Okay, thanks very much.
Don’t thank me. You earned this, he says.
I hang up the phone. For a long time, I have imagined what it might feel like to get the call to the big leagues. Now I know.
I stand up on the bed and start bouncing up and down, and keep on bouncing, a Panamanian jumping bean. My poor downstairs neighbor. But he won’t have to put up with this for long.
I am going to the big leagues.
Las Grandes Ligas.
When I finally stop bouncing, I get on my knees in the Comfort Inn and thank the Lord. Then I call Clara and my parents to share the news—I can barely remember a word I said—and tell them to let everybody in Puerto Caimito in on it: Pili is a New York Yankee.
I take a short flight down to New York and get a cab to the Stadium. We are playing a weekend series against the Baltimore Orioles. When I get to the players’ entrance at the Stadium, the guard stops me.
Can I help you?
I’m Mariano Rivera. I just got called up from Columbus.
Okay, we were expecting you.
Expecting me? Imagine that, I think.
Having never been inside Yankee Stadium or any other big league ballpark, I can’t even imagine what it must look like. I catch a glimpse of the field before I walk down the stairs to the clubhouse. Even from a distance it looks too big and too beautiful to fathom. I meander through a corridor and arrive at the clubhouse. When I walk in, I look to the left and see a Rivera nameplate over a locker and a No. 42 uniform hanging inside. I wore 58 in spring training, so I guess that makes it official: This really is a promotion.
The whole weekend I am in a pinch-me state, like a cardboard cutout of every major league rookie. I have the time of my life in batting practice, shagging fly balls in what I’ve come to learn is the most famous outfield in all of baseball. I wish I could stay out there all night, but there is a game to play. The Orioles rally for four in the ninth against John Wetteland to win the opener, but we take the next game behind Melido Perez and then get a complete-game, four-hit shutout from Sterling Hitchcock to take the series before flying across the country to play the Angels in Anaheim. It is the start of a nine-game, three-city swing. The first game is Tuesday night.
The Yankees’ starting pitcher is me.
I am filling in for Jimmy Key, who has just gone on the disabled list.
I am more excited than nervous when I get to the ballpark that afternoon. I’ve had nine days of rest since my previous start in Rochester, so that should help my shoulder, which hasn’t felt great early in the season. No big deal. Just a little cranky. Gene Monahan, the trainer, gives me a good, thorough rubdown. Bill Connors, our pitching coach, goes over the Angels hitters with me, giving me a brief overview of the best way to attack them. He gives me plenty to digest without giving me too much.
I take my time putting on my uniform. I start with the socks and then move on to the gray road pants and matching jersey. The uniform feels comforting and good. I run my hands over it when I am done dressing. I want to be sure it’s neat, just the way my school uniform used to be. I head out to the bullpen and look up at the three decks of the Big A as I go. The size and scope of everything is staggering. I am not so much anxious or in awe as I am incredibly alive. Everything slows down. Everything is heightened—the sounds, the smells, the colors. I am minutes away from throwing my first big league pitch.
I am so ready.
I am up against Chuck Finley, a big, hard-throwing left-hander. It’s a sparse crowd on a Tuesday night, and as Tony Phillips, the Angels’ leadoff man, settles into the box in a deep crouch, I am completely locked in on catcher Mike Stanley’s glove. It’s as if there is nothing else happening in the entire ballpark, the entire world—as if I am in a sixty-foot, six-inch tube, me on one end and Mike Stanley’s glove on the other.
All I need to do is hit that glove. This is how all-encompassing my focus is.
I take a breath.
Throw the best pitch you can, I tell myself.
Keep it simple.
I start into my no-windup motion, rocking back slightly, hands together near the waist before I come forward and push off the rubber with my right foot. I fire a fastball that runs down and away for a ball, but come back with two strikes on fastballs away and strike Phillips out with another fastball he is way late on. Jim Edmonds, the center fielder who is batting second, takes a fastball looking for out number two. Tim Salmon singles to deep short and then Chili Davis, the cleanup hitter, swats a 1–0 pitch the other way for a double to left, and quickly I am in my first jam.
