After I get the first out, Austin Jackson hits a double to left center. I get Torii Hunter on a comebacker. Now Miguel Cabrera, hulking Venezuelan ball crusher, the best hitter in baseball, walks to the plate. It’s down to the two of us. Cabrera is hitting .358 with thirty-three home runs (it’s early August, mind you), and as usual, he’s hitting the ball to every part of every ballpark. I approach him the same way I approach every hitter; it doesn’t change because of who he is. Sometimes I might pitch to a particular weakness a guy might have, but in the case of Cabrera, there really is no weakness, so I just go after him.
The Stadium crowd is on its feet. My first pitch is a cutter up in the zone, out over the plate, and his swing is not his best. He lofts a fly ball toward the first-base dugout. Lyle Overbay, our first baseman, goes over to the railing of the camera well but overruns the ball a bit and has to lean back. He stretches for the ball, but it falls probably an inch from his glove. Cabrera gets a big break and he knows it. I get another foul ball to go up, 0–2.
One strike away again.
One strike.
Finish the job. Close this thing, I tell myself.
I throw a ball high out of the zone, but he won’t chase. The next pitch is in and Cabrera fights it off, grazes a foul ball off his knee and hobbles around, gets attended to by the trainer and Jim Leyland. After a few minutes he limps back in the box, and I fire again on the inner half, and this time he fouls it off his shin. Now he is limping even more.
All I want is to get this game over with. I try to get him to go after a pitch that breaks off the outside corner. He doesn’t bite. The seventh pitch of the at-bat is coming. The way he is swinging at my cutter tells me he could be vulnerable to a two-seam fastball; it’s a hard sinker and if I hit the right spot down and in I think it will get him. It is my best shot, I believe, because it’s a given that he is expecting another cutter. I make my deep forward-bend and come set, then fire a two-seam fastball, violating Wetteland’s gospel, because I believe I can fool Cabrera by throwing what he’s not expecting. I might’ve, too, except that the ball goes over the heart of the plate, and just sits there. Now he rips away and the minute he makes contact I drop my head on the mound. I know where it’s going to land.
In the black.
Over the center-field fence.
No need to watch Brett Gardner give chase.
Wow, I say, as Cabrera hobbles around the bases. The wow is as much about what just happened as it is about the gift of hitting Miguel Cabrera has been blessed with. He handled two pitches that usually would’ve ended the game. He extended his at-bat.
And then he beat me.
For the second time in two games, one strike away from locking down a victory, I make the long walk to the dugout, mission not accomplished, feeling almost dazed, as if I’d taken a punch to the jaw. I have let the guys down.
We win in ten innings on a clutch single by Gardner, so that helps soften the blow, but the hurt just can’t get airbrushed out of the picture by a happy ending.
Somebody is going to pay, I tell myself again, same as I did sixteen years earlier in Cleveland, when Sandy Alomar Jr. hit that homer off me in the division series. Somebody is going to pay. How or when they are specifically going to pay, I can’t tell you. It’s the voice I give to my determination.
What happened tonight is going to make me smarter, stronger, better. It’s not going to shake my faith in myself. If anything, it’s going to deepen it. It’s going to make me redouble my resolve to get the next one.
When I get home that night, Clara rubs my back and says what I know is true:
Tomorrow will be a better day.
They are just about my favorite words on earth.
We get drilled on Saturday, so if we want to start turning things around we better get after Justin Verlander on Sunday. Alex hits his first homer of the season into the seats in left in the second inning, and we have a two-run lead as I take over in the ninth.
The first batter I face is somebody I know. Miguel Cabrera. I bring a sharp cutter that he swings through for 0–1, and after a ball, I put another cutter right on the inside corner. It’s 1–2. I go away with a cutter and he takes it for a ball, and on 2–2, I am not going the two-seam route, the way I did Friday night.
