Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra

The greatest catcher that ever lived -- MLB Hall of Fame catcher; All-Star for FIFTEEN CONSECUTIVE SEASONS, 18 total. Three-time AL MVP. Thirteen World Series rings. Successful MLB manager as well; a thrilling, muscular artist with a genius for misexpressing himself -- via the New York Times. It was all so long ago that it's difficult to remember that before Yogi was a character he was a giant, the linchpin and creative intelligence of the Dreamtime Yankees. This was combined with great physical strength, and throwing and hitting accuracy. (Did the man have a flaw? Sure. He was not what you might call a stellar baserunner.) He could think, though his verbal parabolas and Bronx/Zen philosophy belie it (he sounded like a New Yorker, but he grew up in St. Louis). Above all, to us he was just a regular guy -- that nutty guy at the end of the bar, the guy you hung out with during lunch at work. I saw him from far away, always, or through a TV screen. When she was a kid, my wife sat on his lap. God bless you, Yogi. "Dear Mr. President: He was out." "I never saw nobody hit one with his face." "If fans don't come out to the ballpark, you can't stop them." I tearfully told my son. "Who killed him?" he asked. "God," I said. Evidently that was the only one who could deter #8.