It’s easy. You let everyone else do the work. All you’ve got to do is show up, say a few words at the dinner, pose holding a large Styrofoam replica of a check estimating the charity’s take for the event, then leave in the limo the organization sent to pick you up.

That’s it. And you’ve won the day and the night. You were the big-draw celebrity, the one who made the difference between raising a few grand and a large bundle, the difference between mere friends and family support for the charity, and friends, family and corporate big-number donations.

They’re Monday golf charity outings, often held at country clubs. If the charity can attach a big name and the minimal presence of that star — call it “The Annual King Tut Celebrity Classic,” and have King Tut stop by to be photographed with the biggest givers — you’ve hit a home run.

And a good on you and King Tut.

I’ve played in and/or worked on hundreds of such golf outings, big, small, in between.

Yogi Berra allowed his name to be attached to such an annual event, at his club, Montclair, in New Jersey. It was to fund a Boy Scouts program for special needs kids, mostly poor kids and mostly with Down’s Syndrome, including kids in adulthood.

And all he had to do was show up at the Yogi Berra Celebrity Golf Classic. That would have been plenty good enough.

Twenty or so years ago, the first time I was invited – I’d offer rebates to my playing partners as the celebrity they’d never heard of – I arrived a few minutes early. I was directed to a side parking lot for “celebrities.”

When I pulled into “my spot” – geez, there was a sign with my name under a Boy Scouts logo! – there were some folks hammering in the parking signs, unfolding chairs and tables, shuttling boxes and golf clubs.

“Good morning,” I said to the man affixing signs close to my car.

He turned around. Yogi Berra.

He then thanked me – and I mean, he sounded as if I were doing him a big, personal favor – for attending. Wow. I hadn’t left the parking lot and I’d already won the tournament.

And my car was nearly as close to the entrance as the spot reserved for Mickey Mantle, though not as close as the one for Whitey Ford. Did Yogi choose to have the celebs park in alphabetical as opposed to celebrity order?

Throughout the day, Yogi, driving a golf cart, carried those impaired kids of all ages, all in their Scouts uniforms, around the course. He introduced them by name to the golfers. The kids had no idea who the man was who was driving them around, up and down. They only knew he’s a nice man and they were having a ball.

And that was yet another of Yogi’s unassigned obligations and pleasures.

At night, during the dinner, Yogi worked the overflow room and the patios, stopping at every table, shaking every hand, posing for pictures, signing autographs — and with one or two of those Boy Scouts at his side in case anyone needed reminding that this wasn’t about Yogi Berra.

By the end of that day and at ensuing Yogi Berra Golf Classics and then at the Yogi Museum – even nearing 90, Yogi would make sure to attend every Museum event he possibly could, to be the Museum and Learning Center’s genuine host, not just the attached name of a celebrity – I’d seen his light.

I’d never again think of Yogi Berra in terms of a Yankees great from my kid years and a man who said accidentally funny things. I thought of him as a man who wore his fame as well as fame can be worn.

And that Learning Center, opened on the Montclair State campus in 1998, immediately met the terms of its title. It was, and remains, a genuine learning center.

Yogi taught there for years. He taught his guests to know Yogi Berra, baseball immortal and shy speaker of slightly fractured common sense, as a shrugging, no-use-fighting-it, resigned-to-history victim of his caricature rather than his character. Because Yogi Berra, first, foremost and forever, was a gentleman.

It’s understandable and a bit unfair that Yogi Berra always will be known as Yogi, the pint-sized, extraordinary achievements catcher with the amusing, mildly detached view of our world. He even allowed his museum to draw upon his beloved persona with the reminder, “We’re open ‘til we’re closed.”

He was easily and steadily portrayed as someone who tried, but just missed, just didn’t get it. But he got it. He completely got it.

In 2001, Scott Horowitz, now an assistant principal at Jersey’s Lakewood High, then an English teacher at South Plainfield HS, brought his Sports Literature class — about 15 students — to the Yogi Museum.

“As we entered, who walks up? Yogi Berra,” Horowitz recalls. “He spent two hours with us explaining every artifact, cracking jokes and telling stories.

“When we left, he encouraged us to have lunch at the diner just down the hill. So we did. When we finished, the owner came over and said, ‘Yogi paid for this.’ A true gentleman.”

Odd, but in death his autograph on baseballs, baseball cards, bats and photos remain cherished keepsakes. Yet, as collectibles to be sold or resold for profit, his autograph, to those who know “the market,” is pretty close to flat.

I suspect that whether he knew there was a market for his autograph before such markets became markets, he flooded it. He signed so much so often — the only requirement was a polite request — it became a working reprise of his “No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded” postulate.

I don’t know if that’s what he had in mind as a matter of foresight or whether he signed everything for everyone because he was a gracious gentleman, but a few years ago while he signed autographs for those who’d attended a Museum seminar on sports writing, I told him I’d trade him two Yogi Berras for one Johnny Blanchard. He laughed. He got it, and, I think, got it beyond the joke.

One more: At the Yogi charity golf check-in, the celebs, all playing on the free, were given goodie bags with all sorts of neat stuff — shirts, a dozen balls, real Yankees caps. At the dinner the emcee would ask the celebs to stand to be recognized by name, then he’d declare, “We couldn’t have done this without you,” followed by applause.

What was I supposed to do, wave? I’d quickly sit down. Later, I’d walk over and tell Yogi he’s lucky to know me because he couldn’t have done this without me. Of course he’d laugh. He got it.