The outpouring of tributes and heartfelt warmth devoted to Yogi Berra in light of his passing Tuesday at the age of 90 has been overwhelming. Not overwhelming in a bad way, of course. Far from it. The wave of love and nostalgia for the baseball legend is genuine, so warm that it provides a blanket that provides some security with this solemn news.
Perhaps this is presumptuous of me to say, since I obviously don’t speak for anyone other than myself. But I honestly feel like you can’t read enough of the eulogies and acknowledgements that fill up the internet and news cycle today.
Obviously, Berra deserves tribute for his baseball accomplishments alone. (He was even a pretty good manager, leading the Mets to a division title and Game 7 of the World Series in 1973.) It’s easy to forget that because he’s known to modern generations as more of a goofball savant. How many of us who follow baseball or write about it actually saw him play, let alone at his peak?
But Berra is a Hall of Famer, inducted in 1972. With a lifetime batting average of .285 and .830 OPS, 358 home runs and 2,130 hits, he ranks among the greatest hitting catchers in baseball history. He was also excellent defensively, having thrown out 49 percent (403-of-829) of opposing basestealers. He won four MVP awards and was named to 15 All-Star teams. Oh, and he won 10 World Series championships with the most famous sports franchise on the planet. About the only thing you could knock Berra for is not being on the ’27 Yankees. That was before his time.
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