The hitter is J. T. Snow, the Angels’ first baseman, a lefty. I get ahead, 0–2, and then challenge him with a high heater that he lofts to center, where Bernie Williams has an easy play.
I pitch a scoreless second and get two outs to start the third before Salmon steps in again and drives a double to right center. I pitch carefully to Chili Davis, remembering his first at-bat, and wind up walking him, and then Snow hits a weak grounder that goes for an infield hit. Now the bases are loaded and Greg Myers, the catcher, is at the plate. I get ahead, 1–2, but he bloops a ball into left and two runs score. I get out with no further damage, and walk off needing no reminders that the walk to Davis is what complicated my life and helped put us in a two-run hole.
The trouble starts much sooner in the bottom of the fourth, with two singles to start the inning, bringing Edmonds up. I’ve struck him out twice, but he battled me the second time and seemed totally dialed in on my four-seam fastball. I fall behind, 2–1, and then leave a pitch over the plate, and he crushes it over the right-center-field fence. Now it’s 5–0, and on a night when Finley is making our hitters look like they’re swinging with straws, this is not good. One walk later my debut is history, with a terrible line (three and a third innings, eight hits, five runs, three walks, and five strikeouts) and a dispiriting walk to the dugout. We go on to lose, 10–0, and Finley strikes out fifteen, but if there’s anything I can take from this, it’s that I know I can get these guys out. It may sound strange after I’ve been roughed up that way, but a couple of better pitches in better locations and the whole thing plays out differently.
I wish my start had been better. I wish the outcome were different. But I’m not devastated, and I am ready to make a better showing the next time out.
You did some really good things out there, Bill says. We’ll keep working. You are going to be fine.
Five days later, Sunday of Memorial Day weekend in Oakland, I am back out there again against Tony La Russa’s A’s. Paul O’Neill belts a long double, Bernie Williams homers, and we put up four runs in the first two innings and I protect it well, pitching one-run ball into the sixth. Bob Wickman bails me out of some minor trouble, and when John Wetteland strikes out the side in the ninth, the Yankees have their thirteenth victory of the season and I have the first big league victory of my life. Catcher Jim Leyritz shakes Wetteland’s hand after Stan Javier strikes out to end it, and then manager Buck Showalter shakes his hand, and I get in line and do the same. I am so happy to contribute to a victory that I forget to ask for the game ball. As far as I know everybody else forgets about it, too. We pack up and head for the airport and a flight to Seattle. I never give the game ball much thought after that. I just want to get another ball to throw and help the Yankees win.
I make two more starts, against the A’s and the Mariners, and neither one is memorable. I give up a monstrous grand slam to Geronimo Berroa in the first and a three-run homer to Edgar Martinez in the second. I don’t make it out of the third inning against the Mariners, the Yankees fall into last place, and after the game Buck Showalter calls me into his office.
I have about three weeks of big league service, but even I know it’s not good when you get called into the manager’s office, especially when your ERA is 10.20.
We’re sending you back to Columbus, Buck says. You showed some good things and you shouldn’t be discouraged. Just keep working on it and you will be back.
How can it not sting when your team tells you that you’re not good enough?
Derek and I share a very quiet cab ride over the George Washington Bridge, and then a very quiet meal. At a booth in a Bennigan’s in Fort Lee, New Jersey, across the road from our hotel, we try to figure out what went wrong. It’s not the Last Supper, but we’re not exactly laughing it up, either.
As much as I know I can compete at the big league level, and as much as I believe that I will be back, I am fully aware that second chances are not guaranteed.
I feel like it’s my fault you got sent down, I tell Derek. If I had pitched better today maybe this wouldn’t have happened—to either of us.
It’s not your fault, Derek says. What happened to me has nothing to do with the way you pitched. We just have to keep working hard. If we do that and play the way we can for the Clippers, we’ll be back.