I am going with Wetteland, and my best. The pitch is up a bit, and it is over the plate. It is not where I wanted it—not at all. I know it before Cabrera even swings. He knocks it over the fence in right and now it is 4–3, and I am on the mound, talking to myself.
How could this happen again? I know he’s a great hitter, but I felt in charge of that whole at-bat.
And then, boom—he takes me over the wall again.
I get Prince Fielder on a line drive to third base, and now Victor Martinez steps in. At 0–1, I come in with a cutter, but again, I miss my spot, and Martinez takes a rip, and there goes another ball into outer space, into the seats in right, tying the game and clinching a history I want no part of: For the first time in my big league career, I’ve blown three consecutive saves.
I stand on the mound and try to take this in. It is not easy. For the third time in five days, I have failed to do my job. Gardner is the hero again, hitting a game-winning home run off Jose Veras with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. We take two out of three, no thanks to me. I have seven weeks left in my career. I am not having a crisis in confidence. I believe as much as ever that I can do all things through Him. Somebody did not pay today, though, and that really bothers me.
It means everything to me to be dependable, trustworthy.
And I have not been either this week at all.
A week later, we are in Fenway against the Red Sox, and Sox starter Ryan Dempster decides he’s going to drill Alex. After a couple of awkward misses, he finally gets him. I can’t believe Dempster is so blatant about it, nor can I believe the way the fans cheer in delight. The venom coming from the stands—what people are screaming at Alex, and the looks on their faces—is ugly. Benches empty. Alex gets his revenge when he homers against Dempster in the sixth, and I wind up with my thirty-sixth save. I am hoping that this is just the spirited victory that will get us going.
Five games out of the wild-card spot with five weeks to play, we struggle through an up-and-down September, and it becomes clear that my final days are not going to include a pennant race. But what a memorable month. On September 22, the Yankees host Mariano Rivera Day. Clara and my kids and parents are there, and former teammates are there, and so is Rachel Robinson and her daughter, Sharon. And my dear friend Geno, too. They retire my number—Jackie Robinson’s number—and mount it on the Monument Park wall, and Metallica even plays “Enter Sandman” live.
It is beyond what I could’ve imagined, and leaves me filled with so much gratitude and warmth, I don’t know what to do with it all. I pitch a scoreless inning and two-thirds in the game that day, and the perfect ending would’ve been a victory, but we fall, 2–1.
And now, four days later, we are there… the 1,115th and final appearance of my New York Yankees career. It comes against the Tampa Bay Rays. The gate opens and I make my last run in from the pen, the crowd standing and cheering. I enter with two on and one out in the top of the eighth, doing my best not to think about the weight of the moment, or saying goodbye. It is not easy. I quickly retire two batters, and then I walk back to the dugout and head into the trainer’s room in the clubhouse. My forearm is tight. I ask Mark Littlefield, the trainer, to put some hot stuff on it. He is working on my arm when Andy Pettitte walks in.
What are you doing here? I ask.
Jeet and I want to come and get you before you finish the ninth. What do you think?
Don’t do that, I say. Please don’t do it. You guys know me. I want to finish the game. That’s my job.
Okay, Andy says, and off he goes. With my forearm loosened, I get back to the dugout and sit on the bench. I don’t move right away even after our at-bat is over. I just sit for a moment and look at the mound and the field, before
I go out there for the last time.
I have no idea how I am going to get through this. I’ve been good at holding off the torrent of emotions so far, but I pray to the Lord for strength, since I can feel the dam starting to weaken.
Finally, I get off the bench and go out to the mound. I throw my warm-ups. The crowd is once more standing and cheering. The first hitter, catcher Jose Lobaton, hits a cutter away right back to me on a high hop. I jump to grab it and make the play.
One out.
The next hitter is Yunel Escobar, the shortstop. He takes a cutter away for 1–0. I come back again with a cutter that is up a bit, over the plate, not the best spot by any means, but Escobar swings and lifts a pop-up to Robby Cano.
Two outs.
