An Afternoon with Yogi

He walks more gingerly than he used to, and he talks more softly than he once did. But his smile, his sense of humor, and his easygoing manner are all still there, as they’ve been for the 65 years that he’s been in the public eye.

I got the chance to meet Yogi Berra yesterday, thanks to the generosity of a friend and colleague. My friend Hedy invited me to the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center on the campus of Montclair State University to watch the 86-year-old Yankee legend respond to interviews from high school students, as part of a sports broadcasting camp. The camp, which Hedy helps coordinate, is run by her brother, David Siroty, as well as sports journalists Bruce Beck, Ian Eagle, Dave Popkin and Mike Quick. It’s an extraordinarily impressive camp, as evidenced by the quality of the students’ work and the dedication of the experienced teachers.

So as a guest of the camp, I sat in the auditorium of Yogi’s museum and watched him sit down in a white folding chair, a Yankees cap atop his head and a Yankees jacket over his polo shirt. He held his cane in his hands and listened closely to every student’s question.

It was fascinating to watch Yogi handle the questions. Sometimes, he’d give a direct answer, such as when one student asked, “Yogi, was Jackie Robinson safe or – ” “Out!” the former catcher barked before that question could even be completed. Robinson’s famous steal of home during Game One of the 1955 World Series between the Yankees and Brooklyn Dodgers still stokes the competitive fire within Berra. Another student asked, “Yogi, what did you tell Derek Jeter after his 3,000th hit?” Yogi: “I told him it was about time.”

Most of Yogi’s answers, though, were not as direct. More often than not, Yogi took the student’s question as more of an invitation to tell a story. Somewhere in that story was an answer to the question. But in essence, the question was more of an opportunity for Yogi to reminisce. For instance, after sharing his humorous compliment to Jeter about that 3,000th hit, Yogi then started telling the students that he’s also joked with Jeter in the past about swinging at (and missing) high fastballs: “I asked him, ‘Why did you swing at those high ones?’ ” Yogi recalled. “[Jeter] said, ‘Well, you swung at them.’ I said, ‘Yeah, but I hit them.’ ” When asked about his batting style, Yogi didn’t speak about his three MVP awards or his 358 home runs. Instead, he brought us back to 1950, and told us that he’d come to bat 597 times that year and struck out only 12 times. He said he retired in 1965 after just nine at-bats because he struck out three times in one game. That’s how he knew it was time. “I retired that day,” he said.

When asked about his best and worst moments with George Steinbrenner, Yogi smiled, sighed, and brought his listeners back to the early 1980s. He told stories about young players whom the late Yankees owner traded away (such as outfielder Willie McGee) or threatened to demote (such as Dave Righetti). Yogi eventually got around to sharing his good moments with Steinbrenner, but only after telling us that Willie McGee (who retired when these students were toddlers) was a great talent, and that he was traded to the Cardinals for a pitcher named Bob Sykes. McGee smacked more than 2,000 hits in his career, while Sykes never pitched a game for New York. Yogi remembers that.

It’s the details like this – McGee for Sykes – that always amaze me when I’m listening to one of my elders talk. For years, the vivid storyteller in my life was my grandfather, Warren Mueller. Many of my grandfather’s stories were about baseball, too, as he played professionally in the Boston Braves’ minor-league system during the 1940s, then played semipro ball for years afterward. My brother and I would ask my grandfather so many questions about his playing days, and he’d remember the details of a game in 1944 better than he could recall what he’d eaten for breakfast that day. He always seemed grateful that his grandchildren wanted to know so much about his life, and he never stopped telling us stories. He told us about the tryout he had with the Brooklyn Dodgers at age 18, about the games he pitched with the Hartford Senators in 1944 and ’45, about the exhibition game in which he pitched against Joe DiMaggio in ‘46, and about the flourishing semipro baseball scene on Staten Island in the 1940s (done in by television, he’d always say). Just two days before he died, my grandfather told me for the first time that he’d pitched against Jimmie Foxx.

Warren Mueller has been gone for almost five years. My brother and I miss his voice, his laugh, and the stories he told. I didn’t know what to expect from yesterday’s visit to hear Yogi Berra – I’m not really big on star-gazing, and I had plenty of interviews with famous people during my work as a journalist. But what I ended up hearing from Yogi was some of my grandfather’s voice inside of his. Sure, the details were different, and they involved the most famous team in the history of American sport. But the rhythm and the purpose for these stories were the same.

