The Closer

by Mariano Rivera

  Bell squares and bunts the first pitch, hard, slightly to the third-base side. It’s not a good bunt, and I am on it, catching it, spinning and firing to Scott Brosius at third for the force. Scott comes off the bag and holds the ball. Bell may not even be halfway down the line. I am waiting for Scott to throw it across to Tino at first. It is a guaranteed double play, leaving us with two out and a man at second.

  But he never throws the ball. Scott is an aggressive, heads-up ballplayer, an excellent third baseman and a total gamer. Does he have Joe’s words—“Make sure we get one”—in mind when he holds the ball? I don’t know. I can’t worry about it now. The inning is not going the way I expect it to. I can’t worry about that, either. I can’t start letting negative thoughts seep in. I never deliver a pitch thinking that something bad is going to happen. The Lord has blessed me so much with that ability.

  There are runners at first and second, with one out. There is a batter to get out. That’s all that I am focused on—Tony Womack, the Diamondbacks slap-hitting shortstop. Womack settles into the left-hander’s batter’s box. If I throw my best cutter, I know I can saw him off, get either a strikeout or a broken bat. I throw a cutter up for a ball, and then another, to fall behind, 2–0. My command is not what I want it to be. I am not hitting the spots I want to hit. I battle back to 2–2 and fire another cutter at Womack, but it’s not inside enough, and he hits the ball into right field, a double that ties the game and puts runners at second and third.

  The crowd is in a full frenzy now, smelling victory, and I’m sure it’s sweeter still that it’s coming against the mighty Yankees and their supposedly invincible closer.

  I never think in such terms. I am not going to give in, or give up.

  Ever.

  The next hitter is Craig Counsell, another left-hander. On an 0–1 pitch, my cutter bores in on him. He starts to swing and stops and the ball hits him on the right hand. Now the bases are loaded.

  I take a deep breath.

  Now it’s Luis Gonzalez again, the Diamondbacks’ best hitter. In two previous at-bats in the Series I have struck him out and got him to hit a weak grounder. He has an exaggerated, wide-open left-handed stance. Mr. T has ordered the infield in to get the run at the plate, not wanting to risk a weak grounder that could end the World Series. Gonzalez hasn’t made good contact off of me, so he shortens up, choking up an inch or two on the bat. Later I find out it is the first time he has choked up all year.

  Make a good pitch, get an out—these are my thoughts. I am calm. Focused. I am sure that I am going to get him.

  Gonzalez fouls off my first cutter, and then I come to my set position and fire another one, a good one, a pitch that veers hard into his hands. Gonzalez swings. He breaks his bat. The ball pops into the air, toward shortstop. I see its trajectory and know it is heading for the edge of the grass behind Derek.

  I know it is trouble.

  In his normal position, Derek backpedals a few steps and makes the play. But he is not in his normal position.

  The ball plops a foot or two beyond the infield dirt. Jay Bell races home.

  There are no more pitches to make.

  The Arizona Diamondbacks are world champions.

  I walk off the field just as the Diamondbacks are pouring onto it. I am in something close to shock. Never could I have envisioned this ending.

  I walk into the dugout, down the steps, up into the clubhouse. Jorge comes by and gives me a pat on the back. I get a lot of pats on the back. I don’t remember if anybody says anything to me.

  I sit at my locker for a long time afterward. I don’t know what happened, I tell Mr. T. I knew we were winning that game. I knew it. I don’t understand it. I lost the game. We lost the game. But look at how it happened. Look at all the things that occurred that were so different, so bizarre.

  There has to be an answer for why this happened. I just don’t know what the answer is.

  I don’t know what the answer is, either, Mr. T says.

  I talk to the press, answer all the questions, take the blame. Yes, I threw the pitches I wanted. No, I don’t remember the last time I threw away a bunt like that. Yes, I got Gonzalez to hit my pitch, but he fought it off and was able to make contact. I speak softly. I do not throw anything or kick anything. But I am hurting more than I have ever hurt after a game. I have done my best, sure. But my best is not good enough. I have let the team down. That is what hurts. My teammates are all counting on me and I do not come through.

