Nobody ever accused the New York Yankees of having a sense of humor—until last week. Or maybe it was a sense of destiny. They had won their 28th American League pennant by 10½ games, but New York fans merely yawned—the impossible Mets had drawn almost as many people. Then the Yankees got shut out 4-0 in the World Series, and everybody cheered. There was only one thing to do. Last week the staid old Yankees took a deep breath and signed Yogi Berra as their manager.
It was the first time in baseball history that a myth became a manager—although the Berra myth was mostly fact. Over 18 seasons with the Yankees, he batted .285, hit 358 home runs, set World Series records for hits (71) and R.B.I.s (39). He played in more games (2,116) than any Yankee except Lou Gehrig, and he was the most dangerous clutch hitter in baseball. "Anything I can reach, I can hit," he boasted, and he is probably the only player who got shoe polish on his bat from golfing one over the fence. He won three Most Valuable Player awards (nobody has won more), and saw his salary climb to $55,000, highest ever for a catcher. But manager of the Yankees? That was like putting Harpo Marx in the White House, only funnier.
Pinned Together. Yogi was born Lawrence Peter Berra 38 years and a million laughs ago. He grew up in St. Louis, in what was then unselfconsciously known as the "Dago Hill" section. He never got through the ninth grade. When people asked him how he liked school, he replied, "Closed." Yankee scouts found him on the sandlots, and the first time he showed up for spring training, the veterans just stared. He had a frame like a fire hydrant and a face like a fallen souffle, and when he walked, he looked as if his trousers were pinned together at the knees. He could hit and catch all right. But somehow everything he did or said turned up funny.
He trundled out to bat with his shin guards still on, showed up behind the plate without his catcher's mask. He once hit a pitcher on the chest with a throw to second base; another time he beaned the second-base umpire, and one day he caught a fly ball with his forehead. His face creased in concentration, Yogi was always the first Yankee to report for work. "I know I'm going to take the wrong subway, so I leave an hour early."
He read comic books in the dugout ("I like the ones about crooks best"), once turned down an invitation to dinner at a famous restaurant with the comment: "Nobody goes there any more. It's too crowded." On a trip to Italy in 1961, Yogi took in Tosca at La Scala. "It was pretty good," he said. "Even the music was nice." And who can ever forget Lawrence Berra Night in his home town of St. Louis? Yogi stepped up to the microphone and announced: "I want to thank all the baseball fans and everyone else who made this night necessary."