The next hitter is Ben Zobrist, one of my All-Star teammates at Citi Field. I take a deep breath, hoping I can finish this up without losing it, hoping I can do my job one last time. I am about to get back on the rubber when I look to my left and see Andy and Derek walking out of the Yankee dugout toward the mound.
I thought I told you not to do this, I think.
Andy and Derek are both smiling at me. I am smiling, too.
Andy’s face says, I know you told us not to do it, but we’re doing it anyway, because this is the way you need to go out.
Andy motions to the home plate umpire, Laz Diaz, that he wants the right-hander, and he and Derek keep walking, and now they are on the mound.
Andy holds out his left hand and I put the ball in it. I won’t be needing it anymore.
Andy wraps his arms around me and I put mine around him and now the dam finally bursts, the emotions flooding me, overwhelming me, the finality of it all descending on me like an anchor. I weep like a child in his arms. Andy holds the back of my head and the sobs keep coming, deep heaves of joy and sadness and everything, all at once.
It’s okay, Derek says. It’s okay.
The embrace lasts a long time, and then I hug Derek, and I don’t want any of this to end, with the Stadium drenching me in applause, the two teams doing the same.
I walk off the mound and wave my hat to the crowd, to my teammates, to the Rays. When the game ends I sit in the dugout by myself, just trying to be still, to drink up the glory of the Lord and the power of the moment. The crowd files out. Everybody gives me space. A few minutes pass.
I don’t want to leave. But I am ready. I decide I need to go back to the mound, my office for the last nineteen years, one more time.
I toe the rubber a couple of times and then bend down and scoop up a handful of dirt and pack it into my right hand. It makes sense to me. I started playing in dirt so I might as well finish playing in dirt, the perfect keepsake for a simple man.
EPILOGUE
Refuge of Hope
FOR THE LAST NINETEEN seasons, the Lord has blessed me with the opportunity to play professional baseball for the New York Yankees. My job was to save games, and I loved every part of it. Now I have a new job—probably better described as a calling—and that is to glorify the Lord and praise His name, and show the wonders that await those who seek Him and want to experience His grace and peace and mercy.
From saving games to saving souls? I’m not sure I would put it that way, but I will say this:
With the Lord, all things are possible.
About four years ago, Clara and I started an evangelical Christian church called Refugio de Esperanza, or Refuge of Hope. We held services in a former home of ours in a town not far from where we live. The services were sparsely attended at first but quickly grew, attracting people of varying ages and ethnic and religious backgrounds. We had Spanish-speaking people and English-speaking people; wealthy people and poor people; devout believers and some skeptics, too, who were curious to find out what all this rejoicing and singing was all about. And before long we knew we needed a much bigger space. Now, after a two-year, $4-million restoration project, we are moving into that space… a magnificent House of the Lord in the city of New Rochelle. It used to be known as North Avenue Presbyterian Church.
Now it is known as Refugio de Esperanza.
North Avenue Church was built in 1907, a stately stone building with a slate roof and stunning windows. I first saw it two years ago after a friend told me about it.
It doesn’t look like much on the outside. In fact, it’s a wreck, my friend said. But it has all kinds of potential.
When I first walked in the place, it wasn’t just abandoned. It was on the verge of being bulldozed. I mean, it was nasty. Just about everything was in disrepair. There were holes in the roof and windows, the sickening smell of dead animals, more debris and neglect than you can imagine. But the Lord was with me that day, and I truly believe He gave me a vision of what this church could be. In spite of the horrid condition, I saw only beauty. I saw the most majestic wood framing the sanctuary. I saw a soaring ceiling. I saw the glory of the Lord. Ankle-deep in garbage, surrounded by shards of windows and busted pews, I called Clara—the pastor of Refugio de Esperanza.
Clara, I have found our church. It’s perfect. You have to come and see it right now, I said.
