Remembering Yogi Berra

September 23, 2015

This morning, I read about the death of Yogi Berra. With his passing, some of my fondest memories of childhood returned.

I didn’t know of him when my father took me to my first baseball game in 1970. The San Diego Padres were hosting the New York Mets, and I was 10 years old. I don’t recall the game or who he was, but Yogi Berra’s was the first autograph I collected.

My parents had separated before they divorced, and my father taking me to the game was an unusual treat. My mom found an old glove in the garage and gave it to me to take with me since that’s what mothers did for their sons back then.

We got to the game early and were walking in the parking lot past the team bus as players were getting off. My dad saw other kids gathering and asked me if I wanted to stop and get an autograph. I don’t recall if I fully understood what an autograph was, but I said, “ok”.

I handed the glove and pen to one of the last people on the bus. After that, they were gone. One signature was all I had. My dad tried to read the name as we walked into the stadium but could not make out the signature. It didn’t match any of the players on the roster.

When I got home, I told my mom that I got an autograph from one of the players. She said it was too bad I couldn’t get Yogi Berra’s autograph. At first, I thought she was kidding.

“Yogi Bear?” I asked. “No. Yogi Berra,” she said. “He’s a coach for the Mets and was a famous player once.”

I handed her the glove to see if she could read it, and she spotted it right away. “You did get Yogi Berra!”

She proceeded to tell me a few things about him, and I realized that having his autograph was really cool. I suspect she knew then that an old glove might take up too much space or wear away over time, and she asked if I wanted to go back the next night and get his signature on paper.

Of course, I did. I was hooked.

Yogi Berra’s autograph was the first (and second) in a long line of signatures of sporting figures I collected in my youth. My new hobby also gave a recently divorced mother something to do with her adolescent son.

Getting an autograph was an inexpensive and easy hobby to have in the early 70s. One simply stood in the parking lot when the players were exiting or boarding the bus or handed pen and paper into the dugout before the game started. I never paid a dime for a signature.

I might have had only a few seconds with a famous athlete, but I’d have their autograph forever.

It was a simple yet intoxicating formula.

If one autograph from a great player was good, two from them were better. I’d sometimes give duplicates to my friend at school.

At times I’d glean something really cool during those few seconds while a person was signing.

Ernie Banks had a great memory. After the end of one game, I asked for his autograph as he was boarding the bus. “No, I gave you one earlier today when I got off the bus,” Banks said.

Wow, he remembered. The next day as he was getting off the bus I asked again, along with a throng of other kids. “No, I gave you one yesterday when I got here,” Banks said. OK, got it.

Dave Winfield had a slight ego. Another kid and I were at the old San Diego Stadium for batting practice on opening day in Winfield’s rookie year.

He walked out of the dugout and turned to us as we called for him to sign. He then said one of us was going to be the first person to receive his autograph as a major league ballplayer in uniform. Lucky me.

John Wooden was truly a wizard.

During the few years I collected autographs, I never saw such order as when Wooden came into the tunnel of the San Diego Sports arena for a practice session when UCLA was playing in the Final Four.

The usual throng of kids surrounded Wooden with pens and paper. He raised his hands and said, “I’ll sign autographs but we need to have some order, please.”

He pointed to a couple of kids and said, “Let’s form a line. You’re first, you’re second, and everyone else fall in behind them.”

In 10 seconds there was a line of kids silently waiting for their turn.

It was Joe DiMaggio who encouraged me to be more assertive when asking for an autograph.

During an Old-Timers’ Game, I peered into the dugout and asked, “Mr. DiMaggio. May I please ... have your autograph?”

DiMaggio responded: “Sure, but can you ask a little rougher?”

Three years later that assertiveness paid off and yielded what I considered my crown jewel at the time.

My mother and I were going on vacation in July of 1973, which meant I’d miss the annual Old-Timers’ Game.

I was 13 and devastated.

During every game I attended that summer, I’d hear the public address announcer call out another famous player that had been added to the line-up for the Old-Timers’ Game. Those names were like darts sailing straight to my heart.

Except for one: Ed Runge.

Runge was a former major league umpire who was living in San Diego after retiring. One night, I heard he was going to be at the game and realized he might just be my ticket to salvation.

When I got home, I checked the phone book. Sure enough, his name was there. The next day I dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Ed Runge, the former major league umpire?” “Yes it is, may I ask who is calling?”

“My name is Mike Zacchino. I’m 13 years old and was hoping I could ask a favor of you.”

“Well, maybe. What’s the favor?”

“I have been collecting autographs at the Old-Timers’ Games every year but can’t make it this year and was wondering if you might get some autographs for me if I gave you a pad and pen.”

As I read these words, I cringe at the audacity I once had, but he must have found it charming because he laughed and said yes. He told me he’d take care of it and to just call him when I returned.

Relieved, I went to Europe.

A few weeks later, his wife delivered a baseball between innings of a game we were attending. There were only five names on the baseball, and none were autographs I already had.

Whitey Ford. Don Larsen. Stan Musial. Dizzy Dean. Lefty Grove.

I mostly stopped collecting autographs, sometime before graduating from high school, though I did take the opportunity to have a baseball signed by members of the San Diego Padres when they reached the playoffs for the first time in 1984. Those were the last.

At the time, my prudent mother told me to hold on to my autographs and not get rid of them because they would be valuable someday. She locked them away for me when I moved, and I retrieved them from her cedar chest after she passed away.

This morning, I looked at the program from that first game, when the ticket price was $3.50. A season ticket then cost less than a three-game homestand today.

Back then, on “Bat Night”, they handed out 30-inch baseball bats to every kid under the age of 14, and people were allowed to bring in cans and bottles of soda. (I once saw a woman break a bottle over some loudmouth’s head, which may have been the start of banning such convenience.)

I once treasured that baseball and those photo albums of names inscribed on 3x5 inch sheets of paper because they were links to famous athletes. Now, I treasure fond memories of the kindness of strangers and a time when autographs were free.

And I’ll always have a special place in my heart for that glove signed, “Yogi Berra.”