The Closer

by Mariano Rivera

  I told you I don’t often pray for results, but I was praying for them then:

  Dear Lord, please look after my wife and our baby. Please help them through this. Please give Dr. Cruz the skill and poise to take care of the problem and give Clara’s body the strength she needs to get through it. Amen.

  It is six hours before the hemorrhaging is under control. Dr. Cruz, a person of deep faith herself, tells us later she could feel the Lord’s presence in the operating room. She says for Clara to recover from the blood loss as quickly as she does is a miracle.

  Our first off-season as a family of five passes in a snap, and it is almost time to go to spring training. It’s a wintry Sunday morning, and I am more nervous than a rookie at his first camp. But not because of baseball. I am about to talk about the Lord in front of four thousand people at the Brooklyn Tabernacle. Jim Cymbala, the pastor, has read about my faith and invites me to share it in testimony before the congregation.

  I have no idea what to say. A friend suggests Scripture from Psalms that says, The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord.

  Why don’t you preach about that?

  So I do. I talk about how sometimes we venture onto a path that is not ordered by the Lord, and that’s when we fail. It is when we are separated from the Lord that trouble and stress arrive. I speak about my journey, and how the grace of the Lord helps me cope with adversity and shows me the way, every day of my life.

  I am here today because the Lord ordered my steps, I say.

  The thing is, we can’t ever know those steps in advance, which is hardly more evident than in the 2003 season, when all kinds of unforeseen things happen. On opening day, Derek slams into the shin guards of the Toronto Blue Jay catcher at third base; he will miss six weeks. I miss the first twenty-five games of the season when the groin problem resurfaces on the last pitch of one of my last spring training outings. We still start off with a record of 23–6 but then go 11–17 in May. We finish tied with the Braves for the best record in baseball (101–61), and yet we lose eleven out of twelve in our own ballpark at one point, and somehow get no-hit by six Houston Astros pitchers—the first time a Yankee team has been no-hit since 1958.

  Who ever heard of getting no-hit by six pitchers?

  But by the time October arrives, I have a much better feeling about things. We take the Twins out in four games in the division series, and I retire all twelve batters I face. Now it is time for the Yankees and the Red Sox, best-of-seven for the American League pennant. The Red Sox, who have played us tough all year, are convinced that this is the year they finally bring the mighty Yankees down, and they go out and take Game 1, behind Tim Wakefield and the home run bats of David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, and Todd Walker. Andy gets us even in Game 2, pitching into the seventh, before giving way to Jose Contreras (subject of a hot Yankee–Red Sox bidding war in the off-season) and me in a 6–2 triumph, sending us up to Fenway for a Game 3 matchup of Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez. It is supposed to be Roger’s last game in Fenway, and even as he warms up, there’s this buzz in the park you’d feel at a heavyweight prizefight.

  Manny Ramirez hits a two-run single to give Pedro a lead in the bottom of the first, but in the third Derek drives a hanging curveball onto Lansdowne Street, clear over the Green Monster, and we’re rallying again in the fourth when Hideki Matsui, playing in his first Yankee–Red Sox postseason series, rifles a double to right.

  Karim Garcia, our right fielder, steps in. He already has an RBI single off of Pedro. Pedro’s first pitch is a fastball behind Garcia’s head, hitting him in the upper back. Garcia is furious; he glares at Pedro and curses him out. Pedro curses right back. Our bench is up. So is the Red Sox bench. One play later, on a 6-4-3 double-play ball, Garcia overruns second and takes out Walker, the Sox second baseman. It’s a dirty play, and Walker is rightfully steamed. Now Garcia is jawing at Pedro as he heads off, both benches are up on the steps, and nobody is giving Pedro more of an earful than Jorge.

  They don’t like each other, and in the playoffs, the emotions burn even hotter. Pedro stares and points at Jorge, and then points to his head, twice. I am watching on the clubhouse TV screen and am angry and disgusted at Pedro’s antics. He’s too good a pitcher to act like such a punk. First he headhunts Garcia, and now he inflames things even more by supposedly threatening to drill Jorge in the head.

  If somebody rubs two sticks together this whole place could explode, I think.

