Yogi Berra Was Actually BETTER Than You Thought

He was 5’8, the son of Italian immigrants, and he quit school after 8th grade. At 19, he fired rockets at German machine gun nests on the beaches of Normandy. At 25, he was catching for the greatest baseball dynasty ever assembled. At 30, he was the most valuable player in the American League. He won 10 World Series championships, more than any player in baseball history.

 He said things like, “It ain’t over till it’s over. And when you come to a fork in the road, take it.” They didn’t make sense. They made perfect sense. He became so quotable that presidents and philosophers cited him more than Shakespeare. His name is Yogi Barer. And this is the story of a man who proved that you don’t have to look like a hero to become one.

Lorenzo Pietro Bara was born on May 12th, 1925 in St. Louis, Missouri. His parents, Pietro and Pawina Bara, were Italian immigrants. Pro arrived at Ellis Island in 1909, a 23-year-old from Malvaglio, a small town near Milan. He found work in the brickyards and eventually settled his family in a neighborhood called the Hill, a tight-knit Italian-American community in South St.

 Louis where everybody knew everybody and family meant everything. The bearers were working poor. Pro labored in the clay mines and brick factories alongside the other fathers on the hill. They never went without, but they never had more than they needed. Lorenzo was the youngest of five children with three older brothers and a sister.

 His mother had trouble pronouncing his name in English, so the family called him Lordi. Lord’s three older brothers were all talented athletes. They attracted attention from Major League Baseball scouts, but their father made them quit playing and get jobs to help support the family. That was the way it worked in immigrant families during the depression.

 Dreams came second to survival. But the brothers passed their love of sports down to their youngest sibling. Because he was the baby of the family and because his older brothers had already improved the family’s financial situation. Lord got something they never had. He got permission to dream. The kids on the hill played everything.

 Baseball, soccer, football, roller hockey. They formed a YMCA team called the Stags and spent their days competing against kids from other neighborhoods. Lord’s best friend was a boy named Joe Garajiola who lived directly across the street on Elizabeth Avenue. The two were inseparable. They played ball together, got into trouble together, and dreamed about the major leagues together.

 It was during these years that Lord Bearer became Yogi. The story goes that a group of neighborhood kids went to see a movie. And in the film, there was a Hindu man sitting cross-legged in meditation. One of Lord’s friends, Jack Maguire, noticed that whenever Lordi sat waiting to bat, he crossed his arms and legs in a similar pose.

 He looked sad and contemplative like the yogi in the movie. The nickname stuck. From that day forward, Lorenzo Pedrober was Yogi. Yogi quit school after the 8th grade. He had to help the family, so he took whatever work he could find. He worked in a coaly yard. He drove a delivery truck. He pulled tacks in a shoe factory.

 But he never stopped playing baseball. He joined the local American Legion League where he learned the basics of catching while also playing outfield and infield. He wasn’t graceful. He wasn’t pretty to watch. But something about the squat kid with the funny face made people pay attention.

 In 1941, when Yogi was 16 years old, he and Joe Garajiola tried out for their hometown team, the St. Louis Cardinals. The general manager was Branch Ricky, one of the shrewdest talent evaluators in baseball history. Ricky offered both young men contracts. Garajola got a $500 signing bonus. Yogi was offered D $250. The difference didn’t sit well with Yogi.

 He knew he was at least as good as Joe, probably better. He refused to sign unless he got the same bonus as his friend. The Cardinals said no. What Yogi didn’t know was that Ricky had a plan. He was about to leave St. Louis to take over the Brooklyn Dodgers and he wanted to save Yogi for his new team. The lower offer was a ploy to keep Barer from signing with the Cardinals. The plan backfired.

After the Cardinals rejected him, Yogi tried out for the St. Louis Browns. They offered him a contract, but no bonus. Again, Yogi refused. He went back to the shoe factory, pulling tax and wondering if his baseball dream was already dead at 16. Then the 1942 World Series happened.