Clara arrived a short time later, and she, too, saw the possibilities. She, too, could envision it being full of people worshipping the Lord, a place rich with the Holy Spirit, a place that knows only goodness.
It’s going to take a lot of time and work, and money, too, but it will be so worth it, she said.
Clara is the senior pastor of the church, and it is her profound faith and humility that are the spiritual bedrock of all that we do. The mother of our three sons and a woman who is the real superstar of the family, Clara grew up with the Gospel, but it wasn’t until the age of twenty-five that she had a personal encounter with God that changed her life.
I believe in God and my desire is to always please Him, Clara says.
Our plan—the Lord’s plan—is for the church to be not just a Refuge of Hope but a community hub that will include a food pantry, educational programs, tutoring, faith-based initiatives for kids and families, and more. It will be there for people of all walks of life, and seek to serve those among us who may not have had the easiest time of it.
It will be a place of giving, and love, following the lead of Jesus Christ.
There are so many troubles and tragedies in this world that sometimes it’s hard to know where to start if you want to make a difference. It is equally hard to hold on to optimism. We know we can’t solve every problem at Refugio de Esperanza, but what we can do is try to touch people’s hearts, one at a time, to offer comfort and support in a way that might make people’s burdens easier, and their road less difficult.
It is a daunting task, but the idea of spreading hope is a wonderful thing to contemplate. In our old home and our new home, our services at Refuge of Hope are without a doubt the greatest moments of my life. Eighteen hours before Mariano Rivera Day at the Stadium in September, we have one of the most beautiful services I can remember. I am so overcome by gratitude and lightness during the service that I just begin to weep. There is no containing the joy I feel in that moment. It is the presence of the Lord, the wonder of living in His light and sharing His goodness with others. Joy and goodness are what the Lord wants for us. That is the truth.
I loved saving baseball games for the New York Yankees, and I am grateful every day for my experiences in baseball. I have the dirt from the new Stadium and the bullpen bench from the old Stadium, and I have memories and friendships that will last a lifetime. I will never forget how it felt to put on that uniform every day. Through all of my years as a closer for the New York Yankees, I tried to honor the Lord; to live and play with a pure heart; and to give everything I had, every day, to the team and its fans.
And that is just what I seek to do with my new calling.
I know the possibilities are without limit, and the best is yet to come, for it is written in Philippians, chapter four, verse thirteen:
I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
I am all leg
s, and full of pride, the day I graduate from Victoriana Chacón Elementary School—and shake hands with Puerto Caimito mayor Eugenio Castañón.
For most of my childhood, my dream was to be the Pelé of Panama. Here I am at eighteen—right before I gave up the sport of soccer due to a serious eye injury.
Clara and me on our wedding day, November 9, 1991. Marrying her was the best decision I’ve ever made.
Getaway day: Clara and I are off to Panama City for a two-day honeymoon before I have to leave to play instructional league ball.
On the day I leave Panama for the first time—and get on a plane for the first time—I put on a brave face, but don’t be fooled. Here I am at the Panama City airport with my father and mother. That’s my cousin Alberto hiding in the back. (Clara took the photo.)
Walking through Tocumen International Airport in Panama City with my plane ticket in hand, I am heading off for another season, not letting anybody know how terrified I am of flying.
I had a good year in 1992 as a starter for the Fort Lauderdale Yankees in Single-A ball—until an elbow surgery made me much more suspect than prospect.
Scott Brosius (left) and Jorge Posada tackle me after we sweep the Braves in 1999 to capture our third World Series title in four years. (Jamie Squire / Getty Images)
Saluting the fans after I pick up save number 602, passing Trevor Hoffman to become baseball’s all-time leader. (Rob Tringali / Getty Images)
Another cutter is about to be launched. (Ronald C. Modra / Sports Imagery / Getty Images)
The last out is always the hardest one to get. Here I celebrate getting Mark Sweeney and completing our sweep of the Padres in 1998. (Vincent Laforet / Getty Images)
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