for the short drive to the Stadium, making the trip at least once for every home series. Kaplan, at Berra’s side throughout, is with him so often people frequently ask whether he is one of Yogi’s sons.
The two greatly enjoy each other’s company, and last season during their drives Kaplan asked questions for the first of four books they eventually wrote together. (When You Come to a Fork in the Road, Take It!—a collection of Yogi-isms and vignettes from Berra’s life—published in the spring of 2001.) One night Yogi grew irritated by the constant queries as they traveled.
“Why are you asking me so many questions today?” Berra grumbled. “What are you doing, writing a book or something?”
Yes, Kaplan reminded Yogi. “With you!” The book is a New York Times bestseller.
Kaplan moved to Montclair in 1989, attracted by good schools and proximity to the city. Like most Montclair residents, he’d seen Yogi and Carmen shopping and dining downtown and took pride that an American icon lived there. A sports journalist who rose to be the Sunday editor of the New York Daily News sports department, Kaplan knew plenty about Berra’s career. But the two men hadn’t met until museum board President Rose Cali invited Kaplan to a fund-raiser at Berra’s home in early 1998, soon after hiring him as executive director.
The first few months with Yogi were revealing. Kaplan discovered a private and quiet man—not at all like the funnyman image crafted by others. Berra, he saw, embodied the values the museum wanted to promote—he was deeply kind, respectful of others, humble about his accomplishments. Dave learned both Yogi and Carmen were wary of favor seekers and discovered how forcefully Carmen protected her husband.
Kaplan saw firsthand how much Yogi enjoyed children—whether at Learning Center classes, tours of the museum, or the weeklong baseball and softball summer camps for 8- to 12-year-olds. Berra told the kids about the insults he’d endured in childhood and was often asked how he responded.
“I always figured I must be doing something right,” he told the kids, “if they’re paying attention to me.”
Kaplan also saw a man determined to remain healthy and busy as he approached 80. Berra was in the museum most days to sign photos, bats, balls, and most anything arriving at the LTD Enterprises office. It’s true that Yogi occasionally wondered aloud why he was in the LTD office autographing memorabilia while his sons golfed, but he understood the family business. When a close friend once asked Berra whether he ever minded that his sons earned a living from his fame, Yogi replied, “Well, it beats a life insurance policy.”
Over the years, Kaplan watched Yogi improve his diet and stop chewing tobacco and smoking. Berra started most days working out with John McMullen at the New Jersey Devils’ gym in West Orange, attending morning Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes, having coffee and a bagel at Henry’s in Verona, and spending several hours at the museum—all inside a 10-mile radius, comfortable for a man who was never a terrific driver.
Berra and Kaplan, after the thrilling victory in Game 4 of the Diamondback-Yankee World Series, arrive early the next day at the players parking lot for Game 5. The winning team would return to Arizona needing only one more victory to become world champions.
Berra, of course, is pulling for the Yankees. But whatever the score, he and Kaplan would leave in the 6th inning so Yogi could watch what turns out to be another classic from his favorite chair in Montclair.
Rose Cali stands backstage in the ballroom of Philadelphia’s Bellevue Hotel watching Yogi Berra enter to rising applause from more than 200 startled partners of the Pepper Hamilton law firm. Yogi ambles toward Jim Murray, the firm’s prominent outgoing executive partner, and shakes the astonished 62-year-old’s hand. Murray, in the presence of his boyhood hero, is starstruck.
It’s November 20, 2002, and Yogi’s appearance is a surprise gift to Murray, a former college catcher and die-hard Phillies fan, whose favorite player smiles beside him. Only three members of Pepper Hamilton knew about Berra’s appearance, including Joe Del Raso, who sits on the board of the National Italian American Foundation with Cali. It was Del Raso who asked Cali if Yogi would consider coming to the meeting to honor Murray.
Cali, still running the day-to-day operations of the Yogi Berra Museum she founded in 1997, thought Berra would agree if the firm donated $10,000 to the museum’s Learning Center. Yogi would surprise Jim, sign a few autographs, and take questions for 30 minutes.
