French fries, home fries….” Yogi Berra counts off. “Scalloped. And mashed; my wife just yelled at me, tomorrow we’re gonna have mashed.”
The man has said so many memorable things; it makes sense that he can’t remember some of them. Thus, the ex-Yankee can recall attending a golf tournament in Fargo, N.Dak. last June and speaking of one of the area’s major crops—”I said, ‘Let me have a couple of bags.’ ” But he doesn’t recollect pronouncing the words that launched a thousand spuds: “I bet they don’t grow enough potatoes in North Dakota to cover my front lawn.”
It’s a little like arguing whether Gavrilo Princip really set off World War I when he shot Archduke Ferdinand. The fact is, six months later, there they were in front of Berra’s Montclair, N.J. home: 45,000 pounds of Norland Red potatoes, courtesy of the Red River Valley Potato Growers Association. (“No,” says an association representative. “Not the Red River Valley of song fame. That’s in Texas. We’re the Red River Valley of potato fame.”)
The Berras gave 41,000 pounds to charities in New Jersey and New York. Neighbors picked up another 2,500. But that still left some 1,500 pounds for Yogi.
Some guys never learn, though. Hey Yogi, looking forward to your new job as Houston Astros coach? “Oh, yeah.” They grow any potatoes in Houston? “That I don’t know. I know they got good chili there…. I love chili.”
You heard it here first.
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