  I just don’t know why. There must be a reason, and I have no idea what it is.

  After I shower and change, I find Clara outside the clubhouse. I give her a kiss and a hug. She rubs my back. It is what Clara always does to comfort me. She rubs my back gently, tenderly. It is more comforting to me than any words can be. I take her hand and we walk to the bus. I have tears in my eyes. The guys on the team are there for me, I know that, but they are giving me space. We get to the airport and get on the charter, and Clara and I sit in my row, 29. I have my Bible and I have Clara. I don’t say anything and she doesn’t, either. She just rubs my back. The tears do not stop. They don’t stop for the whole trip across the country.

  Clara is right next to me, as she has been since I was a boy. Even in my sorrow and hurt, I am so thankful for my wife and her tender, loving heart, so thankful for the love the Lord has surrounded me with. We land in New York and we drive to our home in Westchester, still barely saying a word. It is about five o’clock in the morning.

  I walk upstairs to the master bedroom. As I approach the room, I see something on the floor right in front of the doorway. I bend down and pick it up. It is a small trophy, probably eight inches high, with a wooden base and the golden likeness of a ballplayer above it. It is a Little League trophy. It belongs to our oldest son, Mariano Jr., who has just turned eight.

  I hold it close, not smiling but feeling something much deeper.

  13

  Plans

  AS MUCH AS I am committed to living in the present, I have a hard time with the ending of the 2001 World Series. I search for an answer as to why it unfolded the way it did. I don’t believe that things happen randomly, for no reason. I do believe that the Lord is in charge and has Infinite Wisdom, even if we may not understand it in that moment.

  Eight days later, on a Tuesday morning, I get my answer.

  I stop by the Stadium to pick up some stuff. Mr. T is there. I haven’t seen him since the Series ended.

  Well, Mo, I guess we know why it happened the way it did now, don’t we? Mr. T says.

  What do you mean? How do we know?

  You didn’t hear? About the plane crash, I mean? And then he tells me about American Airlines Flight 587, from John F. Kennedy Airport in New York to Santo Domingo. It crashed that morning and all 260 people on board died.

  Oh, no. Oh my Lord. That’s terrible, I say.

  Yes, it is… such a tragic loss of life, he says.

  It does not take me long to connect the dots. A dear friend and teammate of mine, Enrique Wilson, was booked on that flight, along with his wife and their two kids. When we didn’t win, there was no parade, no post-Series celebration to stick around for. So Enrique and his family took an earlier flight. Our losing had saved his life, his family’s lives. Please understand that I’m not suggesting the Lord cared about Enrique Wilson and his family and didn’t care about the people who did die that day. And I am certainly not saying Enrique’s life is more important than the lives that ended in the tragedy. I am simply saying that for whatever reason the Lord had His own play that day, and in effect said to Enrique that it was not his time to join Him.

  So there you go. Losing a game instead of losing a friend? I will take that trade a million times out of a million. As painful as it was to lose, it’s just another reminder for me that we are not the ones in charge—and that just because we may pray for something, that doesn’t mean it automatically comes to fruition.

  Prayer is not like a vending machine, where you put in your qu
arters (or words) and then wait for the product to be delivered. It’s not as if I can say to the Lord, “I pray for this World Series victory,” or “I pray for a clean bill of health on my next checkup,” and then just sit back and wait for Him to deliver it. I very rarely pray for specific outcomes. When my agent is negotiating a contract for me, I never get down on my hands and knees and ask the Lord to make me wealthy. I don’t pray for a new car or a good MRI result, or a strikeout in a big spot. For me, the most meaningful prayers are when I ask for God’s wisdom.

  So, no, my faith that we would win Game 7 is not realized. But in another way, a much more important way, it is realized. Because we are humans and we are so limited, sometimes we ask for the wrong thing, or don’t look beyond ourselves. But God knows what is ahead. He always has a plan for us, and in November of 2001, that plan did not include a ticker-tape parade for the New York Yankees, and it did not include a heroic moment for me.

