Let's set the record straight. It was nor Yogi Berra who said, "Ninety percent of this game is half-mental." That gem came from a ballplayer named Jim Wohlford, who played outfield and cracked wise for the Kansas City Royals in the 1970s. Furthermore, I challenge anybody on the St. Louis side of my home state to produce proof that Mark Twain ever described golf as "a good walk spoiled." I'm not saying he didn't, but you'll have to show me. � You see, in Missouri it's not our attributes that set us apart—it's our attributions. Harry Truman set the tone with "The buck stops here" and "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," and the knack for plain speaking and homespun wisdom percolated down to the ballparks and arenas. Harry Caray, play-by-play man for the baseball Cardinals from 1945 through '69, first shouted "Holy cow!" into a microphone in St. Louis. Norm Stewart, basketball coach for 32 years at the University of Missouri, said, "We're shooting 100 percent—60 percent from the field and 40 percent from the free throw line." Dizzy Dean, the Cardinals' pitching ace turned announcer, livened the lexicon with phrases like "he slud into third" and "it's not bragging if you can back it up." Longtime Kansas City Chiefs coach Hank Stram described his well-schooled offense "matriculating the ball down the field."
Pinch an athlete from Missouri and he'll say something more colorful than "ouch." Our best talker, the corn-belt Confucius, was the great Negro leagues pitcher Leroy (Satchel) Paige. "Don't pray when it rains if you don't pray when the sun shines," said Paige, who lived most of his life in Kansas City. "Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like nobody's watching."
I can't explain why Missouri produces so many sportsmen with enduring voices. In competition we have won no more than our share over the last 50 years—a Super Bowl each for the Len Dawson (and Stram) Chiefs and the Kurt Warner Rams; a World Series for the George Brett Royals, two for the Bob Gibson Cardinals and one for the Ozzie Smith Cards; a single, glorious NBA title for the underappreciated St. Louis Hawks of Bob Pettit and Cliff Hagan; eight major golf championships for Kansas City's Tom Watson and three U.S. Open titles for Joplin's Hale Irwin. Not bad, but not the stuff of dynasties either.
Wire us for sound, however, and we speak for posterity. When Ken Burns aired his documentary Baseball in 1994, the healing voice that captivated America was that of Buck O'Neil, the Negro leagues star and former manager of the Kansas City Monarchs.
What is the source of our loquaciousness? Certainly, a river runs through it—the Missouri, which veers east at Kansas City and works in serpentine curves until it reaches the Mississippi, a few miles north of the world's biggest croquet wicket. Most of the state's population lives in this brown-water corridor, and while there is hardly a Missourian alive who has dipped a toe into the Big Muddy, we have at least read our Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. ("The most enjoyable of all races is a steamboat race," Twain wrote. "This is a sport that makes a body's very liver curl with enjoyment.") There is a farm-town influence, as well, descended from the Bootheel boys and Gallatin girls in pickup trucks who listened on muggy nights to the play-by-play of Jack Buck, Denny Matthews or Fred White on frequencies crackling with summer lightning.
Or maybe the source is the Hill, the old Italian neighborhood in St. Louis where Berra and his friend Joe Garagiola grew up. Yogi was the na�f and Joe the shill, and what they offered was enlightenment disguised as malaprop. "It ain't over till it's over," Berra said. "A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore.... This is like d�j� vu all over again...."
In the final analysis we Missourians know that, win or lose, your words must endure. My favorite Berra story has his wife, Carmen, asking him where he wanted to be buried if he died before she did. Berra's answer: "Surprise me."
I'm 90% half-certain that Yogi meant to say Missouri.