And that’s what Yogi is doing now. Rose, watching Berra’s charming performance, appreciates the irony. Yogi, once mocked for his lack of education and inarticulate English, turns a roomful of lawyers into little kids.
One wants to know what it was like to play with Joe DiMaggio. “Best player I’ve ever seen. He did everything right.” Was Berra worried that Don Larsen would drop him when he jumped into the arms of the only man to pitch a perfect game in World Series history? Yogi laughs heartily—he’s never heard the familiar question asked this way—and Cali can see her friend is truly enjoying himself. “No—Don’s a big guy. I knew he could handle it.”
And then there’s the one question about the 1955 World Series that always revs up Yogi. “Was Jackie Robinson safe when—”
Berra interrupts, shouting, “He was out, he was out, he was out.” Delighted, they all laugh. Standing next to his hero, Murray sees the competitive fire—the passion that made Berra the game’s biggest winner—still burning brightly at 77.
Yogi does a very different Q&A a bit later. Pepper Hamilton supports a reading program for second and third graders from inner-city schools, and none of them has even heard of Yogi, which delights Berra. The easier to enjoy their company. After lunch with Murray and a few of the partners, Berra and Cali are on the train back to New Jersey by late afternoon. “Ro, this was a really great day, a really great day,” Yogi keeps telling Rose.
Cali’s already warm friendship with Yogi and Carmen Berra has deepened with the museum’s success. She’s traveled with him for events like today’s in Philadelphia, and Yogi often spends downtime at the museum telling Rose how much baseball has changed since his playing days. “Hey, Ro, we never dove into the bases,” he tells her. “That’s how you get hurt.” The Calis often socialize with the Berras and John and Jacqui McMullen, regularly entertaining at their homes, attending dinner parties together, or dining at one of the area’s many restaurants.
Rose and Carmen meet regularly for dinner and marvel over the museum’s growth and success. Indeed, talk of expansion began almost immediately, and the New York media has made the museum a regular spot for broadcasts. Joe Torre, Whitey Ford, and Arlene Howard are among the many celebrities who have held book-signing events at Yogi’s museum. Award-winning documentarian Aviva Kempner screened a film at the museum ahead of its New York premiere—a profile of Hank Greenberg and the anti-Semitism the Hall of Famer encountered in the 1930s and ’40s. Ted Williams flew from Florida to promote the event in January of 2000. Meet the Press host Tim Russert conducted the first of several interviews from the museum in July of 2000.
Yankee perfect-game pitchers Larsen and David Cone attended a museum fund-raiser, along with Yankee catchers Joe Girardi and Jorge Posada. “Perfect Night” tickets sold for $1,500 and $1,000 and netted $60,000 for the museum and several other charities. Yankee first basemen Don Mattingly, Joe Pepitone, and Tino Martinez have also signed up for a fund-raiser featuring first basemen.
More than a few visitors who pay the nominal admission fee—$4 for adults, $2 for children—are surprised to find Yogi strolling through the museum and thrilled to spend time chatting with him. Cali soon engaged a local event planner, and the museum was host to its first bar mitzvah late in 1999.
Fellow Hall of Famer, close friend, and Montclair neighbor Larry Doby has told Yogi he’ll “do anything” for the museum and frequently speaks to groups of kids from Paterson, New Jersey, his hometown. Yogi was one of the first opposing players to speak to Doby when they were both rookies in 1947, and Larry delights in telling a story about their days as rivals. “As a catcher, Yogi talked to everybody. I finally had to tell the umpire: ‘Please tell him to shut up. He asked me how my family was back in the first inning.’”
Cali has watched Yogi bring baseball royalty to the museum with just a phone call. And she’s pleased that many former players come just to sit in the LTD office and share old stories—and maybe a shot of vodka—with Yogi.