 The Cardinals beat the New York Yankees and a coach who had seen Yogi play contacted the Yankees on his behalf. The Yankees offered Yogi a contract with a $500 bonus, the same amount Garajiola had received. This time Yogi said yes. He reported to the Norfolk Tars in the Class B Piedmont League. In 1943, he batted 253 with seven home runs in 111 games.

 It wasn’t spectacular, but it was enough. Then everything changed. America was at war, and 18-year-old Yogi Barer enlisted in the United States Navy. What happened next would define Yogi Barra in ways that baseball never could. He trained as a gunner’s mate, learning to operate and maintain weapons on naval vessels.

 He was assigned to the attack transport USS Bayfield. On June 6th, 1944, Seaman Secondass Lawrence P. Barer participated in the largest amphibious invasion in military history, D-Day. Yogi was one of six men on a 36- ft rocket boat, a landing craft support vessel designed to get close to shore and suppress enemy defenses.

 Their mission was to position themselves 300 yd off the beaches of Normandy and fire machine guns and rockets at the German positions. So the soldiers landing on the beach would have a better chance of survival. The boats were small. The crews were exposed. The enemy was dug in and waiting. Yogi fired his machine gun at Omaha Beach as chaos erupted around him.

 The noise was deafening. The water was filled with debris and bodies. Three of his comrades on nearby boats were killed. Yogi himself was wounded, taking shrapnel that left a scar on his left hand. He later ran messages between Omaha Beach and Utah Beach while the battle raged. Years later, when asked about D-Day, Yogi’s response was typically understated.

Being a young guy, you didn’t think nothing of it until you got in it. And so, we went off 300 yd off the beach. We protect the troops. If they ran into any trouble, we would fire the rockets over. He made it sound simple. It wasn’t. The invasion of Normandy was one of the bloodiest days of the war with thousands of Allied soldiers killed.

Yogi Bearer was right there in the middle of it. A 19-year-old  kid from the hill doing his part to save the world. After Normandy, Yogi participated in Operation Dragoon,  the invasion of southern France. He served in North Africa and Tunisia. He earned a Purple Heart for his wounds along with a distinguished  unit citation and two battle stars.

 His military records were later destroyed in the 1973  St. Louis archives fire and he never received the Purple Heart Medal itself because the documentation was lost. But the scar on his hand told the story. In January 1945, Yogi  was stationed at the Naval Submarine Base in New London, Connecticut.

 While there, he played for the bass baseball team. He also snuck off base to play for a semi-pro team in Rhode Island under an assumed name, earning $50 a game. He was already signed with the Yankees, so playing for money was against the rules. But Yogi  needed the cash, and rules had a way of bending around him. When the war ended, Yogi returned to baseball.

 The Yankees sent him to their top minor league affiliate, the Newick Bears. He tore up the international league and in September 1946 he was called up to the majors. On September 22nd 1946, 21-year-old Yogi Barer made his major league debut against the Philadelphia Athletics at Yankee Stadium. He went two for four with a two-run home run of Jesse Flores.

He was a Yankee, but he wasn’t a star yet. Not even close. The early reviews of Yogi Bearer were brutal. He was awkward behind the plate. His throws to second base were erratic. His body looked all wrong for a professional athlete. Even the Yankees own manager made cruel comments about his appearance.

  He was called the AP. Sports writers made fun of his face, his build, his intelligence. Yogi heard all of it. His response became one of his most famous lines. So I’m ugly. So what? I never saw anyone hit with his face. The turning point came in 1949 when Casey Stangle took over as Yankees manager. Stangle saw what others missed.

He saw a player with incredible hand eye coordination who could hit any pitch within reach. He saw a competitor who rose to the occasion when the pressure was highest. He saw a winner. Stangle brought in Hall of Fame catcher Bill Dicki to work with Yogi on his defense. Dicki taught him how to move behind the plate, how to frame pitches, how to throw out runners, and most importantly, how to handle a pitching staff.

