And so did I. Because I knew him as a Met. And part of the reason why I finally felt validated as a baseball fan.
I grew up in Yankee Land. Every kid in my neighborhood rooted for the guys in the Bronx. So did everybody in my family. That included my father, who was allegedly as rabid a Yankee fan as you could find. His cousin's husband owned season tickets to the House That Ruth Built and that would be the very first baseball game I would ever attend. Home from school with an ear infection, they stuffed cotton in my ears and bought me a cap. A Yankee hat. As I have written before, Mickey Mantle hit a home run that very first day.
I really had no clue where I was or what I was seeing. But the hot dog and the popcorn, served in a New York Yankee megaphone, were delicious.
But, a year later, I got German measles in April and was home sick from school all week. I've told the story before. I started to watch some team from Flushing called the New York Mets. And it was love at first dropped ball.
I had a team all to myself. That was the good news. The bad news was that they stunk. Loaded with has-beens and never-weres. Managed by the Yankees' former head guy who allegedly had fallen asleep in the dugout multiple times during his tenure in the Bronx.
So, at least, my fandom with the Mets allowed me to get ridiculed for things other than my weight and my two front protruding teeth. Kids can be so cruel.
"The Mets suck."
Agreed.
"They lose every game they play."
For the most part.
"And you're still fat."
Thank you very much.
But, the Mets were mine. As bad as they were. And, even, my dad wandered over to my side of the baseball tracks in NY. But, as much as I loved them, they were damn tough to watch.
Yogi Berra had been a god with the Yankees. The gang "up the block" loved him. Not only was he a star but he was also of Italian descent just like most of them. Plus he was not the most articulate guy around. That also made him endearing.
After Yogi retired, he got to manage the Yankees one year and actually took them to the seventh game of the World Series which they ultimately lost. And it cost Berra his job...a remarkable occurrence in these pre-George Steinbrenner days. Before the furnaces were warming up for the winter, the Mets swooped him and hired Yogi Berra to be a player-coach. You see the photo above where Met manager Casey Stengel is welcoming Yogi into the fold.
At my home on South 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York, this news made this kid euphoric. In the great scheme of things, it was relatively minor. Indeed, Yogi really only played a few games with the Mets before retiring completely to be the first base coach. But it was the very first time I felt validated as a baseball fan. I had a little something to gloat about. Their star was now part of "my family."
Funny how the simple act of the Mets hiring Yogi Berra could make me puff out my chest.
For that very reason, I was forever after a big fan of Yogi Berra. And he actually was part of the further validation of my team and my fandom when the Mets inexplicably won their first World Series several years later. And then, after the untimely death of their manager Gil Hodges, Berra took over the reins of the ball club.
A season later, they got off to a horrible start. The New York Post ran a poll to see whose fault it was for the team's performance. Yogi was one of the possible culprits. The fans ultimately didn't blame him. And, with his steadfast leadership, they had a miraculous September and went to the World Series again. One more time, Berra lost in the seventh game of the Fall Classic, but, like at the Oscars, it's an honor to get that far.
And I strutted around some more.
So, with all the tributes this week to Yogi Berra and heralding him as the true New York Yankee, I remember fondly his tenure with the New York Mets. And the fact that he made me feel just a little bit taller. And a little less fat.
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza.
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