LITTLE FALLS, N.J. — Yogi would have loved this.
Hundreds of people, young, old and wearing matching commemorative T-shirts, just finished dancing the “YMCA” on the field at Yogi Berra Stadium at Montclair State University. Little League teams, former MLB players and local politicians laugh and clutch their gloves as volunteers hand out souvenir baseballs. Yankees organist Ed Alstrom plays “Charge!” from a stage in center field, and the crowd responds on cue.
“Yogi loved bringing people together,” says Yankees great Willie Randolph, who played for Berra from 1976 to 1988 and later coached the Yankees and managed the Mets. “He made everyone feel like they’re family. He would have been ecstatic. I think he’s looking down on this field and is so proud.”
They have all come here on a Sunday afternoon, from as far away as California and Florida, to celebrate a man who treated every interaction much like a game of catch. Berra cared as much about what he tossed into a conversation as how he received what was thrown his way. So, what better way to honor him than by playing the biggest game of catch? Ever.
The current record is 972 pairs, set eight years ago in Illinois. On its face, breaking the Guinness World Record for the largest game of catch sounds simple: Gather a couple thousand people, pair them up and ask them to toss baseballs back and forth for five minutes. Doing it, however, is anything but easy.
When Eve Schaenen, the executive director of the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center at Montclair State, approached Guinness with the idea, adjudicator Michael Empric, who is overseeing the day’s process, told her that many mass-attendance record attempts fail.
“That’s part of why we wanted to do this,” Schaenen says. “There are stakes. Yogi played a game where you could strike out. You could lose. That doesn’t mean you don’t try. He was told he couldn’t so many times and look at what remarkable things he did with his life.”
Berra was born 100 years ago and died before many of the kids gathered here were born. He made his MLB debut in 1946, retired as a player in 1965 and stopped coaching in 1989. Yet, everyone here on this day has a story about a time they were touched by his life. Berra connected deeply with people. It didn’t matter if he was talking to a teammate, a waiter, the president or his postman. With Berra, everyone got the same guy.
That this record attempt is taking place one day before the anniversary of his death (and his MLB debut) on Sept. 22 might have elicited him to create one of his popular Yogi-isms. “Well,” he might have said, “we’re a day early, but right on time.”
TO BASEBALL FANS, Yogi Berra is a legend. An MLB Hall of Famer. A man who played in 75 World Series games and won 10 rings — both records unlikely to be broken — and was one of the best “bad ball” hitters in history. The image of Berra leaping into the arms of Yankees pitcher Don Larsen after calling the only perfect game in World Series history in 1956 is indelible in the minds of baseball fans.
“All Yankees fans are Yogi fans,” says Paul Semendinger, a retired principal and adjunct professor at Ramapo College in Mahwah, New Jersey. He is wearing a replica 1939 Lou Gehrig Yankees jersey. “But you can be a Yogi fan without being a Yankees fan.”
Case in point: Semendinger, 57, is here with his 26-year-old son, Ethan, and 87-year-old dad, Paul Sr., “the world’s biggest Ted Williams fan.” (Paul Sr. is wearing a Red Sox jersey.) “You could root for Yogi even if you’re not a fan of his team,” Paul Sr. says, “because he was a good person.”
Semendinger and his son run a Yankees blog and play on a softball team together. He and his dad still meet up a few times a year to play catch in the backyard. “For 87, he still throws a pretty good knuckleball,” Semendinger says.
When Josh Rawitch, the president of the Baseball Hall of Fame, was 10, he sent Berra a baseball card from his home in Los Angeles and asked him to sign it. “It came back with his signature in this perfect penmanship,” Rawitch says. “I was a big fan of baseball history and although I was a Dodgers fan, he was Yogi Berra.” Over the years, Rawitch met Berra multiple times and became a fan of him as a man. “For someone with 10 rings, he never took himself too seriously,” he says. “He had such humility.”
Rawitch is here to display Berra’s Hall of Fame plaque, which a museum employee drove nearly 200 miles from Cooperstown, New York, to Little Falls on Saturday. It’s the first time the plaque has left the Hall since Berra was inducted in 1972.
“It’s rare that we do this,” Rawitch says. “But we knew we wanted to be a part of something so special.”
Anthony “Uncle Tony” Stinger turned 90 this year. He was in the right-field grandstands at Yankee Stadium on Sept. 22, 1946, when Berra made his MLB debut. “It was a Sunday, the second game of a doubleheader against Philadelphia,” Stinger says. “I took the 4 train from Harlem to the stadium, and the Yankees called Yogi up that day. He could hit anything, even a ball a foot off the ground. They didn’t know how to pitch to him.”
Stinger has lived in the Bronx for 53 years and came here with his nieces. Although he’s only spectating, he says he wouldn’t have missed this event for the world. “Yogi would be amazed,” he says, looking around the stadium.