  The sticks get rubbed a few minutes later, in the bottom of the fourth. Roger throws a high fastball, slightly inside, to Manny Ramirez. The pitch isn’t close to hitting him, but Manny brandishes his bat and starts hollering and walking out toward Roger, and now the benches empty. While everybody else heads for the mound, Don Zimmer, our rotund, seventy-two-year-old bench coach, takes off for the Sox dugout—Pedro Martinez is standing in front of it. Pedro sees Zimmer coming at him like a round little bull. Zimmer raises his left arm and Pedro steps back as if he were a matador, shoving Zimmer to the ground. Zim’s hat falls off and he suffers a little cut, and everybody is gathering around him to make sure he’s okay.

  How much lower can Pedro go? I wonder.

  Zim is totally wrong to bull-rush Pedro, but you can’t throw an old man on the ground. You find a better way, that’s all. The drama continues, and it boils over once more when a fight breaks out in our bullpen. It involves a Fenway groundskeeper, Jeff Nelson, and Garcia, who hops the fence to get in on it.

  I don’t let this mayhem get into my head at all. I am calm and I am positive, even though I haven’t done well against the Red Sox this year; I’ve blown two saves and they have sixteen hits against me in just over ten innings. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that as much as I love the intimacy of Fenway, the mound is one of my least favorite in the league. Maybe it’s because the clay is on the soft side, so by the time I get out there, often after two hundred fifty or so pitches have been thrown, it is pretty roughed up and doesn’t have the hard landing spots I prefer. But none of that matters. You compete where you have to compete. The mound is soft?

  Deal with it, Mo.

  I run in from the pen and start warming up with Jorge. We have been together for nine years now, and he isn’t just a close friend, he’s a soul mate, a guy I am in total sync with. He knows what I like, how I think, that I want to keep things simple. He knows I will never shake my head if I want to change a pitch or a location. All I will do is keep on looking in. If I keep looking in, then he knows I want to throw something else.

  But who is kidding whom? I throw the cutter about 90 percent of the time. For most pitchers, a catcher puts down one finger for a fastball, two for a curve, three for a slider, and so on. With me, one is a cutter, and two is a two-seam fastball. If there is a runner on second base, four is a cutter and two is a two-seamer. If Jorge waggles his fingers as he puts them down, it means he wants it up in the zone.

  That’s the sum total of our signs.

  Jorge puts down one finger almost exclusively at the end of Game 3. I face six Red Sox hitters and retire them all, requiring just nineteen pitches. We win, 4–3, and take a 2–1 lead in the series, but this is Red Sox–Yankees. I have a feeling this is going the distance, and that is exactly what happens. We win Games 2, 3, and 5. The Red Sox win games 1, 4, and 6.

  Game 7 is at the Stadium, Pedro vs. Roger, Part II.

  Pedro is much sharper than he was in Game 3, and has much the better of it. Roger gets knocked around for three runs in the third, and then gives up a leadoff homer to Kevin Millar in the fourth. A walk and a single follow, and Mr. T has seen enough, calling for Mussina, who has never thrown a pitch of relief in his career. He strikes out Jason Varitek on three pitches, and then gets Johnny Damon to hit into a 6-6-3 double play. Mussina has already lost two games in the series and given up five home runs; these are the most important outs he’s gotten as a Yankee, and he doesn’t stop there. He strikes out David Ortiz with two men on an inning later, and as I lie on the training table and g
et rubbed down by Geno, I am full of admiration for what he’s doing.

  He’s getting every single out he has to have, I think.

  In all, Mussina throws three scoreless innings, and now our bats finally wake up. Giambi belts Pedro’s first pitch of the fifth inning, a changeup away, over the center-field fence, making it 4–1. It is only our third hit of the night. Two innings later, Matsui grounds out sharply to second and Jorge hits a sinking liner that Damon catches in right center, but I can see we’re starting to get on Pedro’s pitches more. Giambi comes up again and this time gets a fastball away, and he is all over it, ripping it over the wall in straightaway center, just over the leaping Damon’s glove. Now it’s 4–2, and when Enrique Wilson (who is in the lineup because he hits Pedro really well) gets an infield single and Garcia ropes a line single to right, there’s more positive energy in the Stadium than there has been all night.

