A lot of guys go, 'Hey, Yog, say a Yogi-ism.' I tell 'em, 'I

Hear the humble and paradoxical words of Yogi Berra, the great ballplayer whose sayings became as legendary as his victories: “A lot of guys go, ‘Hey, Yog, say a Yogi-ism.’ I tell ’em, ‘I don’t know any.’ They want me to make one up. I don’t make ’em up. I don’t even know when I say it. They’re the truth. And it is the truth. I don’t know.” In these words lies not only humor but an ancient kind of wisdom—the wisdom of the simple heart, the man who speaks without craft, and in so doing, uncovers truth that the scholars themselves might overlook.

For what is a Yogi-ism but a phrase that seems tangled at first, yet when pondered, reveals clarity? It is the riddle of a sage disguised as the jest of an athlete. Berra reminds us that he did not forge these sayings with intention; they flowed naturally, like water from a spring. In this, we see the eternal principle: often the deepest truths are not labored over, but spoken innocently, without design. The speaker himself may not even know the weight of what he has said, yet those with ears to hear recognize its power.

The ancients told of oracles who spoke in riddles. Their words seemed strange, sometimes nonsensical, but when tested by events, their meaning became clear. Yogi Berra, though a man of baseball and not of temples, lived this same mystery. His sayings—“It ain’t over till it’s over,” or “You can observe a lot by just watching”—at first sound like folly, but they are truths dressed in simplicity. They endure because they strike at realities that govern life, whether on the field or in the soul.

Consider the story of Diogenes the Cynic, who wandered with his lantern in search of an honest man. He spoke in blunt and puzzling phrases, mocking the grandeur of philosophers and kings. Yet in his jests lay sharp truths that cut deeper than the polished speeches of the powerful. Yogi Berra, in his unpolished way, echoes that ancient lineage: the fool who is no fool, the jester whose words carry wisdom greater than he himself claims to know.

Berra himself insists: “I don’t make ’em up… They’re the truth.” Here is his genius. He recognizes that truth is not always born of planning or effort; sometimes it arrives unbidden, flowing from a man’s lips without thought. The conscious mind may not grasp it, but the subconscious, tied more closely to reality, speaks it aloud. In this way, Berra stands as a reminder that wisdom is not the sole property of the learned. Sometimes the most profound insights come from those who never sought to sound wise at all.

The lesson for us is clear: do not despise simplicity. Do not think that only complex theories or eloquent speeches carry weight. Listen carefully, even to the offhand remark, even to the jest. Truth may hide in the humblest of words, waiting for you to hear it. And when you yourself speak, do not always labor to sound profound. Speak honestly, and let your words flow. In that honesty, without pretense, you may find you have spoken more wisdom than you know.

Therefore, let us treasure the sayings of Yogi Berra not as jokes alone, but as fragments of eternal truth clothed in laughter. Let us honor the unplanned wisdom that arises in our own lives, when the heart speaks before the mind has time to calculate. And let us remember: sometimes, by saying “I don’t know,” a man shows that he knows more than all the world suspects. For the truth, once spoken, does not ask the speaker’s permission to endure—it endures because it is truth.