But there are also a few warning signs Cali missed along the way. In November of 2000 Richard Ben Cramer was set to appear at the museum for a discussion and signing of his new biography of Joe DiMaggio. Berra did not hear about Cramer’s visit until the morning of the event, but he’d heard the book was critical of DiMaggio. “Ro, he can’t come to my museum, no way,” Yogi told Cali, who scrambled to shift Cramer’s appearance to Montclair State’s campus.
The storefront for LTD, the family’s memorabilia business, was frequently closed, even during events at the museum. The museum staff felt awkward when visitors asked for store hours. “Tell them to go to the website,” Tim and Dale responded.
And in early 2002 Cali realized LTD had not yet paid its rent. The museum had received the rent check for $10,000 in December the previous two years. When Cali asked Tim Berra in January of 2002 when she could expect the next payment, Tim said LTD decided it had already met its obligation. Since Yogi’s appearances on behalf of the museum garnered more than $10,000, LTD would not be making any further payments. If she disagreed, Tim told her, speak with Carmen.
Cali, taken aback, advised the board to avoid a fight. The board reluctantly agreed, even though the museum, which continued as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, was $170,000 in debt at the end of 2001.
Still, all involved remained hopeful about the museum’s future. Berra’s friend John McMullen donated $1 million from his foundation, one of three grants of at least $500,000 the museum received in 2001. The Yogi Berra Celebrity Golf Classic moves under the museum’s umbrella in 2003; Rudy Giuliani chairs the ’03 event, while Joe Torre, Andy Pettitte, football star Michael Strahan, music legend Meat Loaf, and other celebrities attract a full field of golfers.
After seven years as the uncompensated full-time President of the museum, Cali decides to step down from day-to-day operations in late 2003, remaining as board President and concentrating on fund-raising. The board votes unanimously to hire Beth Sztuk, the chief financial officer of the New Jersey Economic Development Authority, as its new executive director, effective January 1, 2004. Among her priorities: bring more structure and discipline to museum operations and increase the number of school programs, an obligation of its state educational funding and a great source of pride for Yogi.
Both Yogi and the museum have big years in 2004. All the slots in Berra’s golf tournament are sold by February. A month later, Yogi is inducted into the National Italian American Foundation’s Hall of Fame alongside Academy Award–winning actor Ernest Borgnine and NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue. Bob Feller appears at the museum, an event that earns $11,000. Documentarian Ken Burns holds an audience spellbound talking about the intersection of baseball and immigration. And despite a dip in attendance, Sztuk delivers the year under budget, receiving high grades from the board.
But trouble is brewing behind the scenes. The small museum staff, which the Berras treated like family, felt torn between personal affection for and service to the Berras and the obligations of running a professional museum. The Berras have their own issues, especially Carmen, who finds Sztuk insufficiently warm. She was embarrassed by the whistle Beth used to call for attention before speaking at the golf tournament players’ reception and confided in some close to her that she no longer wanted Sztuk to represent the museum.
None of this was shared with Sztuk or any member of the board until Carmen Berra calls Rose Cali the first Thursday of March in 2005. “I’m going to the museum tomorrow to fire Beth,” Carmen told Cali. “She has to go.” Stunned, Cali explains that only the board can hire and fire staff, then asks Carmen to explain the problem. Berra does not elaborate—“She needs to be fired,” she repeats—and continues to insist she is going to fire Sztuk the following day.
“Give the board a couple of months to look into the situation,” says Cali. Berra is unmoved and ends the conversation with her mind unchanged.
The next 24 hours are the beginning of the end for Cali and the Yogi Berra Museum. She informs the board of her conversation with Carmen Berra at an emergency meeting. There is no way Sztuk can continue without the Berras’ support, she reasons, and recommends they pay the final two years of Sztuk’s contract. No one disagrees, but the board is dismayed. Two resign in protest. As one board member succinctly observed, Beth thought she was the executive director for the museum, not the executive director for Carmen and Yogi.