 Yogi later described the mentorship in his own unique way. He is learning me his experience. It worked. By 1950, Yogi Barer had transformed himself from  a defensive liability into one of the best catchers in baseball. That year he hit a 322 batting average with 28 home runs and 124 runs batted in.  He finished third in the MVP voting.

 The Yankees won the World Series. It was just the beginning. From 1949 to 1953, the New York Yankees won five consecutive World Series championships. No team had ever done it before. No team has done it since. And Yogi Barer was the heart of those teams. He wasn’t the most famous Yankee. That was Joe Deagio, then Mickey Mantle. But Yogi was the most valuable.

 In 1950, Yogi established himself as a legitimate star. He batted .322 with 28 home runs and 124 runs batted in as the Yankees swept the Philadelphia Phillies to win their second straight championship. He finished third in the most valuable player voting that year and many thought he deserved to win.

 The award went to his teammate Phil Ruto instead. In 1951, Yogi won his first American League most valuable player award. He won it again in 1954 and 1955, becoming one of only six players in history to win three most valuable player awards. Roy Campanella of the Dodgers was the only other catcher to accomplish this feat.

 From 1950 to 1957, he never finished lower than fourth in the voting. Think about that. For eight straight years, Yogi Bearer was one of the four most valuable players in the American League. The 1955 World Series brought heartbreak. The Yankees faced the Brooklyn Dodgers who had never won a championship despite seven previous attempts.

 In game one, Jackie Robinson stole home. Yogi was furious. He jumped up and down, arguing that Robinson was out. He never stopped insisting that Call was wrong. Decades later, he was still signing photos of the play with the words he was out. The Dodgers won that series in seven games, giving Brooklyn its only championship. The Yankees came back in 1956 to beat those same Dodgers.

 Yogi hit three home runs in that series, including two off Don Newome in the decisive seventh game. And of course, there was the perfect game. The statistics tell part of the story. He made 18 all-star teams. He hit 358 home runs, which was the record for catches when he retired. He drove in over 100 runs five times. He led the American League catches in home runs and runs batted in for nine consecutive seasons.

 In 1950, he struck out only 12 times in 597 at bats. He once had more home runs than strikeouts in a season. He did that five times. But the statistics don’t capture what made Yogi special. He was a bad ball hitter who could reach pitches outside the strike zone and drive them for extra bases. He was nearly impossible to strike out because he put the bat on everything.

 He was at his  best when the game was on the line. Paul Richards, an opposing manager, once said he is the toughest man in the league in the last three innings. Yogi also engaged in psychological warfare behind the plate. He talked constantly to opposing batters, chattering about anything and everything to break their concentration.

Some hitters found it maddening. Others found it hilarious. Hank Aaron, one of the greatest hitters who ever lived, once told Yogi to be quiet because he was there to hit, not to talk. Yogi’s response was vintage. He told Aaron that he hoped he hit good because Yogi wanted to win more than anything. Aaron grounded out.

 The yogi chatter became legendary. He would ask hitters about their families, their offseason plans, anything to get inside their heads. Most batters learned to tune him out. The ones who couldn’t often found themselves walking back to the dugout after making weak contact. And then there was the catching.

 After his shaky start, Yogi became a master at handling pitches. He studied hitters obsessively. He called brilliant games. His pitchers loved throwing to him because he made their jobs easier. He led the American League in assists five times. From 1957 to 1959, he went 148 consecutive games without making an error. His durability was legendary.

 He caught at least 100 games in 10 different seasons. He caught both games of 117 double headers. In June 1962, at 37 years old, he caught an entire 22ining game against the Detroit Tigers. 7 hours behind the plate. Most catchers would have begged out after 15 innings. Yogi just kept going. Casey Stangle, who managed Yogi for most of his career, once said that he never plays a game without his man.