TO MANY, BERRA was a war hero. The St. Louis native signed with the Yankees in 1943 but delayed his MLB career to enlist in the Navy on his 18th birthday and served as a gunner’s mate in World War II. He provided cover from a rocket boat for the troops who landed on Omaha Beach during the D-Day invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944. He was wounded by enemy fire and earned a Purple Heart, although he famously never received the medal because he didn’t fill out the paperwork. He didn’t want his mother to worry.
Daniel Joseph Clair joined the Marines in 1966 and earned a Purple Heart for his service in Vietnam. He’s here to play catch with his wife, a lifelong Yankees fan. “I met Yogi outside the stadium once,” Clair says. “He took the time to talk to me before he got on the bus.”
To many of the players he coached, Berra was a lifetime friend and confidant.
“I’m getting goose bumps talking about him,” Randolph says, rubbing his arms. “Some of my best memories as a young manager are sitting in my office before games and talking baseball with Yogi. When I think about being the first African American manager in New York history, which I am very proud of, Yogi was very instrumental in that. He taught me so much. I miss him every day.”
Two months after his death, Berra was awarded a posthumous Presidential Medal of Freedom for his military service as well as his civil rights and educational activism, although he would balk at being called an activist. He would say he was just treating people equally, as he would want to be treated.
Berra grew up on The Hill, a heavily Italian area of St. Louis, and later faced prejudice and ridicule for being Italian and not looking like a typical ballplayer. Throughout his life, whether by crossing racial lines or through his work with Athlete Ally on LGBTQ equality — an organization he joined in his 80s — he wasn’t trying to set an example, yet time and again, he did.
Berra befriended Jackie Robinson in 1946 when they played on opposing teams in the International League. The next year, Robinson broke MLB’s color barrier. Before games, Berra would walk across the field at Yankee Stadium to find Robinson and chat with his friend. “I don’t think he was doing it to make a statement, but 60,000 people saw him talking to Jackie,” Berra’s eldest granddaughter, Lindsay Berra, says. “This was 18 years before the Civil Rights Act. He was making a comment, whether he knew it or not.”
When Elston Howard became the Yankees’ first Black player in 1955, Berra began grooming him as his replacement behind the plate. During spring training in segregated Florida, Howard couldn’t ride on the same bus, eat in the same restaurants or stay in the same hotels as his white teammates. So, Berra often joined him at his.
TO PEOPLE WHO never watched baseball, Berra was a cultural phenomenon, a “Jeopardy!” answer, a man they quoted sometimes without knowing who they were quoting.
It ain’t over ’til it’s over.
It’s dĂ©jĂ vu all over again.
You can observe a lot by watching.
If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.
Berra was the personification of a cartoon bear, a Yoo-hoo pitchman and, as Wynton Marsalis once said while touring the museum, “the Thelonious Monk of baseball.” He was world famous and as recognizable as any figure in sports, yet he was also the guy his three sons would find downstairs in the mornings having coffee with the postman, garbage man and a few of Montclair’s finest.
Tommy Corizzi is too young to have seen Berra play or coach. In fact, he was born just one year before Berra died. He’s here with his “pop pop,” Tom Corizzi, who loved the idea of spending a Sunday afternoon connecting with his grandson and his favorite team. “Yogi was cool,” Tommy, 11, says. “I want to be in the world record book with him.”
Thirteen-year-old Jake Esarey Elmgart is here with his baseball team. He donated the $2,500 he raised for his bar mitzvah project to this event to help pay for kids with special needs to attend.
Just last week, a local woman handed Lindsay a letter she said she found in a drawer recently. The woman’s son, now in his 30s, wrote the letter to Berra in 2000 — 35 years after he retired — but never sent it. “You were in your car and while you were driving, you pointed at me and put your thumb up,” Justin LaMarca, then 8, wrote in pencil and in cursive. “I yelled to you and said you are my favorite player in the world.”
TO ME, BERRA was my best friend’s grandpa.
I met Lindsay in 2002 when I joined the staff at ESPN The Magazine in New York City, where she worked at the time. We became fast friends. Her family became mine in the way that happens when you live far from your own. Grammy Carmen was chic and sentimental. Grampa Yogi was funny and grumpy and warm and honest, and I think of them every Christmas when I hang the oversized red ceramic ornament they bought for me at New York’s 21 Club. Or at Halloween, because they always answered the door for trick-or-treaters in the same costumes: Grammy Carmen as an adorable witch and Grampa Yogi as Yogi Berra.
A half hour before the record attempt, I’m standing outside the museum with my dad, Fred. We came here in May 2012 to celebrate Berra’s 87th birthday. We toured the museum and watched the Yankees beat the Mariners from a party suite at Yankee Stadium. My dad remembers watching Grampa Yogi interact with fans and former players, singing him “Happy Birthday” and eating pieces of a pinstriped cake.