Cali asks to meet with Sztuk the next morning. Like Cali and the board, Sztuk is stunned. But she, too, understands the situation. Without the Berras’ backing, she can’t function. Sztuk soon agrees to resign if the board pays her the two years remaining on her contract.
Cali accepts the board’s request that she act as interim executive director but serves only a handful of weeks. Rose’s relationship with Carmen has withered since protesting that Berra couldn’t and shouldn’t fire the museum’s executive director. On April 27, Cali reads the board a letter resigning as acting executive director of the museum and president of the board—affirmative about the museum’s past and future, but definite in her departure. “I want to thank my fellow Board members for your service to the Museum, your support and most important your friendship,” says Cali in her last line.
Several board members walk over and thank her warmly for her eight years of work for the museum. Carmen Berra, attending as an adviser, says nothing.
On her way home, Cali stops at the museum to retrieve the personal tools she used for small repairs. Yogi and the staff have already heard the news. “Hey, Ro, what are you doing?” Yogi calls from the LTD office.
“Just getting my tools and going home,” answers Cali, knowing her friendship with Yogi and Carmen Berra would never be the same.
Ron Guidry knows Yogi Berra is nothing if not a man of habit.
He’s known it ever since the first time he picked up Berra at the Tampa International Airport in March of 2000. It was Yogi’s first season as a Yankee spring training coach, and Guidry was there with his big white pickup truck to greet him. Guidry took Berra to his hotel, the grocery, then to camp. Later, he took Yogi to dinner.
“Yogi is your responsibility,” Yankee manager Joe Torre had told Guidry, one of his spring training pitching coaches. “When Yogi is here, he is more important than working with the pitchers.”
That has been true ever since. For about four weeks every spring for the last three years, Guidry becomes Berra’s driver, golf partner, and daily companion. And the former Yankee wouldn’t have it any other way. Guidry may bristle when people say he’s become like a son to Berra—“I have a father; Yogi is my good friend,” Guidry answers sternly—but there’s little question these two men, born 25 years apart, have grown very close.
And Guidry knows keeping Yogi happy is pretty simple: just follow Berra’s routine.
But on this day in late March of 2003, Guidry is determined to break one of Yogi’s habits. Every spring Guidry, whose nickname “Gator” springs from his Louisiana-Cajun roots, brings something special to camp: seven or eight dozen frog legs to fry in his special sauce for fellow coaches. Pitching coach Mel Stottlemyre is a big fan. So is third base coach Willie Randolph and spring training coach Goose Gossage.
And every spring Guidry asks Yogi if he wants to try one.
And every spring Yogi declines.
But now Guidry is giving his friend a tough choice.
“Yogi, if you don’t try one, we’re not going out to eat tonight,” Guidry says. “If you don’t try one, you’re eating in your room. Alone.”
Yogi has always told his good friend he wants to be treated like everyone else, and Gator is now taking him at his word. But for all the others at spring training, treating Yogi like “everyone else” is impossible. He’s a Hall of Famer, a 15-time All-Star, a three-time MVP. These Yankees understand how hard it is to win a World Series and know the exhilaration of winning often. But Yogi won 10 titles, and no one but Berra knows what that feels like.
The young Yankees want to hear details of his stunning achievements as a player, but he deflects. Ask him how it felt to hit two home runs off Brooklyn ace Don Newcombe in Game 7 of the 1956 World Series, and Yogi will describe Joe DiMaggio’s grace, Mickey Mantle’s power, or the blazing speed of Bob Feller’s fastball.
He’s here to help them improve, not talk about himself. In 2000, Steinbrenner hired him as a senior adviser and spring training coach, giving Berra a contract worth just north of $100,000, and Yogi’s determined to earn it. His first project was to help catcher Jorge Posada, a power at the plate, become just as formidable behind it. Berra advised Posada to stop calling so many fastballs with runners on base and gave him tips for blocking the plate.
