In honoring a life well-lived, the highest compliment is also the simplest. Yogi Berra, who died Tuesday at the age of 90, was a D-Day hero, a Yankees icon and, incredibly, the most quotable speaker of his generation.
And yet, standing next to Yogi, enjoying his company as countless people did, sharing a laugh with him, you'd never know it.
At the height of his baseball powers, Berra stood all of 5-7. An ordinary Joe in physical stature, perhaps, but nothing else. Seeing him during his visits to Yankee Stadium, Berra was as assuming as your grandfather. For those of us who never had the privilege of watching him play, and never met him until even his managing days were long over, we couldn't help but think, "That's Yogi Berra?"
It was a natural reaction, and hardly uncommon. Because a person such as Lawrence Peter Berra was too big to fit on a movie screen, too accomplished to fully appreciate on the written page. The best author, with the most vivid imagination, could not have scripted such a personality. And if they came close, would they have nailed it so perfectly with the nickname, "Yogi"?
No chance.
Berra was an American original, truly one of a kind, whose influence radiated outward from the Bronx, where he was the stocky anchor of 10 World Series champions, from 1947 to '62. To put that in contemporary terms, Derek Jeter, the Yankee who had everything, ended his career envying him.
"The only one I'm thinking about catching is Yogi," Jeter said back in 2012, not knowing yet that his collection of rings would equal only half of Berra's haul.
It was a rivalry Jeter brought up for Berra's benefit, as the two often joked around together on the occasions Yogi would swing by his locker, either during spring training or Old-Timer's Day. Like Ruth and Gehrig and Mantle and DiMaggio before him, Berra served as the bridge to a Golden Era in Yankees history. Larger than life on the field, but in a cuddly, personable, engaging package outside the lines.
