The Closer

by Mariano Rivera

  I have 39 saves, and my ERA is 1.72. By mid-September, I have converted 36 consecutive save opportunities.

  The panic has subsided.

  Then, on a Friday night in Seattle, I come on in the ninth with a 1–0 lead to save a game for A. J. Burnett, who outpitched the great Felix Hernandez. I strike out the first two batters looking and then Mike Sweeney hits a long double. The next hitter is Ichiro. He is so good at going the other way that I want to come in hard to him, jam him. I deliver a cutter, but he is not jammed.

  The ball stays over the inner part of the plate. He is one of the best hitters in the world and knows just what to do.

  He hits it over the right-field fence, a stunning turnaround in the space of two pitches. Against a hitter that good, you have to be better. I miss my spot. Save blown. Game over.

  My bad.

  I’m sorry, I tell A.J. You deserved to win that game.

  Don’t worry about it, Mo. You’ve saved plenty for me, A.J. says. I walk out of the clubhouse with a chocolate ice-cream cone. It does nothing to take away the sting of letting down the team.

  We draw the Twins in the division series and win Game 1 at the Stadium behind CC, but the best news is that Alex looks better than he has in years in October. We get homers from Derek and Matsui, and two big hits and two RBIs from Alex, and win, 7–2.

  You see what happens when you don’t try to do too much and just let your ability take over? I tell him.

  Game 2 is much more tense. The Twins rally to take a 3–1 lead into the bottom of the ninth, with Joe Nathan, one of the best closers in the league, on for the save. Nathan has saved 47 games during the regular year, but before he even gets an out, Teixeira lines a single to right and Alex hits one into the bullpen in right center and the game is tied. It’s the first magical October moment in the new ballpark, and it’s followed by another two innings later in the eleventh, when Teixeira hooks a ball around the left-field foul pole off of Jose Mijares and we’re up two games to none.

  We head to Minneapolis and take a 2–1 lead thanks in part to another Rodriguez home run, and then get saved by a tremendous defensive play by Derek and Jorge. Nick Punto leads off the bottom of the eighth with a double off of Phil Hughes, before Denard Span bounces a ball up the middle. Derek does well to snare it before it bounds in the outfield and knows he can’t throw out Span. He sees Punto has rounded third aggressively, as if he might try to score. Derek stops, turns, and fires to Jorge, who rifles a throw to Alex, whose swipe tag has Punto nailed. It’s a colossal baserunning blunder, but only perfect execution gets us the out.

  I am warming up in the bullpen and you can almost feel the air come out of the Metrodome.

  One batter later, I come in to face Joe Mauer, with the tying run on base. Mauer is a .365 hitter that year, the AL MVP, but you can’t worry about that. You trust your stuff and know that if you throw your best pitch and truly believe in it and put it where you want, you can get your man, even if it’s Joe Mauer. When you have that belief, you are in attack mode, ready to bring your very best—and that’s when you finish it well, with all that you have.

  Against a hitter like this, if you back off just a little bit, it could mean the difference between a hit and an out.

  I bust Mauer’s bat and he grounds out to first.

  Jorge and Cano get RBI singles in the ninth off Nathan, I save the victory for Andy, and now it’s on to meet the Angels in our first ALCS since 2004. We take Game 1 behind CC, 4–1, and then Alex saves us in Game 2, drilling a Brian Fuentes fastball over the right-field wall in the eleventh inning, answering an Angels run. It’s Alex’s third game-tying homer of the postseason, and we win two innings later when Jerry Hairston singles, gets bunted to second, and scores on a wild throw.

  After the Angels win in extra innings back in Anaheim, CC pitches another great game in a Game 4 blowout, we head home, and suddenly I am having a new experience. I have never been the subject of a little Internet tempest before. It happens courtesy of a video that supposedly shows me loading up the ball with spit as I stand behind the mound with my back to the plate.

  The video looks convincing, I admit, but I do not throw a spitball, and have never thrown a spitball. That is the truth. Major League Baseball looks into it and clears me of any wrongdoing, and even though I answer whatever questions the reporters have, even though I have always done everything legally, there are still some reporters who seem to be positive that they’ve unlocked my secret fifteen years into my career.