Yogi is happy to help anyone who asks, and he loves talking baseball. A stadium is home, and even if Yogi will be 78 in May, his energy and focus excite the group. Just as he did when he was a young Yankee, Yogi talks about the game with such passion, confidence, and joy that it lifts the entire team. The boldest players will tease him, and when Yogi laughs, he lights up the clubhouse. So the team is excited when they see Yogi’s golf clubs arrive in Joe Torre’s office, knowing that means Berra isn’t far behind.
By now, Guidry has Yogi’s schedule down pat. He picks up Berra at the hotel at 7 a.m., and by 7:30 Berra is on the treadmill at the ballpark. At 8:15 Yogi is on the massage table, and by 9 he’s showered and eating breakfast with Torre. At 9:30 he’s working the clubhouse, developing bonds with players, especially the new guys. The team workout is 10:30–11:30 a.m.; then he’s in the coaches’ room, getting ready for that day’s game. A couple of nights each week Yogi will slip out early to attend evening Mass.
Yogi and Gator use an off day—or a distant away game—as their time to golf. Berra and Guidry have a standing invitation at the MacDill Air Force Base course—Yogi’s favorite—courtesy of Brigadier General Arthur “Chip” Diehl. The base commander is a baseball fan who grew up thinking Yogi Berra represented the best of America—proof that anyone from any background can succeed with discipline and determination.
Guidry told Diehl there’s only one rule for playing with Berra: when Yogi gets the ball on the green, it’s as good as in the hole. Diehl, happy to comply, shouts, “That’s good—you’re done!” whenever Yogi hits the green. It’s a convivial outing, and Diehl loves talking with Berra as they ride in a golf cart together.
After a ball game or round of golf, Yogi and Gator eat dinner at one of five local restaurants, and Berra never strays from having a chopped salad with his favorite dish at each eatery. Everyone recognizes Yogi in public places, and Guidry does his best to protect Yogi’s privacy. Fans who manage to approach Yogi receive a polite but firm declination. “Sorry,” Berra says. “I’ve been told I’m not allowed to sign anything. It’s business.”
Every fourth night they eat in their respective rooms, and Guidry makes sure Yogi has a good sandwich with a side of veggies. And that is what Yogi is facing this mid-March evening of 2003, Guidry tells him, if Berra doesn’t at least try one of Gator’s signature frog legs.
“Forget going to the Bahama Breeze tonight,” Guidry says, “unless you taste one of these.”
Berra grunts, pulls one leg from the tray, and bites. Then a bigger bite, and the meat disappears. Then, smiling wryly at Gator, Yogi silently takes four more legs.
“When are we going to have these again?” he asks when the tray is empty.
“You’re going to have to wait until next spring,” Guidry replies. “This was the last batch.”
Another grunt. “Okay. Just don’t forget.”
It’s midmorning in late July of 2007 when Yogi Berra walks into Phil Rizzuto’s room at the Green Hill assisted living facility in West Orange, New Jersey. Yogi has been coming to see Phil once or twice weekly for the last year, and he’s pleased to find Rizzuto awake. “Hi, Yog,” Phil says softly as Yogi sits down by the bed and takes his friend’s frail hand. Some days the two men play cards or bingo, but Rizzuto is too tired for the game room. Today Yogi will look for a movie on TV while they talk.
Both men know these are the last few months, maybe weeks, of the 89-year-old Rizzuto’s life. A few years earlier Phil had surgery to remove part of his stomach, and—given the steroid scandals dogging baseball—he joked about having to take the drugs. Problems with his esophagus began last fall, and now he’s battling pneumonia.
They both love reminiscing. After all, it was almost 60 years ago when Rizzuto—then an All-Star shortstop with the Yankees—urged the team’s promising young catcher to leave St. Louis and move east. New York is where the money is, Rizzuto told Berra, eight years younger. New York is for stars.