  It is a raw Saturday in April in the first week of the 2002 season, and we are playing the Tampa Bay Devil Rays (that is still their name then) at the Stadium. I am at my locker in the clubhouse, starting to get dressed, thinking about how beautiful my uniform is, and how much I cherish wearing it.

  For me, putting on the Yankee uniform every day is a process full of rapture. You hear guys who get traded to, or sign with, the Yankees talk about how great it feels to be putting on the pinstripes. For me, the thrill never wears off. It is about the history of the uniform, the dignity and the championships, the way it stands for something enduring, for excellence. Maybe it’s because I am from a fishing village that is one stop from the end of the earth that wearing a Yankee uniform means so much. I just know I never take it for granted, for even one day. It’s so easy to get caught up in the problems and complications and sadness that life can confront us with, but by opening my heart to the Lord, I am filled with lightness, with appreciation for the gifts He has given me, with the ability to pay attention to what is good and not what is not good.

  And when I am getting changed into my Yankee uniform, it is all good.

  I am extremely methodical about how I put the uniform on. I begin with one sock, then the other. I move on to the undershirt. I carefully take the pants from the hanger and slip them on, and follow with the jersey. I take my time doing all of this. I want to savor it, and I do, day after day, year after year. Posada likes to tease me that I am so fanatical about my uniform that I probably try to get the pinstripes of the pants and shirt to line up. I don’t really do that, but he’s not far wrong.

  I want to honor the Yankee uniform for as long as I am wearing it.

  The uniform may be timeless, but there is more change around the Yankees this season than any year since I arrived. Paul O’Neill retires after the Series, and so does Scott Brosius. Tino Martinez is now a Cardinal, and Chuck Knoblauch is a Royal and retires himself after 2002, his rapid and mysterious decline ending his career prematurely. Jason Giambi, our big free-agent signing, is now our first baseman, and David Wells is back and we’ve also added Robin Ventura and Steve Karsay and Rondell White. It is another stellar season, with 103 victories, but it’s also the most frustrating season of my career, as I make three separate trips to the disabled list and pitch in the fewest games (45) of any year since 1995, when I was up and down from Columbus. A groin strain sidelines me in June, and shoulder tightness comes along later. The idleness is not easy. I can’t shag batting practice fly balls. I can’t do my job. I take pride in being someone my teammates can count on. I rest and get treatment, but I am not a good patient. I am not very good at being patient, either.

  You can just ask Clara about that.

  For someone who may seem outwardly serene and composed, I have moments when my buttons get pushed and I lose it, the hottest buttons being traffic and rude people. One time Clara and I stop in a little neighborhood pizzeria. The place is in New Rochelle, a city about fourteen miles northeast of Yankee Stadium. We have been going there for years. It’s a modest roadside storefront, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a liquor store, with no frills and great pie. It’s a place where I can just hang out and be with the guys and not have it turn into a mass autograph session or photo op. You like these kinds of places when you are in the public eye. I try hard to be accommodating and treat all people with respect, but sometimes you don’t want to be on display, and that’s how it is at our pizza place.

  It’s early afternoon when Clara and I walk in, and there’s one other customer in there, a stocky Latin fellow, in his mid-thirties probably. He doesn’t seem to know who I am until the guys in the shop greet me.

  Then he pipes up.

  Hey, give me some tickets.

  The guy looks as if he’s been drinking or is under the influence of something. His words are slurred.

  I don’t say anything. I just laugh and kind of look away.

  C’mon, man, give me some tickets. You guys make all this money. You can afford it. I want some tickets.

  Now my temperature is rising. I am not laughing anymore. To me, patience and keeping one’s temper in check are fruits of the Holy Spirit. The fruits are eluding me at this moment.

  Leave him alone. He is our friend. Don’t treat him with such disrespect, one of the countermen says.

  The guy is not letting up. He takes a step toward me. I look at Clara, and she doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t have to. She is calm, steady.

  Her look says: Take it easy. Let it go. Turn the other cheek.

  I pause for a minute. I don’t like the way you are talking to me, I tell the guy.

  Now he raises his voice, steps closer.