  Then Pedro strikes out Sori for the fourth time, and the energy drains right back out of the place. Pedro points his finger to the sky, his trademark sign-off, and gets a hug from Nomar Garciaparra in the dugout, and we all figure he’s done. Pedro assumes he’s done, too, until his manager, Grady Little, puts a question to him:

  Can you give me one more inning?

  Pedro says okay. He feels as if he has no option, even though he clearly thought his night was over. Ortiz homers off of Wells, another emergency reliever, to make it 5–2, and we have six outs left.

  Sure enough, there is Pedro back out for the eighth. With one out, Derek hits an 0–2 pitch to right that Trot Nixon doesn’t get a good read on, the ball bouncing just over his glove for a double. Bernie drives a single to center to score Derek, and then Matsui drills a ground-rule double to right. Still, Little leaves his ace in, and though Pedro gets Jorge to hit a flare to center, it falls and the game is tied. The Stadium erupts. Pedro exits. On the bullpen mound, the frenzy and noise are overwhelming, and so are my emotions.

  I put down my glove, leave the bullpen mound, and run up a small flight of stairs, where there is a bench and a bathroom. I go into the bathroom, close the door, and start to cry. The moment is just too much to take in. We are down three to Pedro Martinez with five outs to go and now the game is tied. I don’t know what else to do, so I thank the Lord for answering my prayers.

  I let the tears come for a minute or two, wipe them away, and then finish my warm-up.

  The Sox bullpen does the job and I come in for the top of the ninth, and end it by getting Todd Walker on a little looper to second with a man on second. When it leaves his bat, I crouch down, afraid for a second it might be another soft hit with terrible consequences. But Sori jumps to make the catch, and I jump on the mound with him. Mike Timlin sets us down in order in the ninth, and with two outs in the tenth, Ortiz takes me the other way with a double off the wall. I bite my hand on the mound afterward, upset that I didn’t come in on him with the cutter instead of going away, but I get out of it by popping up Kevin Millar.

  After Tim Wakefield and his knuckleball put us away in order in the bottom of the tenth, I have my own 1-2-3 inning, with two strikeouts. It’s my first three-inning outing in seven years. When I get to the dugout, Mel comes up to me.

  Great job, Mo, he says.

  I can give you another, I say.

  Mel doesn’t want me going out there again, I’m sure. But there is no way I am coming out of the game. If I need to pitch a fourth inning, I am going to do it. A fifth inning? I will throw that, too. The season is just about over. I have a long time to rest. I don’t just want to stay in the game. I have to. I feel that it is my duty. I am going to push Mr. T and Mel as hard as I have to. I am not going to let anybody else take the ball.

  Aaron Boone leads off the bottom of the eleventh. He is hitting .125 for the series. Wakefield’s first pitch is a knuckler that comes in about waist-high, on the inner half. Boone turns on it, and the minute he does, we know. Everybody in the Stadium knows—you can tell by the roar. The ball lands a dozen or more rows deep. We are going back to the World Series. The whole team pours out of the dugout to greet Aaron at home, but I have a different destination.

  I am running to the pitcher’s mound. I need to be on the pitcher’s mound. I get there just as Aaron rounds second and heads to third. I am on my hands and knees, kissing the rubber, saying a prayer to the Lord, crying in the dirt.

  Thank You, Lord, for giving me the strength and courage to pull through. Thank You for the joy of this moment, I say. Thank You for all of Your grace and mercy.

  Lee Mazzilli, our first-base coach, follows me to the mound and puts his arms around me as I weep. All around me guys are hugging and jumping around. I just keep praying and weeping. I am not sure what the depth of these emotions is about. Is it because I had left the field in such hurt after the last Game 7, two years before? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. When I get to my feet, I share a hug with Aaron and then a long embrace with Mr. T.

  I am named MVP of the American League Championship Series, but there is no real MVP. The trophy should be divided twenty-five ways. That is not a throwaway line. It’s the truth. We never stop battling. We are a band of brothers. We stick together and believe together. I could’ve stayed in that dirt all night.

  14

  Losses

  IN THE FIRST INNING of Game 3 of the World Series against the Florida Marlins, Josh Beckett, a twenty-three-year-old kid with a wicked fastball and a curveball to match, strikes out Derek Jeter on three pitches. Jeter spends the next three hours and eight innings doing more than anybody else on the team to make sure we win the game. As I watch him do this, I realize it has been ten years since we were teammates in Greensboro, the year he made fifty-six errors and I knew—I knew—he was going to be a great, great ballplayer.