Berra listened and has never regretted taking Phil’s advice. Sure, there was a little grumbling from some folks on The Hill who felt Berra had left them behind. Yogi sensed it four years earlier when he and Joe Garagiola attended a ceremony changing the name of Elizabeth Avenue—the street where both lived as boys—to Hall of Fame Place. Some whispered it was the first time they had seen Yogi in years—unlike Joe, who visited often.
In truth, Yogi did go home, although he preferred to stay with Carmen’s parents in quiet, rural Salem. But Ernest Short died in 1984, Carmen’s mom Barbara in 2000. Yogi’s sister Josie came to visit him in New Jersey fairly often, so there were fewer reasons to spend time in St. Louis.
Home for Yogi was Montclair, about a 20-minute ride from the house Rizzuto had bought in Hillside in 1949 and never left. That’s where he and Cora, his wife of 65 years, raised their four children. The two families grew up together, and Yogi and Phil became as close as brothers. Phil is the godfather of Yogi’s oldest son Larry, and lately they’ve recalled good times on the beach with their families during spring training in St. Petersburg, Florida.
Phil had been right about opportunities in New York. They both made plenty of money from their bowling alley as well as public appearances and commercials. And both have profited in the lucrative memorabilia market. Sometimes they complain—then laugh—about fans who think of Phil as the man from the Money Store, the finance company he represented on TV for almost 20 years, and of Yogi as the Yoo-Hoo guy.
Phil slowed down by the end of the ’90s, but Berra is still going strong. After the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, Berra starred in a classic public service ad for New York City. Dressed in a tux, he conducted the New York Philharmonic before a cheering audience. Ending with a leaping flourish, he deadpanned, “Who the heck is this guy Phil Harmonic?” A year later he had a smash hit pitching for the Aflac insurance company opposite the Aflac duck. “If you get hurt and miss work, it won’t hurt to miss work,” Berra says in the most popular segment of the long-running campaign.
You know, he’s told Phil many times, that duck doesn’t really talk, and they always laugh. And they laughed at the VISA commercial Berra did with Yao Ming, the seven-foot-six NBA star from China. Phil still hasn’t caught up with the three books Berra has published since 2001.
Today, neither man is paying much attention to the movie on TV, just enjoying each other’s company. It was the diminutive and gregarious Rizzuto, affectionately nicknamed Scooter, who did most of the talking in their younger days. Yogi doesn’t talk much, Phil would tell people. He listens and makes noises, but I know what he means. And now it’s Yogi who carries the conversation.
They reminisce about DiMaggio, Whitey, the Mick, and so many others. Eating Momma Berra’s pasta when the Yankees played in St. Louis. Buying cannoli from their favorite Italian bakery in Jersey City after visiting their friend Ed Lucas, the blind sports reporter. And golf, always golf. So many great times together.
Yogi stops talking as Phil falls asleep, then kisses Rizzuto on the forehead. “I’ll see you soon, buddy,” he whispers, then tiptoes out.
It’s a sunny Tuesday, August 14, when Dave Kaplan drives Yogi to the Stadium to see the Yankees play the Orioles. As always, they arrive many hours early. Yogi is in the clubhouse chatting when Kaplan learns that Rizzuto has passed away in his sleep late the night before, a month shy of his 90th birthday. Kaplan knows this will be a big story for the dozens of reporters covering the game, and everyone will seek Yogi’s reaction. He finds Yankee manager Joe Torre, tells him the news, and asks Berra’s good friend if he can help Yogi during the unavoidable interview session.
Soon Torre is sitting with Berra on the Yankee bench, his right arm draped around the shoulders of a grieving man. At least two dozen reporters surround them with microphones and tape recorders, jostling with photographers and cameramen.
Berra takes a deep breath.
Yogi, can you tell us how much you will miss him?
“I’ll remember him the rest of my life.… He’s my son’s godfather, you know.” His voice breaks as Torre’s large hand squeezes Berra’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss him.”
What has the last month been like?
“It’s been pretty bad,” Yogi answers, his voice low but steady now. “He got an infection—they were feeding him through the stomach. He was gradually going down. But I’d come in and he would recognize me.”