You’re right. That’s how we have to think, I say.
We head back to the hotel and catch a flight the next morning to Charlotte, where we join the Clippers. My shoulder still feels sore, and they decide to put me on the disabled list for two weeks to see if the rest helps.
My first start back after the time off comes on a damp Monday night in Cooper Stadium in Columbus. I am pitching the second game of a twi-night doubleheader against the Rochester Red Wings. Even as I warm up I can tell that my shoulder feels better than it has all year. I am almost pain-free, throwing freely.
The rest has helped. Big-time.
I smoke through the Red Wings in the first inning. In the dugout, my catcher, Jorge Posada, sits down next to me.
What did you eat today?
Why?
Because I’ve never seen you throw this hard. The ball is flying out of your hand.
I don’t know. I feel good, I reply.
I wind up throwing a rain-shortened, five-inning no-hitter. I walk one guy, and Jorge throws him out stealing, so I face the minimum fifteen batters.
This guy is going back to the big leagues and he is never coming back, Jorge says to a couple of our teammates.
Jorge tells me later that I was at 96 miles per hour all night and might’ve touched 97 or 98. It is a major jump that stuns people in the Yankee organization. Years later, I find out that Gene Michael, the Yankees general manager, got bulletins that night about how hard I was throwing.
Michael wanted to know, Was the gun working right? Do we know if this is accurate?
He checked with a scout who was at the game, and the scout confirmed it; his gun had 96 on it, too. Michael apparently was in the middle of talks with the Tigers to acquire David Wells. The Tigers were interested in me.
Once Michael confirmed the accuracy of the radar readings, I was no longer in that deal, or any other deal.
The night after my abbreviated no-hitter, Jorge and I and some of the other Clippers go to our regular dinner spot, Applebee’s. I have filet mignon and a loaded baked potato and vegetables.
Do you have any idea how you could go from throwing 88 to 90 to 96? I’ve never seen anything like it, Jorge says.
My shoulder is healthy, but there is only one answer. And it has nothing to do with increased filet mignon consumption. It is a gift from the Lord. I have known for a long time that He is using me for His own purposes, that He wants my pitching to help spread the good news about the Gospel of Jesus.
What else could it be? It makes no sense otherwise.
I never pitch for the Columbus Clippers again.
On July 3, Bill Evers tells me I am going back up. I don’t jump up and down on the bed this time. I just get on a plane. Actually, several planes. I’m up at 4:30 to board a flight to Boston (the Clippers are playing at Pawtucket again) and then on to Chicago. By the time I get to my hotel it is evening. I unpack my most precious possession—the red-leather Bible that was a gift from Clara. It has notes in the margins, and verses underlined and passages highlighted. It has been well-thumbed, I can tell you that. The Bible can’t tell you the story of my walk with the Lord, but it can tell you everything about how I try to live, and why the love of the Lord is the foundation of my whole life. For me, the Bible is not just the word of God, but a life road map that is packed with wisdom that you cannot beat even if you spent the next hundred years reading spiritual books and self-help books.
It is the best kind of wisdom: Simple wisdom. This sort of wisdom, from the twenty-third chapter of Matthew, verse twelve:
Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.
My journey with the Lord begins with the help of my cousin Vidal Ovalle, in Puerto Caimito. I am eighteen years old at the time. Vidal and I see each other every day of our lives. We chase iguanas together and are on the fishing boat together. When I begin to see a striking change in him, I ask him about it.
I have come to know the Lord, he says. He shares Bible stories with me. I can feel his passion, and his peace and happiness. I have known him his whole life, and it’s as if he is a different person now. It is not a fake. When we are out at sea, we talk about the Bible. Vidal is the first one to really teach me about the Bible, and what it means to know Jesus, and to know what he did for us, dying on the cross to forgive our sins. I listen, and I read the Bible, but I am taking spiritual baby steps, not quite ready to surrender. It isn’t until almost five years later that the Lord becomes the center of my life. You hear sometimes of people having a Great Awakening, a conversion experience full of white light or full-body trembling or the voice of God, or even all three. For me, it is much more understated.