  What I saw then, in 1993, is the same thing I see now: a man with an insatiable desire to be the best, and to win.

  You think about Derek’s résumé of big moments, and it’s staggering. The double that started the rally against Pedro in Game 3. The flip play. The home run in the tenth inning of Game 4 to beat the Diamondbacks in 2001. The leadoff homer in Game 4 against the Mets in 2000. The hit that started the big rally in Game 4 against the Braves, the one that culminated with Jim Leyritz’s home run.

  And now it is on display in Game 3 against Beckett and the Marlins, in a Series that is supposed to be about as competitive as a Globetrotters–Washington Generals game—a mismatch in star power, payroll, tradition, and pretty much everything else. We split the first two games in New York and know beating Beckett tonight can alter the course of the whole Series. So after that initial strikeout, here is what happens:

  Jeter doubles to left and scores in the fourth inning. He singles to center to lead off the sixth inning. He doubles to right and scores the go-ahead run in the eighth inning.

  Beckett pitches seven and a third and strikes out ten and gives up just three hits and two runs. All three hits, and both runs, come from Derek Jeter, a man who never stops competing and embodies the ethos of the Joe Torre Yankees: He gives his personal all but always wants it to be about the team.

  I am warming up in the visitors’ bullpen, getting ready to come on for Mussina, who is superb all night. Minutes after Derek’s third hit and second run knocks Beckett out of the game, I am on the mound, throwing six pitches to retire Pudge Rodriguez, Miguel Cabrera, and Derrek Lee. We explode for four more runs on an Aaron Boone solo homer and Bernie’s three-run homer, and then close it out in the bottom of the ninth.

  We’ve beaten the Marlins’ best pitcher and have Roger Clemens going in Game 4, and David Wells in Game 5. Nobody is taking anything for granted, but I like how we’re situated, and when pinch hitter Ruben Sierra laces a two-out, two-run triple down the right-field line in the ninth inning to tie Game 4 at 3–3, it just seems familiar, like another Yankee workday in October.

  It’s a hit straight out of 1996 or 1998 or 2000, I think.

  And from that point on, very little else goes right for the Yank
ees in the 2003 World Series. We are the ones who become the Washington Generals. As much as it stings to think about, the truth is undeniable: We are not the same team we used to be. It’s not even close. The Marlins are fast and aggressive and play with spunk, but, I am sorry, those teams of ours that won four World Series in five years would’ve hammered them. They would’ve found a way, and willed their way through as a team. Because those were guys who cared more about winning than anything else. And it’s just not like that anymore.

  We leave the bases loaded in the top of the eleventh, and then watch as Alex Gonzalez, the Marlins shortstop, hits a game-winning homer off of Jeff Weaver to lead off the bottom of the twelfth. It’s a highlight straight out of the Aaron Boone playbook, only now we are on the receiving end.

  So the Series is tied at two games apiece, and then Game 5 unspools faster than a runaway fishing line. During infield practice, Giambi tells Mr. T he’s not sure he can play first base because of a bad knee, and then Wells has to leave after an inning with a bad back. We get one hit in eight at-bats with runners in scoring position. It adds up to a 6–4 defeat. We go back to Yankee Stadium, where Andy pitches really well and Josh Beckett is even better, spinning a five-hit shutout and striking out nine, doing it on three days’ rest. We whimper off to clear out our lockers, to another off-season that doesn’t include a parade.

  Anything short of a championship tends to result in big changes for George Steinbrenner’s Yankees, and 2004 brings about the biggest change you can have: the acquisition of Alex Rodriguez, the American League MVP, a man widely considered the best player in baseball. Alfonso Soriano goes to the Texas Rangers in the deal, and Alex, deferring to Derek, goes to third base from his natural position of shortstop. It’s Alex’s third team in four seasons, and I’m thrilled we have him, but as I look ahead to my own 2004 season, the final year of my contract with the Yankees, I have an overwhelming desire to not go anywhere. I do not want to chase the biggest contract I can, and I do not want to wear another uniform. Maybe this makes me an agent’s worst nightmare, because I have no interest in playing the free-agent game, posturing about all my options and leaking stories about how I might be on my way someplace else.