What are some of your best memories?
“What can I say? Geez, there are a lot of good memories,” he says, his mind flooded. But then he smiles.
“When he made that long speech when he got in the Hall of Fame, and he said if nobody wants to stay they can leave,” says Yogi, laughing a bit as he tells the story. “So Johnny Bench and I got up and walked off the stage.”
Did you do a lot of reminiscing?
“If he was awake,” says Yogi, his head down. “He wasn’t awake a lot of the time, you know.”
Yogi looks up again. He turned 82 in May, and friends have begun to die. Ted Williams passed away in 2002, Larry Doby in 2003. John McMullen died in September of 2005.
And now the Scooter.
“Phil was one of the greatest people I ever knew,” Yogi says. “I’m really going to miss him.”
Yankee manager Joe Girardi is sitting in his office at Legends Field in Tampa in early March of 2008, and he’s anxious. In a few moments Yogi Berra will walk in to begin another four-week stint as a spring training instructor. And Girardi, whose four seasons as a Yankee catcher ended before Berra rejoined the team’s spring coaching staff, has no idea how Yogi feels about Joe’s new position.
He does know Yogi is close to former manager Joe Torre, who departed unhappily when management, now led by 38-year-old Hal Steinbrenner, refused to give him more than a one-year contract. Torre won four World Series, six pennants, 10 division titles, and the hearts of Yankee fans in 12 seasons and is headed to the Hall of Fame. Girardi also knows the man he beat for the job, former Yankee star and fan favorite Don Mattingly, is also great friends with Berra.
Girardi, like General Manager Brian Cashman, advocates using data-based scouting reports, an approach that irritated Torre, who believed in observation and instinct over statistics. And Berra, Girardi knows, managed like Torre when he took two of his teams to the World Series. All these potential resentments and frictions account for the knot in Girardi’s stomach.
Girardi played 15 seasons for five different teams, then coached with the Yankees in 2005 before managing an awful Florida Marlins team to a surprising 78–84 record. Despite good reviews as a rookie manager, he was fired after constant disputes with the Marlins front office, then took a job in the Yankee broadcast booth. The first few weeks of this camp have gone smoothly, but Girardi felt butterflies when Berra’s golf clubs appeared recently in his office, heralding the Yankee legend’s arrival.
He followed Ron Guidry’s advice—a bottle of Ketel One vodka, Yogi’s favorite, is in his desk drawer. And now Berra stands in the doorway of Girardi’s office wearing a blue Yankee blazer and Yankee cap. “Hey, Skip,” Berra says. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, Yogi,” says Girardi, who scrambles from his seat to greet Berra. “Come in, please. Sit down.”
Berra sits down and quickly asks his primary question. “So, Joe,” he says, “what do you want me to do? I’m here to help.”
Girardi can feel his tension melt. If Yogi harbors hard feelings about the acrimonious split between the Yankees and Torre, he clearly holds no ill will toward Girardi. Indeed, within minutes, Joe feels Yogi’s reassurance for him.
The two old catchers talk about the 2008 Yankees. How to handle Jorge Posada’s probable transition from starter to reserve catcher. What they could expect from Jason Giambi, now 37 and no longer using steroids. How to pace a team whose three best pitchers are 36, 38, and 39, with seven position players who are 32 or older.
Girardi, a Northwestern grad with a quick, curious mind, could spend all day picking Berra’s brain for sharp observations, but the day’s workout approaches. Yogi has just two questions left for Girardi.
“What do you want me to do?” Berra repeats.
“Anything you want,” Girardi answers. “Obviously, working with the catchers would be great. But just let me know what else you want to do.”
Berra nods.
“Also… I was wondering if I could leave early on Saturdays when we have night games,” Yogi says a bit sheepishly. “I like to go to evening Mass.”
“Yogi,” says Girardi, a bit stunned Yogi is asking permission to do anything, “you can leave to go to church whenever you want.”