I was not old enough to fully appreciate Yogi Berra, the New York Yankees catcher, who died last night at age 90.

He was a really, really good player for about a decade, from 1948 to 1958, and he was named MVP three times during that span, but I wasn’t really paying attention until the 1960s.

By 1963, when the Dodgers swept Berra’s Yankees to win the World Series, I was paying close attention — but Yogi was no longer relevant. He had lost the catching job to Elston Howard and if he got in the lineup it was as a corner outfielder. In that 1963 World Series, he got one at-bat.

It is quite likely, thinking back, that I was aware of Yogi Bear before I was aware of Yogi Berra — whose name was the inspiration for the Hanna-Barbera cartoon bear, circa 1961.

I regularly watched Hanna-Barbera stuff, and I knew all about Yogi’s antics in Jellystone Park. I imagine I was a bit confused, when I found out about this old ballplayer, and wondered why he had a name so similar to that of the cartoon bear.

But those who were born in, say, the 1940s (or earlier) would have known Yogi Berra instantly. The short, squat, homely, almost misshapen catcher who was the soul of the New York Yankees during their run of 10 World Series championships from 1947 through 1962.

Those of us without the benefit of greater years came to know the post-ballplayer Yogi who became famous for malapropisms — which is not quite fair, cosmically, considering no less an authority than baseball historian Bill James ranks Yogi the greatest catcher in baseball history.

As for those malaprops, or tautologies, as some call them …

Yogi was not a well-educated man. He dropped out of school after eighth grade to help earn money for his family, in St. Louis. He also played catcher. He may have been hit in the head a time or five.

That might explain why some of his syntax was more than a bit fractured. And how he could say things that made little or no sense, literally. Even as we all knew what he meant.

Take for example, his response to whether he would go to a certain restaurant in St. Louis. “Nobody goes there anymore; it’s too crowded.”

Nonsensical. A contradiction in terms. But we know exactly what he meant. Nobody among people he knew, those who had been there before the resto was popular, went there any longer. Of course.

As his career wound down, and then shifted into the dugout as a coach and manager, the list of “Yogi-isms” became ever longer.

A curious aspect of this? Yogi apparently was not a funny man. I’m not sure he had a sense of humor.

I remember sitting in a dugout with Yogi the manager, probably in 1984, in Anaheim. I expected him to give us a Yogi-ism at any moment. He did not. Nothing close to one. Actually, he seemed like one of the dullest people I had been around. That might have been a function of dealing with the New York media … but it felt like he just didn’t have much to say.

But if you gave him long enough, he came up with interesting stuff … unless he got help from sports writers (which is a subject of debate).

Herewith, a batch of Yogi-isms.

Giving directions: “When you get to the fork in the road, take it.”

Why he had a pizza cut into four pieces: “Because I’m not hungry enough for six.”

On not giving up: “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

On how events sometime seem to repeat themselves: “It’s deja vu all over again.”

On baseball attendance: “If people don’t come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?”

On pre-game rest: “I usually take a two-hour nap from 1 to 4.”

On battling shadows in left field in Yankee Stadium: “It gets late early out there.”

On fan mail: “Never answer an anonymous letter.”

On what time it was: “You mean now?”

On a training drill: “Pair off in threes.”

On the game of baseball: “Baseball is 90 percent mental; the other half is physical.”

On funerals: “Always go to other people’s funerals. Otherwise, they won’t go to yours.”

On learning: “You can observe a lot by watching.”

On the fractured syntax attributed to him. “I really didn’t say everything I said.”

Now, this stuff makes Yogi lovable. A couple of Britons I work with at The National, guys who have no interest in baseball, were talking about some of Berra’s lines and having fun with them.

One asked the two Americans in the department: “Why am I just now finding out about this guy? I think he might have been the greatest human on the planet.”

Anyway, it is strange, that he seems best-remembered now for what he did or didn’t say … when he may well have been the greatest catcher in baseball history.

At the end, Yogi didn’t seem to mind.