 That man was always Yogi. He caught three no hitters in his career, including the only perfect game in World Series history. That perfect game happened on October 8th, 1956. The Yankees were playing the Brooklyn Dodgers in game five of the World Series. The pitcher was Don Len, a journeyman with a losing record who had been knocked out in the second inning of his previous start.

 Nobody expected greatness from Don Lson, but Yogi called the pitches and Len threw them. 27 Dodgers came to the plate and 27 Dodgers made outs. The final batter was Dale Mitchell. Lson threw a fast ball on the outside corner. Mitchell took it. The umpire’s arm went up. Strike three. What happened next became one of the most iconic images in baseball history.

 Yogi Bearer sprinted to the mound and leapt into Don Len’s arms, his legs wrapped around the pitcher’s waist. His face a portrait of pure joy. The photograph captured everything that made Yogi Bearer beloved, the passion, the childlike enthusiasm, the complete lack of self-consciousness about how he might look.

 Len didn’t shake off a single sign that day. He threw 97 pitches and trusted his catcher completely. When asked about it afterward, Yogi said Larsson’s only bad pitch was a hanging slider in the fifth inning. One bad pitch in a perfect game. That’s how well Yogi called it. The Yankees beat the Dodgers in that 1956 World Series. It was Yogi’s seventh championship.

 He would win three more, finishing his playing career with 10 World Series rings,  more than any player in history. He appeared in 14 World Series total and played in 75 World Series games, both records. He had 71 hits in World Series play, another record. He hit 12 World Series home runs. The numbers are staggering.

 But perhaps the most remarkable statistic is this. In those 75 World Series games, Yogi Barer got a hit in 71 of them. He showed up in October every single time. While Yogi was dominating baseball, he was also building a family. He met Carmen Short in 1947. She was from Salem, Missouri, working as a waitress at a steakhouse in St. Louis.

They hit it off immediately. On January 26th, 1949, Yogi and Carmon were married at St. Ambrose Catholic Church on the hill, the same neighborhood where Yogi had grown up. The marriage would last 65 years until Carmon died in 2014. They raised three sons in Montlair, New Jersey. Larry played in the minor leagues for the Mets organization.

 Tim played football for the Baltimore Colts. Dale became a major league shortstop who played for the Pirates, the Yankees, and the Astros. When Dale played for the Yankees in 1984 and 1985, his manager was his father. Yogi’s playing career ended after the 1963 season. [clears throat] He was 38 years old and had appeared in his 10th World  Series, this time losing to the Los Angeles Dodgers in four games.

 The Yankees immediately named him their new manager.  It seemed like a perfect fit. The most beloved Yankee taking over the most storied franchise in sports. But managing proved more complicated than playing. The 1964 season was filled with drama, including the famous harmonica incident  when infielder Phil Lind played his harmonica on the team bus after a tough loss and Yogi told him to stop.

 The confrontation made national news.  People wondered if Yogi had the toughness to manage professional athletes. He answered  those doubts by winning the American League penant. The Yankees made it to the World Series facing the St. Louis Cardinals. They lost in seven games and then something  shocking happened.

 The Yankees fired Yogi Barer. He had won a pennant in his only year as manager and they fired him anyway. The decision still baffles baseball historians.  Meanwhile, the Cardinals fired their own manager, Johnny Keane, despite winning the World Series. In a bizarre twist, Keane became the new Yankees manager, while Yogi moved across town to the New York Mets.

 For the next decade, Yogi served as a coach and player coach for the Mets. He even played in four games in 1965, his final season as an active player. He was there in 1969 when the miracle Mets shocked the world by winning the World Series. Then in April 1972, tragedy struck.  Mets manager Gil Hodges, Yogi’s close friend, suffered a fatal heart attack after a round of golf with his coaches. The Mets turned to Yogi.

 He did not want the job at first. Taking over for a friend who had just died felt wrong, but Carmon encouraged him and Yogi accepted the position. What followed was one of the most improbable seasons in baseball history. The 1973 Mets were terrible. Injuries destroyed the roster. By the end of August, they were in last place with a record of 61 wins and 71 losses, 6 and 1/2 games out of first.

