It’s funny what reading an obituary can do, in my case in particular when it’s an obituary about the passing of a famous baseball player. Recently, Yogi Berra left this planet and I read several obituaries about his life and tributes to him. They brought my father to mind, because a love of baseball was one of the many gifts he gave me.
My father, Alfred, would have been 101 years old last month when Lawrence Peter Berra died at 90 years of age. As everyone knows, I’m sure, that wasn’t the name that made him famous. Larry Berra was “christened” Yogi by teenage friends, who likened his posture, when seated in the on-deck circle waiting his turn at bat, to that of a Hindu yogi they’d all seen in a movie about India.
My father’s nickname, Ahbee, came into being because one or more of his neighborhood pals couldn’t pronounce Alfred. In my case, friends kiddingly nicknamed me Dr. Joyce Brothers after an incident in which I protected a classmate from bullying. My father lost his street name early, as did I. Mine, however, was a harbinger of my future profession—psychologist. The great Yankee catcher and creator of humorous and sage malapropisms retained his—and Yogi became a name of endearment and respect.
The first time I ever saw the famous Yankee in action was on June 19, 1951, when my father took me to a doubleheader against the Chicago White Sox at Yankee Stadium. The teams split that day, the Yankees (lovingly known to their fans as The Bronx Bombers) winning the first, and the White Sox (South Siders to their fan base) taking the second.
My father loved the history of America’s pastime, and would keep me enthralled with anecdotes and stories about players, events, and not-to-be-forgotten baseball moments, including that the Yankee Stadium, affectionately called “the house that [Babe] Ruth built,” opened in 1923, and was the place where my father spent many afternoons watching his beloved Yankees. Though he was born and raised in Brooklyn, played some high school baseball games at Ebbets Field (home to the Brooklyn Dodgers), his heart belonged with the Yankees.
That special day in June, my seat down the right field line, was one of many with my father and Yogi Berra. I remember sitting on my father’s lap watching the game, and under his tutelage, learning how to score a baseball game. I was too short to reach over the lip of the metal urinal in the restroom, and recall his tender gesture as he realized my embarrassment, and then held me up to pee like all the men around us.
We arrived early to watch batting practice, and with pinpoint accuracy Dad would point out various players, including Yogi Berra, who my father claimed Casey Stengel had once described as the best catcher in baseball, but who looked like a sack of potatoes. Although he never made the comparison, my father and Mickey Mantle were similar in build, played center field and were switch hitters—both were my heroes.
As focused as I was on the activities taking place on the field I was in awe of the man who held me close, gently instructed me in the art and fundamentals of baseball, and tousled my hair when I scored a play correctly.
My memories of that game are clear. Much has been written about Yogi Berra during his lifetime, and many moving, celebratory obituaries extolled his playing skills, solid character, business ventures and much quoted malapropisms. And, as Casey Stengel, his Yankee manager, might have said; “He wrote books too. You can look it up!” When I asked my father why Yogi was called Yogi he told me the story not only about the Yankee catcher, but also about his own nickname, and that someday I might have one too. He was correct, and I still have a couple that “hang on.”
So it is that time of year, baseball playoffs leading up to The World Series and the crowning of a World Series Champion. Memories of being with my father at Yankee stadium remain vivid, and the Bronx Bombers a significant part of that, but team allegiances changed. Though my father remained a staunch Yankee fan, I switched to the Chicago Cubs during my college years in Illinois. As of today my beloved Cubs are in the hunt for a first appearance in the Fall Classic since 1945, and a first championship since 1908.
I’m stoked!
In the process I am filled with fond recollections brought to the forefront by the death of a most beloved Yankee, thoughts of a too soon deceased father and my wealth of loving memories.
by 
Just a wonderful story, Roger. I’m starting to understand what a precious bond baseball offers fathers and sons. I heard a man on tv talking about that last week. He said during the years that he and his dad weren’t getting along, they were still able to talk baseball. I really enjoyed reading about you and your dad. It was very touching.
How fortunate to have the tender and touching memories of your Dad intermingled with your own love of and devotion to the game and tradition of baseball. Sweet reminiscing coupled with your hopes for your favored Cubs this season. Write on, mon ami.
Wonderful piece Roger. Where else could you find the collective meaning of “Hindu yogi”, “metal urinal” and “Dr. Joyce Brothers” in one place!
Thanks very much and Go Cubs!
Love your nostalgic memories. I grew up in a baseball family. A father who loved the game and two brothers who played for years mostly as a pastIme. A husband who played and follows the Dodgers religiously and a son who loves the game as well. But, what I remember most is the smell of the freshly cut ball field and that “crack” of the bat when it meets the pitch over home plate. Here’s hoping your Cubs go all the way.
What a lovely story, embellished by your memories and the continuity of the love of the game. Tonight I am privy to the fact that the Cubs didn’t quite reach the championship which should keep you ‘stoked’ for next year. Nicely done.
Thank you for reading and commenting on this post about love and attachment. Yes, the North Siders were swept in four games, but fortunately memories of our treasured experiences are not as transient. And yes, I am stoked for creating more memories including those from a “run” to a World Series in ’16 by the Cubs!
Oh to be the apple of daddy’s eye.