By BOB KLAPISCH
BERGEN COUNTY RECORD COLUMNIST
Phil Rizzuto acknowledging Yankee fans at Old-Timers' Day in 1999. A staple at Yankee Stadium for more than 50 years, he appeared there less and less as his health declined. Rizzuto died Monday at age 89.
Three times a week, every week, Yogi Berra would make the drive from his home in Montclair to West Orange, where Phil Rizzuto called home. Pulling up to the gates of Green Hill, an assisted living facility, Berra knew his longtime friend and teammate had deteriorated rapidly. Rizzuto would often forget people's names, drift off in mid-sentence, and make his family yearn for the days when he was a limitless reservoir of laughs and love.
Still, Yogi's loyalty to Scooter never waned. He showed up at Green Hill without fail, walked into Rizzuto's apartment and started up another game of bingo. There they were, two Yankee legends, Hall of Famers both, speaking in the shorthand that only major-leaguers could appreciate. Every once in a while, like a time tunnel that had been magically activated, the old Rizzuto would awaken and fill up the room. Those were the good days; there were bad ones, too, especially in the last month. Yogi told a friend the other day, "I don't think Scooter is going to make it."
Maybe that explains why Berra took the news of Rizzuto's death so philosophically; he'd been preparing for it all during those bingo games. When the little Yankee shortstop and broadcaster took his final breath late Monday, dying of pneumonia at the age of 89, Yogi was ready with a simple but poignant eulogy.
"Great guy. Great friend," Yogi told reporters at the Stadium, echoing the sentiments of anyone who ever met him. To older fans, Rizzuto was the shortstop of the Yankees' greatest golden era, when they won five consecutive championships between 1949 and 1953. On a roster full of superstars, Rizzuto was Everyman, the 5-6, 160-pound squirt who made it possible to believe anyone could be a baseball player.
Actually, Rizzuto's legacy was about beating the odds. After a 1937 tryout with the Brooklyn Dodgers, then-manager Casey Stengel told Rizzuto to get a shoeshine box; he was too short to be a ballplayer.
After beginning his broadcasting career, Howard Cosell told Rizzuto he'd never succeed: He looked like George Burns and sounded like Groucho Marx.
And Cooperstown sent its rejection notice, too -- over four decades. But in 1994, the Veterans Committee finally honored Rizzuto, putting a bright light on a fine career.
From 1941 to 1956, Rizzuto anchored the Yankee infield, winning the American League Most Valuable Player award in 1950. He played in nine World Series and was on the winning side seven times. "Little Dago" they called him, a politically incorrect but affectionate nickname that actually honored Rizzuto. He was mini-me to Joe DiMaggio, who was known in those days as "Daig" and took Rizzuto under his wing.
In return, Rizzuto would address everyone by their last name. That, or "huckleberry." No first names, ever, except his wife, Cora, to whom he was eternally devoted. Indeed, there was something unique about the way Rizzuto interacted with the world. Maybe it was this simple: He loved everyone, and the feeling went both ways.
"I've never seen a big-name personality treat people as kindly as Phil did," said Yankee broadcaster Michael Kay. "He was like an uncle to all of us, and that's something you can't say about announcers anymore."
Indeed, Rizzuto's career in the TV booth, which began in 1958, was nearly as distinguished as his days in Yankee pinstripes. Scooter had a way of personalizing the game that was so old-fashioned and un-hip, it was impossible to dislike him. "Holy cow" was his signature call – and he meant it. Scooter was there when Roger Maris hit his 61st home run in 1961, when Chris Chambliss sent the Yankees to the World Series in 1976 with a pennant-clinching home run against the Royals, and when Ron Guidry struck out 18 Angels in 1978.
Holy cow. Who would dare say that on the air anymore. But from Rizzuto's lips, it was a measure of his honesty; he was a broadcaster without a gimmick. Scooter didn't hide his affection for the Yankees, openly rooting for them. Nor did he make a secret of his desire to be home before the last out, beating the traffic onto the George Washington Bridge by the ninth inning on his way home to Hillside.
Thing is, Scooter would tell viewers about it the next day; it was part of the ongoing dialogue about his life that made Yankee broadcasts as unpolished as they were irresistible.
"It was having a friend sitting in your living room talking about his favorite restaurant, his wife, his family, all the while he was commenting on the Yankee game," Kay said. "I don't know if that plays anymore. If Phil came into the business today, I'm not sure it would work. But everyone sure loved him."
Even his gaffes were ones for the ages. When the Yankees brought up outfielder Roberto Kelly, Rizzuto told Bill White, his partner in the booth, "I can't wait to see this new Irish kid." When Kelly, a dark-skinned Dominican, took the field, Rizzuto deadpanned, "Funny, he doesn't look Irish to me."
We all loved him, but no one did more than Yogi, who decided to move to New York at Rizzuto's urging in the Fifties. Together, they opened the Rizzuto-Berra Bowling Lanes in Clifton, where the co-owners filled a trophy case with all kinds of memorabilia. There were enough memories to last a lifetime, sort of like the Scooter's career. He last appeared in the booth in 1996, just as the Yankees were beginning a second golden era in the Bronx. Then, little by little, Rizzuto started fading away from the Yankee family, appearing less frequently at the Stadium.
It was soon obvious that Rizzuto was in declining health, no longer showing up at Old-Timers events. But through it all, Yogi was there, firing up another bingo game, accompanying his buddy through the final stages of his life. When Rizzuto finally passed on Tuesday, Yogi didn't need any long speeches. What he said was already on everyone's minds.
"They said Phil was too small to play baseball." Yogi said.
Larger than life, was more like it.
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