 The newspapers were calling for Yogi’s job. Chairman of the board, M. Donald Grant, was thinking about firing him. Then reliever Tug McGro jumped up in a clubhouse meeting and shouted four words that would become a rallying cry.  You got to believe. Yogi kept telling everyone to be patient. A winning streak was coming. Nobody believed him except the players.

 It was around this time that Yogi supposedly said his most famous line. It ain’t over till it’s over. The Mets went 20 and8 in September. They won the National League East with a record of 82 wins and 79 losses, a winning percentage of just509. It remains the lowest winning percentage of any penant winner in major league history.

 They beat the Cincinnati Reds in a brutal playoff series that included a bench clearing brawl between Pete Rose and Mets shortstop Bud Harlson. They made it all the way to the World Series before losing to the Oakland Athletics in seven games. Yogi Barra had now managed in the World Series in both the American League and the National League.

Only Joe McCarthy had done it before him. Yogi stayed with the Mets through 1975, then returned to the Yankees as a coach. In 1984, the Yankees made him manager again. Owner George Stein Brener promised that Yogi would have the job for the entire 1985 season, no matter what. After a third place finish in 1984, Yogi believed him.

 16 games into the 1985 season with the Yankees at six wins and 10 losses, Stein Brener fired Yogi Barer. He sent general manager Clyde King to deliver the news rather than doing it himself. Billy Martin, who  had been serving as an advanced scout, took over as manager. The players were devastated. Don Mattingley had tears in his eyes.

Don Baylor kicked over a trash can. Yogi did not criticize Stein Brener publicly. He just said he was the boss and he could do what he wanted. But privately, he was furious. Stein Brener had broken his word. And that meant everything to a man raised on the hill where your word was your bond.

 Yogi vowed never to return to Yankee Stadium as long as that guy was in charge. And for 14 years, he kept that vow. He did not attend Old-Timer’s Day. He did not show up when they dedicated his plaque in Monument Park in 1988. He coached for the Houston Astros and stayed far away from the Bronx. The FUD became legendary.

 Fans hoped for reconciliation. Yogi’s family urged him to make peace. He refused. Then Joe Deaggio got involved. Deaggio was diying. In early 1999, he summoned Stein Brener to his hospital room and told him to end the feud. “It should not be a personal thing,” Dimagio said. “It should be first for the fans, then for the game, then for the Yankees.

 That should be more important than two men having a feud.” On January 5th, 1999, George Steinbrer flew to New Jersey and met with Yogi and Carmon at the Yogi Bearer Museum on the campus of Monontlair State University. Steinbrer apologized. He said firing Yogi was the worst mistake he ever made in baseball. He admitted he had screwed up.

 Yogi’s response was simple. 14 years is long enough. He said, “I forgive you, George. Don’t worry about it. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my baseball career, too. The feud was over. 6 months later, the Yankees hosted Yogi Bear Day at the stadium. Don Lson threw the ceremonial first pitch to his old battery mate. And then something magical happened.

 That afternoon, Yankees pitcher David Conn threw a perfect game against the Montreal Expose. It was only the 16th perfect game in Major League history and the first by a Yankee since Larsen. Yogi was there to see it back home where he belonged. Through all of this, through the championships and the heartbreaks and the feuds, Yogi Bearer kept saying things that made no sense and perfect sense at the same time.

 The yogi isms became as famous as his baseball achievements. When you come to a fork in the road, take it. He said this while giving directions to his house. Either fork would get you there. Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded. He was talking about a popular restaurant in St. Louis. Baseball is 90% mental. The other half is physical.

 The future ain’t what it used to be. You can observe a lot by just watching. It’s like deja vu all over again. I really didn’t say everything I said. Some of these quotes were invented by sports writers and publicists. Yogi knew it and didn’t much care. A lot of guys come up to me and say, “Hey, Yog, say a yogiism.” I tell them, “I don’t know any.