The previous night, my dad watched a few innings of a game with him in Berra’s living room. “Here’s your chance to ask him anything,” I told him.
My dad was 12 when Berra retired as a player. He grew up on a Belgian horse farm outside of Pittsburgh and never had the chance to see him play in person. He had few opportunities to watch him play on TV because the networks carried only local games back then, plus the Game of the Week on Saturdays. He does, however, remember watching the Pirates beat the Yankees in Game 7 of the 1960 World Series. “I was 7,” he says. “I’m not sure if I remember it as much as I remember the photo of Yogi standing in left field watching Bill Mazeroski’s homer go over the fence. That’s an iconic Pittsburgh picture.”
At the top of the ninth inning in that shocking game (if you’re a Yankees fan), Berra hit a grounder to tie the score 9-9. Then, in the bottom of the ninth, Mazeroski hit a walk-off homer to seal the series for the Pirates. “Yogi said the worst day of his life was watching the ball go over the fence at Forbes Field,” my dad says. (I did tell him to ask the man anything.) “Imagine all he’d experienced in his life, and he said that was his worst day.”
Grampa Yogi died three years after that visit. That weekend was one of many times I watched my best friend share her grandpa with the world. Lindsay had watched her grandmother do so graciously throughout her life, listening with care as people told her how much they loved her husband. But Lindsay didn’t understand how people who had met her grandfather for only a moment, if at all, could feel the same kind of love toward him that she did. After his death, as tributes poured in from around the world, she realized that though their love might not be the same as hers, it is just as real. And it is flowing through this stadium now.
I’M STANDING ON the field precisely 3 meters across from my dad, a baseball glove on my left hand. My dad tosses a baseball my way. I catch it and look around. Baseballs are flying everywhere. People are laughing and dancing and dropping balls. We’re all singing along to John Fogerty’s “Centerfield.”
There’s a mystical quality to the relationship that develops between the two people on either end of a game of catch, and it’s happening for all of us now. Maybe it’s how attuned we’ve become to each other, to subtle shifts in our partner’s body position and the message those movements communicate. I’m ready. Send it my way. Maybe it’s the meditative rhythm of the back-and-forth and how quickly the world narrows to the space between us. Or maybe it’s as simple as the eye contact and focus the act requires.
My dad doesn’t remember the first time we played catch together. I don’t, either. But being here on this day, tossing a baseball methodically with him, I’m transported to a Little League field in Cape Coral, Florida. I am 11, wearing an oversized blue Expos jersey and stirrup socks, and warming up with him before a playoff game. The last time we played catch, I was likely in high school and playing shortstop for the CCHS Seahawks.
Lindsay is playing catch with her boyfriend, Peter, surrounded by her family. She remembers the first time she played catch with her grandpa. “My earliest memories are playing wiffle ball in the front yard at holidays,” she says. “Uncle Dale had broken a window at a neighbor’s house, so we played with something safer.” The real baseballs came out when her grandfather was asked to throw out a first pitch. “He’d call each of the grandkids until someone was available to come up to the house and play catch with him,” Lindsay says. “He didn’t want to embarrass himself on the mound.”
When Berra’s boys were young, he was coaching and away from home during baseball season, so they never had the chance to play catch with their dad. Dale says that while Berra loved to toss the football or shoot baskets with him and his brothers, he believes his dad never wanted them to feel pressure to play baseball. “When I signed with the Mets in 1972, I warmed up with him during spring training,” Larry says. “That’s the only memory I have of playing catch with my dad. But I feel him today.”
Larry is playing catch with his son, Andrew. While Empric watches from the stage, volunteers walk the neatly spaced rows of participants looking for rule breakers: people who are on their phones, rolling the ball rather than throwing it or too young to meet the cutoff (age 7). When the five-minute clock runs out, everyone hoots and cheers and high-fives.
“If Dad were here, he’d probably ask, ‘Why would all these people do this? They don’t have to be here,'” Larry says. “He never understood the impact he had on people just by saying hello, by waving, by inviting them in for coffee. He always said, ‘I just played baseball.’ He never understood the aura he created.”
After several excruciating minutes, Empric walks to the podium to deliver the result. “I can now announce that today … in Little Falls … New Jersey … USA … you had a total of … 1,179 pairs,” he says, and hands Schaenen an oversized plaque, which she thrusts into the air. The crowd erupts. “It’s a new Guinness World Record,” Empric says. “Congratulations! You are officially amazing.”
For a while, no one moves. For nearly an hour, many people stay on the field and soak up the magic flowing between the baselines. Some continue to play catch, others chat with the people they stood next to during the attempt. This is what today was all about. Yogi was many things to many people, and today, he brought us all together.
