The Closer (13 page)

Abbott, a rangy guy, is as erratic as advertised. He walks eight guys in five innings. He throws 49 strikes, 48 balls, but somehow gets every out he needs to and doesn’t allow us a single hit in five innings.

Limited by a bad hamstring, Roger goes five and gives up only one hit, and the bullpens take over and it’s still 0–0 into the eighth. Ramiro gets the first two outs, finishing up his third inning of work without giving up a single hit, before Bret Boone hits an 0–1 changeup into the seats. The Mariners have a 1–0 lead—and need just six outs to tie the series at two games apiece.

Arthur Rhodes, a left-hander, comes out of the Mariners’ pen for the bottom of the eighth. He is a guy who, for whatever reason, is good against the rest of the league and not very good against the New York Yankees. With one out and a full count to Bernie, Rhodes throws a fastball, his best pitch, out over the plate. Bernie stays back and swings and hits a high fly to right that drops into the seats, just beyond the glove of a leaping Ichiro. The game is tied. The next pitcher to enter the game is me, not on hand to save a game. Just keep it tied.

Olerud grounds out to first on my first pitch. Javier pushes a bunt toward second and is out on my second pitch. Cameron pops a foul fly to first on my third pitch. I am on the mound for about ninety seconds, maybe less. I am surprised that Cameron doesn’t take a pitch or two, just because one of those unwritten rules in baseball says that you are not supposed to let a pitcher have a three-pitch inning.

I am not complaining.

Kazuhiro Sasaki, the Mariners’ closer, comes on for the bottom of the ninth. Shane Spencer grounds out to third to start the inning, and Brosius smacks a hard ball up the middle that McLemore
stops, but he can’t get the ball to first in time. Up steps Soriano. Sasaki throws a splitter down. Soriano is a free swinger, but doesn’t offer. Sasaki doesn’t want to get behind, and certainly doesn’t want to push the winning run into scoring position. He throws a fastball, a little over waist-high, directly over the middle of the plate. Soriano, coiled in a closed stance, jumps on it and drives it far to right center. Mike Cameron climbs the wall but has no shot, and our star rookie, who breaks into the big leagues with eighteen homers and seventy-three RBIs, has put us a game away from the World Series. The Stadium is going berserk. It seems to get louder every time somebody produces another round of late-inning heroics.

Game 5 is the next day, and our philosophy is: Why wait? You do not want to give a club that won 116 games any reason for hope. Aaron Sele, another pitcher who seems to have a miserable time against us, whether he’s wearing a Rangers or a Mariners uniform, throws two scoreless innings and then we break out, scoring four times in the third, the big hit a two-run homer by Bernie. Paulie homers off Sele an inning later, and with Andy cruising, there seems to be no danger at all, and especially not after we pile on four more runs against the Mariners bullpen. The crowd starts chanting “Overrated” at the Mariners and “No Game 6” at their manager, Lou Piniella, who had guaranteed that the series would return to Seattle.

I don’t like this kind of taunting and never have. I know fans are happy, but what is the point of mocking anybody? How does that make you feel better? It certainly doesn’t help give us an emotional edge… so in my book, why do it? But I don’t give sermons on the subject; I just want to savor this moment—and get back to the World Series so we can try to bring home a fourth straight title.

I’m not sure why, but Mr. T brings me in to close it out with a nine-run lead (12–3). On my twelfth pitch, Mike Cameron hits a soft liner to right, and Spencer, who comes on for Paulie in the late
innings, runs it down and closes things out. Soon the whole team is on the mound, pinstripes everywhere, all of us taking turns hugging each other. In consecutive series, we’ve beaten the two best teams in the game this season.

There are four more games to win.

The Series opens in Phoenix, in a ballpark with a swimming pool in center field. We don’t go for a dip, and we don’t hit a lick, either. Bernie stays on fire with an RBI double off of Curt Schilling in the top of the first, and it’s a great way to get going, since the consensus is that if Schilling and Randy Johnson can pitch like a latter-day version of Koufax and Drysdale, we are going to be in deep trouble.