All the campers and teachers took pictures with Yogi afterward, and David got me in for a photo as well. My photo looks silly, as I’m not posing and smiling for the camera. Instead, I’m standing there talking with Yogi. I shook his hand, introduced myself, and blurted out a few sentences about how much I appreciated the job he had done managing the 1984 Yankees. That team was out of contention early and brought up their best prospects in the summer for a long audition. I was 13, and at the apex of my childhood fascination with baseball. “You let the kids play,” I told Yogi, “just like the Mets have to do this year.” He smiled back, and said something that I couldn’t hear amid the din of the auditorium.

It may seem strange that I botched a photo with Yogi Berra. But I think I know what was going on there. I wasn’t really trying to talk with Yogi in that moment. I think I was just trying to get in a few more words with my grandfather.

Yogi, I’m sure, understood. When one student asked him how he felt about being honored at Yogi Berra Day more than 10 years ago, the man in the Yankees cap started to choke up as he remembered the day. “I’m getting emotional right now,” he said.

Mortality is more real and lasting than any home run or tag at the plate. That’s why we tell stories, and that’s why we listen.

Fundamentally Sound (One Sixty-Two: Day 88)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Eighty-Eight: Tim Hudson, Atlanta Braves

I’ve written in previous blogs about my grandfather, Warren Mueller, and the profound impact he had on me and my brother. Warren was a good father, husband, son and brother, and an even better grandfather. He also was a terrific baseball player years ago, and as he grew older he shared his passion for the game with his daughter and grandkids. We used that mutual passion for baseball as a vehicle through which we could connect about much larger life issues.

Today, Warren would have been 92. He lived for 88 years, passing away in November 2006 after a battle with melanoma. During his 20s, Warren pitched in the Boston Braves’ minor-league system before moving over to the semi-pro ranks. He pitched against Joe DiMaggio and Jimmie Foxx, and was known as one of the best pitchers ever to come out of Staten Island, N.Y. In the mid-1940s, while pitching for two different semi-pro teams each week, Warren threw out his left arm and was forced to quit pitching. He still played first base, though, and soon enough had his own semi-pro club after purchasing a White Rock soda business.

While watching a game with my grandfather, I always had the privilege of viewing the matchup through the eyes of a ballplayer. He watched the pitcher’s windup, arm angle and follow-through, then looked to see how close each pitch came to the catcher’s target. Warren’s eyes honed in on heads-up base-running, proper execution of bunts, and defensive positioning. We'd talk about this as he grabbed us a couple of sodas out of the "icebox," as he called his fridge.

In essence, Warren Mueller believed that you won ballgames by executing the fundamentals. And, aside from the home-run-fueled years of the steroid era, he was right. This season, as offensive numbers have fully retreated to their pre-steroid levels, the game is looking more and more like the one my grandfather played.

I think he would enjoy watching Tim Hudson of the Braves pitch in 2010. Hudson, like Warren Mueller decades before him, pitches for the Braves organization. And Hudson, like my grandfather, experienced a serious injury to his throwing arm. The last 65 years have seen tremendous medical advancements, though, so Hudson is back on the mound after major reconstructive elbow surgery. What’s more, he’s pitching better than he has in seven years. Throughout his career, Hudson has been a gutsy pitcher who doesn’t take his team out of ballgames: He’s won nearly twice as many games as he’s lost, he strikes out more than twice as many hitters as he walks, and he fields his position quite well. At 35, Hudson was again an All-Star this season.

In short, he’s the kind of player an old-timer loves to watch – the kind of pitcher who knows how to grab the ball and find a way to win. So in honor of my grandfather, I salute Tim Hudson today. You’ve got to have players out there who work extra hard on the fundamentals, and who never give in to the opponent. Without them, it’s not really a game worth watching. At least that’s what my grandfather told my brother and me. We listened to him closely, and still hear his commentary today, from the ballfield all the way to the icebox.

Heroes

We kept the Ken Burns Baseball documentaries running throughout the day, at a low volume in the corner of the room. We wanted him to surround him with the things he loved. He was dying from cancer, and we had been called to his beside. As his body slowed down, we sat beside him. A man of muscle and mobility for 88 years, it was time.