I am in a small cement church near the center of Puerto Caimito, not far from the dock where my father keeps his boat. I am deep in prayer in a folding chair, thanking the Lord for His blessings, seeking His forgiveness for my shortcomings. The service is coming to a close.
Does anyone who hasn’t done so yet want to accept the Lord as their personal Savior? the pastor asks.
I hadn’t thought about this beforehand. I never asked myself: Is today going to be the day? I reflect on the pastor’s question. I wait a moment or two. I can feel my heart opening, being tender to the word of God. I can feel the Holy Spirit descending on me, very gently, touching my heart:
Come to me, my son, the Holy Spirit is saying.
I raise my hand.
Please come forward, the pastor says.
Somewhere deep inside me, there’s an epic Flesh vs. Spirit showdown for my soul.
Flesh: You realize that if you do this you will never have fun again, don’t you?
Spirit: This is about much more than fun. This is about having God’s grace and peace and mercy, now and always.
Flesh: You are about to lose all your friends, because they won’t have anything to do with you.
Spirit: If my friends don’t want to be with me anymore, maybe they aren’t the friends I want to have, anyway.
Flesh: Your life is going to turn into one long, grim prayer session where all you talk about is your horrible sins.
Spirit: My life is going to overflow with lightness and hope, and the joy of living with the Lord.
I walk forward. I am not nervous or hesitant at all. I am excited. I can feel the Holy Spirit with me, lifting me, propelling me, telling me: Accept Jesus Christ as your Savior, and you will have power and peace that you won’t even believe.
The pastor asks again if I am ready.
Yes, I am, I reply.
Soon he leads us in prayer, and already I can feel a burden being lifted. It is the burden of feeling you have to do it by yourself, of feeling alone and overwhelmed by your own limitations. I stand in the front of this tiny church in m
y tiny village and realize that the Lord is giving me a chance to be a different person, to free me from my sins, to be joyous and to be free.
The Bible says, Come as dirty as you are. Don’t clean yourself up or fix yourself up. Come with all your anxieties, all of your imperfections. The Lord will give you peace. He will take care of everything. All you have to do is want Him, and seek Him with a pure heart. He will take care of everything. You can’t do it. I can’t do it. But the Lord can.
Everything is in the hands of the Lord. All our days are in the hands of the Lord. I woke up today. You woke up today. Today is the day we have been given. I thank God for that. I do not take it for granted. Today is all we have. This exact moment is all we have. It is the way I want to pitch, and it is the way I want to live. Put everything we have into living this moment the best way we can live it. Again, it is simple. Simple is best.
I am starting the next day against the White Sox, the second best-hitting team in the American League. From the moment I walk in Comiskey Park that day, I feel completely at peace. I feel no pressure, just want to go out there and be me, and play the game I love. Already I am learning that when you tell yourself, I have to do this and that, I must prove myself right now, all it does is make it harder for you to perform your best. I have the Lord with me, no matter what happens. I lose the urgency, and all it does is change everything.
I can’t say that I know I am throwing that much harder than I was in my previous call-up, but I can tell by how hitters are swinging that I am bringing it, and they are not expecting it. I cruise through four innings with one hit—a Frank Thomas single—and five strikeouts. Paul O’Neill belts a homer off of Alex Fernandez to give me a 1–0 lead, and a Luis Polonia sacrifice fly makes it 2–0 after five.
After six innings, I have given up only two hits, both to Thomas, and then I strike out the side in the seventh, getting Ron Karkovice and Warren Newson for the third time apiece.
With the lead now 3–0 in the eighth, I am still coming at them hard. I get Ozzie Guillen to bounce out and Lance Johnson to pop out and Dave Martinez to strike out. It is my eleventh strikeout of the night. When I get into the dugout, Buck Showalter comes over and pats me on the back.
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