  It doesn’t bother me, and it changes nothing. If somebody wants to try to get in my head or throw me off my game, they are going to have to come up with something way better than that.

  We wind up closing the Angels out in six games, Andy winning, me saving my third game of the series, giving up a run in two spitless innings. Next up: the Philadelphia Phillies, baseball’s defending World Series champions.

  Being in the World Series doesn’t seem as if it comes with the uniform anymore—not with six years passing since our previous appearance. I have a new appreciation for how hard it is to get here. I am a month away from turning forty. I pray that I will glorify the Lord and savor the experience.

  I don’t know if I am going to pass this way again.

  My first big test comes against Chase Utley, with two on and one out in the top of the eighth in Game 2. Cliff Lee was dominant in Game 1 in a complete-game 6–1 victory, Utley belting two homers in support of him. Now here Utley is again, after Burnett delivers a superb effort in getting the better of Pedro Martinez. The Phillies acquired Pedro for games like this. He pitches well, but Teixeira and Matsui get him with solo homers, and then Jorge has a huge pinch single. So I am protecting a 3–1 lead as Utley works the count full. I go at him with nothing but cutters, mostly working on the outside, for good reason. He is trying to pull everything, and Jorge and I both see it. I don’t know if this is another instance of a lefty hitter getting seduced by the short porch, but Utley sure seems to be thinking that way. On a 3–2 pitch, I come at him with another cutter away, and he does just what we are hoping for—tries to pull it. He makes solid contact but hits a bouncer that goes from Cano to Jeter to Teixeira for an inning-ending double play.

  An inning later, I get Matt Stairs swinging to finish things up, and we square the Series at one.

  With Alex, Matsui, and Nick Swisher homering in Game 3, and Andy pitching around two Jayson Werth homers, we take an 8–5 decision in Citizens Bank, and then score three in the ninth to break a 4–4 tie in Game 4, the big hits coming from Alex and Jorge. I nail down a 7–4 victory with a 1-2-3 ninth and we are one game away.

  After the Phillies push the Series to a sixth game by winning their last game of the year in Citizens Bank, we return home for Game 6, Andy vs. Pedro. Matsui hits a two-run homer in the bottom of the second to get us going, then hits a two-run single in the third and a two-run double in the fifth. He has six RBIs in three at-bats.

  If only he would start hitting in the clutch.

  A two-run Ryan Howard homer makes the score 7–3, but Joba and Damaso Marte shut them down from there, and I get the final two outs in the eighth and then two more in the ninth, sandwiched around a Carlos Ruiz walk. Shane Victorino steps in. The Stadium crowd is on its feet. Victorino battles. He always battles. He’s another one of those guys, like Pedroia, who can play on my team anytime. He falls behind, 1–2, then keeps working it, fouling off four straight pitches on 2–2. Finally, he works the count full.

  Utley, Howard, and Werth are the next three hitters, and this is no time to complicate things or make things exciting. I need to get Victorino right now. I throw one more cut fastball, down, and Victorino pounds it down into the ground, a harmless bouncer to Robby Cano. I start to run toward first, thinking I might need to cover, but Cano tosses to Teixeira and I start pumping my fist before the ball is even in his glove. I turn around toward the infield and keep running, and now it feels as if the whole team is chasing me.

  I am laughing like a little ki
d playing keep-away. This is the fourth time I’ve gotten the final out in the World Series, and the best one of all. Maybe because it has been so long. Maybe because the last time I was this close to winning I had that debacle in the desert in 2001—eight years earlier, to the day. I don’t know. I am not stopping to analyze it. It’s beautiful not just that we won but how we won. Hideki Matsui, a total pro, hits .615 and knocks in eight runs in six games. Damaso Marte retires the last twelve hitters he faces, among them Utley and Howard, both of whom he strikes out in the final game. Andy pitches his second clincher and does it on three days’ rest. Derek hits .407 and Damon hits .364. Alex, a new man this October, has six RBIs; Jorge, five.

  What is also beautiful is that for the first time Clara and the boys are at every game, and so are my parents and in-laws. We share the whole ride together. What could be better than being surrounded by the people you love the most?