My brother, mother and I took turns holding his hand, and were joined at different times by his sisters and my father as well. We whispered words of love to him as he stared ahead, preparing for the journey. He could no longer communicate with us, but every once in awhile he reached upward with his left arm. The hospice nurse saw him do this, and said, “I see it all the time. He’s ready.”

His name was Warren Mueller, and he lived a helluva life. He took on a number of roles in those 88 years: pro ballplayer, husband, father, businessman, alcoholic, son, brother, recovering alcoholic, caretaker to a diabetic wife, leader in local Alcoholics Anonymous rooms, grandfather, and great-grandfather. He made amends with those he had hurt, offered valuable advice to those he met in the rooms, and shared his life story with his grandsons.

He’d talk with you about most anything – sports, your job or schoolwork, the neighbors in his senior-apartment complex, the news, and – his favorite topic of all - the money he’d saved at Pathmark this week through coupons. He’d offer words of advice, but wouldn’t badger you with suggestions. He’d joke freely, and he gave everyone he loved a disparaging nickname. I was Charlie Brown, he said, because I couldn’t do anything right. Somehow, this was related to me in a way that exuded warmth and compassion.

His heart stopped beating shortly after dinnertime, just when his favorite prime-time shows would be starting. He didn’t need the shows anymore, or the baseball documentaries. He was doing fine.

It was two years ago today. I can close my eyes and still see him twirling the temples of his plastic eyeglasses in his hand, and I can still hear the high-pitched wheeze of his laugh, or the sing-songy way he answered the phone. I tell my daughters about him all the time. Heroes don’t need to be famous.

She's Got an Arm

He was the best left-handed pitcher on Staten Island, N.Y., during a time when that meant something. And now, more than 60 years later, his great-granddaughter was learning that she had inherited his gene pool. For the man’s grandson and the girl’s father, this was a day to remember.

My grandfather, Warren Mueller, pitched on the minor-league level, for the Hartford (Conn.) Senators/Laurels, in 1944-45. He amassed a 22-6 record during his two years of minor-league ball, and his Hartford team was recently listed on www.minorleaguebaseball.com as one of the top 100 minor-league clubs of all time. But in the spring of 1945, Warren left this team in the Boston Braves organization as World War II was ending. His concern was this: If he failed to make it to the big leagues, there would be very few jobs available at home due to the large numbers of soldiers heading back.

So, playing it safe, he returned to Staten Island, where he became the premier semi-pro pitcher of his time and place. In this era before television, the locals would flock to see well-played baseball games in their hometowns. And in this time before all the organized adult softball, basketball and soccer leagues surfaced, those men who wanted to play a sport beyond their school years knew that baseball was the game. This was a time when companies would hire excellent ballplayers to work for them during the week, just so long as these athletes also played on the semi-pro ballclubs. More wins for the teams meant better advertising for the companies. Later on in his career, when my grandfather owned his own business, he sponsored one such semi-pro team of his own.

By the time I was born, Warren Mueller’s ball-playing days were long gone. But whenever he’d introduce me to other men his age, these gentlemen would tell me stories of how great a pitcher my grandfather had been. While Warren remained humble about his accomplishments, he shared his passion for the game with my brother and with me. He also came to nearly every organized game we ever played. When both of us became pitchers, Warren was there behind home plate, hollering out encouragement that was always helpful and never pushy. When our playing days ended after high school, we’d watch Yankee games with him and my grandmother on TV and talk about the state of baseball today.

My grandfather died a year and a half ago. But before he passed, he had the chance to know my two daughters – his great-grandchildren. He loved them with all his heart, and when he died I asked him to watch over the girls. I didn’t realize that he had already given the oldest one some of the magic in that left arm of his.

Katie, who is 6, played on a tee-ball softball team this year. She had a lot of fun running the bases, swinging the aluminum bat, and fielding ground balls. But the thing she liked doing the most was throwing. She’d point her right glove arm forward, step with the right foot, and whip her left arm over her head, releasing the stitched softball and sending it on a line, right over her teammate’s head.

Her coach approached me. “Your daughter has an arm,” he said. I nodded, and smiled. He suggested she attend a pitching camp in a couple of years. When Katie overheard me relating this to my wife and parents, she started throwing the ball even farther.

My grandfather wasn’t sitting in a lawn chair on this day, like he did when I was playing. No, this time he had an even better seat. And I know he was enjoying every moment of it. As for me, I tipped my cap to him, aware that he had more than a little to do with those fastballs Katie was throwing.