  Too bad, you cheap so-and-so, he says, calling me as bad a name as there is, and now I have had it. My blood is boiling and I’m ready to hit this guy, and hit him hard. Clara grabs me and says, Pili, no. The countermen order the guy to leave the store, escorting him out.

  He curses again and is on his way. All I can think of as I try to settle down is thank God my wife was there, because if I had been alone I would’ve belted the guy.

  I’m sorry that happened, one of the countermen says. He had no right to do that. He must’ve been drunk.

  It’s okay. It’s not your fault.

  I look at Clara and she still has the same expression on her face: You don’t have to react. The guy is just looking for trouble. Don’t let it get to you.

  She is completely right, of course, and that is what I have to work on, and I do work on it, every day. If somebody cuts you off when you are driving or flips you off, what do you do? Flip him back? Curse him or chase him? To me the little daily encounters are more challenging than bigger things, and how you react in those situations when nobody is watching is more telling than anything.

  I pray to the Lord all the time to help me be more patient—to not overreact. Sometimes it can be dangerous. One time, Clara and I are driving on Interstate 95, heading to Baltimore. Cars are flying on the interstate, as usual, when all of a sudden a guy blows past me and swerves into our lane—crazy stuff. I lean on the horn, and the guy slams on his brakes as if he is daring me to ram into him. He speeds up and I speed up with him.

  Pili, no, Clara says again. Let him go.

  I am not in listening mode. I am in retaliation mode, being a reckless fool, again turning away from the Spirit. I pull alongside the guy and start to creep over toward his lane. I am going to teach him, show him who he is messing with, swap a little paint to set him straight. The same person who is not fazed by thirty-seven thousand people riding him in Fenway Park is losing his mind over a macho motorist, endangering himself and his wife in the process.

  How idiotic is that?

  Stop it! Stop it now! Clara says. This is crazy. She is right, of course. She finally gets through to me, gets me to calm down. It takes much longer than it should have.

  I am an imperfect man on an imperfect journey, but I am trying to be better. Next time I am in that situation, I hope I just let the guy drive away.

  I’m doing mor
e watching and waiting this season than I want, by far, but another first-place finish in the American League East earns us a best-of-five division series against the Angels. They are the best-hitting team in baseball (.282), a young club that won 99 one year after winning just 75. We have been crushing home runs all year (223 in all), and Game 1, at Yankee Stadium, brings no change. Derek, Giambi, Rondell White, and Bernie all homer, and even though Roger and Ramiro get slapped around a bit, I get the save in an 8–5 victory on thirteen pitches, retiring Tim Salmon and Garret Anderson to finish.

  We rally from an early 4–0 deficit in Game 2 to go up, 5–4, but then the Angels get late homers from Troy Glaus and Garret Anderson to take the game, 8–6. The series shifts to Anaheim, and we jump out to a 6–1 lead after two and a half innings, but here come the Angels again, getting three more hits, including a homer from Adam Kennedy and a homer and four RBIs from Tim Salmon, and rolling to a 9–6 victory.

  We are one game away from getting bounced out of the playoffs earlier than we have in our entire championship era.

  By the time the Angels put on a parade worthy of Disneyland in a seven-hit, eight-run fifth inning against David Wells, we are basically done. The final score is 9–5. The Angels hit .376 for the series and come from behind in all three victories. They are fearless and relentless, and their bullpen dominates ours. Though I cannot fathom the result, how it happens is a bit familiar. Their grittiness reminds me of exactly the way we played when we were winning championships. You can win all the games you want in the regular season, but when your postseason ends in four games it is impossible to feel good about the year.

  Our third son is named Jaziel, which means “strength of God.” He is born seven weeks after our season ends, a Caesarean section delivery by Dr. Maritza Cruz, Clara’s obstetrician. Jaziel weighs almost nine pounds, and all goes fine for him, but Clara has severe hemorrhaging that requires another surgical procedure. I am in the delivery room with her when Dr. Cruz realizes the extent of the bleeding. It is terrifying to see my wife this way, a strong woman suddenly so vulnerable.