  Later that night, after a half-hour ride home and congratulations and good nights from my family, I get on my knees beside our bed. My Bible is on the nightstand. I begin to pray, purely and completely overcome with gratitude to the Lord for my life and my health and my family. None of it would’ve been possible without Him.

  19

  Passages

  IF AMERICA EVER WANTED to have a queen, Rachel Robinson would be the perfect choice. She is regal and gracious, intelligent and tireless—a champion of freedom and equality for her whole life. I am not in awe of too many people, but I am in awe of Rachel Robinson. More than forty years after she lost her husband—the most courageous and important baseball player in the history of the sport—Rachel continues to honor Jackie Robinson, No. 42, through the foundation that bears his name, and through her efforts to make the world a more just place.

  Before I report for my twenty-first season of professional baseball, I begin 2010 by getting to meet Rachel for the first time. It happens at a fund-raising event in Lower Manhattan for the Jackie Robinson Foundation. I am there with Henry Aaron, in an informal question-and-answer session, speaking about the privilege and the pressure of being the last player to wear Jackie’s 42, after all of the other guys who’d been grandfathered in had retired.

  The privilege part couldn’t be more obvious; who would not want to share a uniform number with the great Jackie Robinson? The pressure is living up to the measure of a man who changed the world, and conducted himself with dignity every step of the way.

  I don’t know if any person can match that standard. I am no pioneer, I can tell you that. Roberto Clemente was the first Latin star, and there were many others, including Vic Power and Orlando Cepeda, who followed. Humberto Robinson, a relief pitcher, was the first big league player from Panama. I am a simple man who measures his impact in a smaller way: by being a humble servant of the Lord, and trying to do my best to treat people—and play the game—in the right way.

  The home opener carries on with the big moments—it has always been a festive occasion, especially when there is a ring ceremony attached. But this year it is not so festive at all. Sure, we get our rings and standing ovations, the biggest of them all reserved for Hideki Matsui, World Series hero, who is now a member of the Angels—our opening day opponent. The fans salute him for his quiet excellence and years of service and send my heart soaring, the exact opposite direction my heart is going when Gene Monahan is introduced.

  Through all these years and all those rubdowns, Geno remains a man who radiates kindness in all he does. So it’s a body blow when I find out a month before spring training starts that he has been diagnosed with throat cancer. He has spent four decades caring for his Yankee ballplayers. Now he has to take care of himself.

  It turns out that Geno felt a lump in his neck when he was shaving one day during the postseason. He does exactly what he tells us not to do; he puts off getting it checked out. He finally goes and sees a doctor in December and gets his diagnosis in January. He has to get his tonsils and an affected lymph node taken out, and then begins a course of thirty radiation treatments. Geno knows, because he counted. He is a man who is more precise than a Swiss watch. His training room is almost as spotless as his car, which he washes and vacuums the way most people brush their teeth. Everything is in its place, right down to the antique brass scale that Babe Ruth used to get weighed on. The room is so… cared for. And that’s exactly how I feel when I am in it.

  Geno takes a leave from the team while undergoing treatment. He has radiation the morning of opening day and then heads to the Stadium. He is introduced right after Joe Girardi. Jorge asks Michael Kay, the master of ceremonies, to wait before he introduces anyone else. The crowd rises and cheers for Geno, and the Yankee players who owe him so much move to the dugout railing and cheer for him, too. Geno is choking up, tapping his heart. I am choking up, too. I miss him terribly, miss all the talks about his daughters and my sons, about everything. Geno wants to rejoin us by early June. I pray that the Lord will give him the strength he needs to get through this and help get him back to the job that he loves.

  We celebrate our rings and Geno with a victory that day, even if another former teammate, Bobby Abreu, gives us a scare when he hits a grand slam off of David Robertson in the top of the ninth to make the score 7–5. Joe calls for me to get the last two outs. I strike out Torii Hunter and up steps… Hideki Matsui. A few hours earlier, I am clapping for him, and now I want to put him away so people will clap for us. It’s weird stuff sometimes, this free-agency racket, but when I look in at Jorge’s glove, Godzilla himself could be in the batter’s box and I wouldn’t be ruffled.