” They want me to make one up. I don’t make them up. I don’t even know when I say it. They’re the truth. And it is the truth. I don’t know. The yogi isms entered the American language like few expressions before or since. Presidents quoted him. Philosophers analyzed him. He became more cited than Shakespeare in some collections of quotations.

 The funnyl looking kid from the hill who quit school after 8th grade had somehow become one of the most quoted Americans in history. Yogi spent his final years at Museum Peace. He reconciled with the Yankees and became a regular at spring training and home games, working with young catchers and telling stories from the old days.

 He opened his museum in 1998 dedicated to education and the values he had lived by. The Yogi Bearer Museum and Learning Center sits on the campus of Montlair State University, which also named its baseball stadium after him. The museum houses his championship rings, his catcher mitt from Larsson’s perfect game, and countless photographs and artifacts from his remarkable career.

 He was elected to the baseball hall in 1972, receiving 85% of the vote. That same year, the Yankees retired his number eight, jointly honoring both Yogi and his mentor Bill Dicki, who had worn the same number. In 1999, he was named to the Major League Baseball All Century team in a vote by fans. Yogi received the Lone Sailor Award in 2009 and the Audi Murphy Award in 2010 for his military service.

 These  honors meant as much to him as any baseball award. He never forgot what he had seen on the beaches of Normandy. He never forgot the friends he lost there. Carmen died in March 2014 after 65 years of marriage. Yogi was heartbroken.  18 months later on September 22nd, 2015, Lawrence Peter Barer died in his sleep at his home in New Jersey.

 He was 90 years old. The tributes poured in from everywhere. The Yankees wore a number eight patch on their uniforms for the remainder of the season. The Empire State Building was lit in blue and white pinstripes. New York City lowered its flags to half staff for an entire day. Derek Jeter attended the funeral at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Montlair.

 So did Hal Stein Brener, Rachel Robinson, the widow of Jackie, and former mayor Rudy Giuliani. Joe Toreé, Yogi’s longtime friend and former Yankees manager, delivered remarks celebrating a life well-lived. 2 months after his death, Yogi received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian honor. His son, Larry, accepted the award at the White House.

 President Barack Obama using one of Yogi’s most famous lines said one thing we know for sure. If you can’t imitate him, don’t copy him. The word medal seemed fitting for a life this full. The award recognized not just his baseball career, but his military service and his commitment to education and civil rights.

 It was the perfect capstone  to an improbable life. Think about what Yogi Barer accomplished. He grew up poor in an immigrant neighborhood during the depression. He quit school at 14 to help his family.  He was rejected by his hometown team for not being good enough. He stormed the beaches of Normandy at 19 and came home with shrapnel wounds.

 He was mocked for his looks and his intelligence. And he became one of the most successful and beloved athletes in American history. The word accomplished hardly does it justice. 10 World  Series championships, three most valuable player awards, 18 all-star selections, a perfect game behind the plate, a place in the baseball hall of fame, a museum bearing his name, a presidential medal of freedom, and through it  all, he never lost the common touch that made him special.

 He remained Yogi from the hill, the kid who played ball with Joe Garajiola on Elizabeth Avenue. The guy who said funny things without trying to be funny. The man who valued family and loyalty above everything else. He kept the common touch throughout. Near the end of his life, someone asked Yogi what he wanted to be remembered for.

 His answer was pure yogi. He said he hoped people would remember him as a good person who loved his family and loved baseball. That’s all. It was simple. It was humble.  And like everything Yogi Bearer ever said, it was the truth. Final statistics  for Lawrence Peter Yogi Barra. Career batting average of 285, 2,150 hits, 358 home runs, 1,430 runs batted in 10 World Series championships, 18 All-Star games, three-time American League most valuable player, elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1972,

Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient in 2015. D-Day veteran, American original. Like and subscribe for more baseball documentaries. Until next time.