A new billionaire on the block

THERE’S A new billionaire on the block. Actually, it’s . . . me. After a lifetime of failing at every imaginable investment, I finally hit upon an idea that worked.

Worked.

As in, big time.

As in, classical you can’t lose.

You know those ads on the radio that say you will never lose a penny of your principal regardless of whether the market goes up or down — and you don’t call. Of course you don’t call.

You know it’s a fake.

It’s impossible.

There’s no such thing as an absolutely failsafe investment.

Diversify your portfolio and all that.

Well, actually, there is such a thing.

There really is a failsafe investment, that is, unless death is going out of style.

Or, unless the world coming to an end, in which case I don’t need any investments anyway.

Permit me to explain.

AS I say, after a lifetime of turning riches to rags, of  having controlled the entire US economy by guaranteeing that it tanks the minute I invest in anything, I got so frustrated! I knew I had to think out of the box.

Let those IRAs, mutual funds, real estate investment trusts, stocks, blue chips, black chips, whatever chips — leave all that for the other people.

They know how to make them work. Or, apparently they do. Anyway, I don’t.

Do something different.

I decided: Death would be my risk-eliminator factor.

I mean, you can’t get more certain than death.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish anyone ill. I’m just observing the laws of life, as there’s nothing certain except death and taxes.

So here’s my strategy. Here’s what I did.

I BEGAN realize about five years ago that there was one famous person in American life whose reputation was sterling. Who was beloved. Who was a hero. And not just in the sports world.

Also in the literary world.

Here was truly a universally beloved figure.

He had something that would gain, would jump, would skyrocket, in value . . . once he died.

Here was a potential investment that was not only risk-free but return guaranteed. Past performance, on and off the field, was, yes, truly a guarantee of future returns.

Gigantic future returns.

His name was Yogi Berra.

He was about 85-years-old.

As I say, I wished him well. No question.

But hey, at 85, he clearly had less life to live than he’d already lived.

So here was my investment plan: Canvas the sports memorabilia world for signed, autographed balls by Yogi Berra.

Here was a guy in the Hall of Fame with nary a steroid nor an illegal bet to his name, a guy who’d been in more World Series games than anyone else, a guy who was the best catcher of his era, who was the sweetest guy off the field — and, as if all this were not enough, perhaps the only living American with eight (count ‘em up, eight) entries in Bartlett’s famous book of quotations.

As in, “a nickel ain’t worth a dime any more.”

Or as in, “you better go to other people’s funerals; otherwise, they won’t come to yours.”

I figured — really, how much figuring did it take? — that whatever an authentic, genuine, signed, autographed baseball by Yogi Berra would cost, it would jump — it would skyrocket — once he was called Home.

So slowly but surely I began to buy up autographed Yogi Berra baseballs.

Very slowly, at first.

I didn’t want anyone to think there was a run on the market. That would jack up the price now and probably kill the gain later.

So at first I only bought a ball or two at a time.

I wanted to test the tolerance level.

After a while I would order five balls at a time.

Gradually, very gradually, raising the number.

I didn’t want Yogi himself to catch on.

I’m not going to tell how much I paid for these balls, I’m not going to tell you how many I bought, and I’m not going to tell you how much they’re worth now — just as I predicted. Alas, last week, Yogi Berra, at age 90, slid into Home for the last time.

And I’m cashin’ in.

Yep, a new billionaire on the block.

Me.

*  *  *

WELL, SO, so sorry to say, as I’m sure you have figured out by now, this too was just another one of my hairbrained, guaranteed to fail, investment dreams.

Never happened.

Actually, five years ago, I did buy one autographed baseball by Yogi Berra.

One, only one crummy, measly, lousy autographed ball by Yogi.

I’ll tell you how much it cost: $85.

Last week, I didn’t even check how much it’s worth now that Yogi died.

Maybe, $85.01.

I don’t know.

I bought it for sentiment’s sake.

I loved Yogi, first because as a kid I was a Yankee fan. The Denver Bears (remember them?) were the AAA franchise of the Yankees; and a lot of the Yankee stars (though not Yogi) originally played in Denver. You couldn’t be a kid in Denver back in the 1950s and not be a Yankee fan when it was winning all those World Series, year after year.

I loved Yogi, second — actually, not second, but mostly — because of the beautiful fun he had with the English language. If any man was Everyman, showing that one could make a contribution with or without a formal education, with or without intention, with or without writing “the” book, it was Yogi Berra.

Always with a smile.

Always with a good heart.

Always with high professional standards.

Always as a mensch.

May he rest in peace.

Copyright © 2015 by the Intermountain Jewish News