  Hideki pops up my first pitch to second, and the game is over.

  Geno actually makes it back ahead of schedule, and maybe it’s the inspiration of a sixty-five-year-old trainer that makes me feel, well, almost young. We have the best record in the majors (44–27) as we take the field on a Tuesday night in Phoenix against the Diamondbacks, and we rally to tie in the ninth and go ahead in the tenth when Curtis Granderson, our new center fielder, smokes a line-drive homer into the right-field stands. After a clean ninth, I come out for the tenth looking to nail down a victory. I have retired twenty-four straight hitters, a streak that ends when Stephen Drew singles to right and Justin Upton cracks a double. Joe orders me to walk the cleanup man, Miguel Montero, to set up the force at home.

  So the bases are loaded with Diamondbacks, and Joe and everybody else is wondering if I am having flashbacks to the 2001 World Series.

  I give them the answer later:

  No.

  That was November 4, 2001. This is June 23, 2010. I had hair then. I have no hair now. I had Scott Brosius and Tino Martinez on the corners then. I have Alex Rodriguez and Mark Teixeira on the corners now.

  I was thirty-one then. I am forty now.

  I don’t carry things that do me no good to carry. I let them go, so I can be light and free.

  The batter is Chris Young, the center fielder. I bust him inside and he pops up to Francisco Cervelli, my catcher. Next up is Adam LaRoche. He has all five RBIs in the game for the Diamondbacks. I run a cutter in on his hands and he pops to Alex.

  Now the hitter is Mark Reynolds. He leads the team in homers, leads the majors in strikeouts. Not a guy you want to miss your spot with.

  I get strike one on a cutter away that Reynolds looks at. I miss away, then hit the outside corner with another cutter away. On the 2–2 pitch, I want to go up the ladder—change his eye level. I wind and fire—another cutter, but up now. Reynolds swings through it.

  It is not nine years ago. You can tell by the outcome.

  Two days later, we are in Los Angeles to face the Dodgers, our first game ever against Mr. T. I give him a big hug before the game. It is great to see his face and look into his eyes. He is not just the man who led us to four world championships; he’s a man who saw something in me, who was willing to give me a chance to become the Yankees closer. You never forget that.

  Take it easy on us tonight, okay, Mo? he says. These guys have never seen a cutter like
yours before.

  I laugh and am on my way. CC Sabathia pitches four-hit, one-run ball through eight, and I take the ball for the ninth, three outs away from saving a 2–1 victory.

  Due up are Manny Ramirez, Matt Kemp, and James Loney. I strike out all three. I make sure not to look into the Dodger dugout for a reaction.

  While we’re in town, my old bullpen buddy Mike Borzello, who came to the Dodgers with Mr. T, asks if I would be willing to talk to Jonathan Broxton, the Dodgers’ closer. He’s a kid the size of a boxcar, a young man with a great arm who has a strong start to the year but is suffering from some confidence issues. I walk up to him in the outfield during Dodgers batting practice.

  Nice to meet you, he says.

  I’ve heard a lot about you. How are things going?

  Okay, I guess, he says. I’m just not doing the job the way I did last year.

  Broxton talks some about how confident and in control he felt when he was blowing away the league in 2009. I can see how hard he’s trying to get back there, all but putting himself into a vise, and tightening it up. I talk to young pitchers often, and it’s never about grips or pitch selection or on-the-fly tutorials about throwing a cut fastball. It is always about the mental approach to closing. That is what separates the guys who are good for a year or two and the guys who get the job done year after year after year.

  This is going to sound boring and obvious, I say, but you know what I think about when I come into a save situation? I think about getting three outs and getting them as fast as I can and getting out of there.

  That’s it. The job is hard enough without overcomplicating it. You don’t want a lot of noise playing in your head. You don’t want doubts. You just have to think about making every single pitch the best pitch it can be, so you can get that first out. And then the second out. And then the third out.

  I also tell him: Don’t worry about getting beat. It is going to happen. It happens to me. It happens to everybody. These are major league hitters and they are going to get you sometimes, but the best thing you can do for yourself is have a short memory. You can’t take what happened yesterday out to the mound today. Because if you do that, you’ve got no shot at succeeding.