After Bernie’s hit, our bats go utterly silent. Brosius doubles in the second and Jorge singles in the fourth, and that is the sum total of the Yankee offense for the night. Schilling goes seven innings and strikes out eight and will win his fourth game against no defeats in the postseason (the Diamondbacks beat the Cardinals and then the Braves to win the National League pennant). Mussina, who has been our best starter for the last month, gets taken deep by Craig Counsell and Luis Gonzalez and we are on our way to a 9–1 spanking.

Now it’s Johnson against Andy in Game 2, and here’s the bad news: Johnson is even more dominant than Schilling was. He gives up no runs and three hits, and goes the distance with eleven strikeouts. Matt Williams socks a three-run homer off Andy and the score is 4–0. It might as well be 40–0 for the way Johnson is pitching.

We fly back to New York, putting our season—and a fourth straight World Series title—in the hands of Roger. Jorge gives us an early lead with a homer off of Brian Anderson, the Diamondbacks lefty starter, in the second. Roger dodges a bases-loaded jam
early and escapes again in the sixth when Shane Spencer makes a sprawling catch of a searing Matt Williams liner to save two runs. Brosius hits a single to give us a 2–1 lead in the sixth and Roger finishes strong, with two punch-outs in the seventh in a 1-2-3 inning, and then gives the ball to me.

I haven’t pitched in eight days, but I warm up well and feel strong and sharp. I get Counsell on a bunt try, then strike out Steve Finley and Gonzalez, and I get two more strikeouts in the ninth, before Williams bounces out to end it. It’s a huge win for us, with Schilling set to go again in Game 4.

Schilling is just as good as he was in Game 1, but Duque is right there with him. Tied at one, the game goes into the eighth, Mike Stanton on the mound. Gonzalez singles, and Erubiel Durazo, the DH, pounds a double, and the Diamondbacks go up, 3–1, and call for their closer, a South Korean submarine pitcher, Byung-Hyun Kim. Kim has been untouchable in the playoffs, with his heavy sinker and his nasty delivery. He goes to full counts on Spencer, Brosius, and Sori in the bottom of the eighth and strikes out all three.

Ramiro plows through a clean ninth, and now we’re down to our last three outs. Derek tries to bunt his way on; Williams, the third baseman, throws him out. After Paulie singles to left, Bernie goes down swinging on three pitches and now it’s on Tino. We are one out from being down three games to one, with Randy Johnson and probably Schilling to contend with. We have a pulse, but it’s faint. Kim checks Paulie and delivers, belt-high to the outside part of the plate. If Tino tries to pull it, it’s a ground ball to second, or maybe a weak pop-up to right center.

Tino doesn’t try to pull it. He brings the barrel around and mashes the pitch right over Kim’s head, a rising line drive just a few steps to the right of center. Finley races back and looks like Spider-Man trying to climb the wall, but this ball is gone and this game is tied.

I get three quick groundouts in the top of the tenth and will be
going out for the eleventh if necessary. Brosius leads off and rips a line drive to left that swerves foul by maybe ten feet, then gets a good swing on a ball he skies to right for the first out. Sori also has a good hack or two before flying out to left. Next up is Derek, who has but one hit in the four games and is batting .067 in the Series. The clock strikes midnight and the Stadium scoreboard says “Welcome to November.” With the whole season pushed back a week after September 11, this is the first time baseball has ever been played in November in the big leagues. Derek goes down 0–2 but works the count and fouls off one ball, then another, and another, clearly looking to knock a ball to right with his trademark inside-out swing.

With the count full, Kim delivers again and Derek inside-outs it again, driving the ball down the line in right, a ball that keeps going and going… right into the right-field stands. Jeter gives his right-angle fist pump—another trademark—and the Stadium is quaking as we pour out of the dugout for the party at home plate.

It’s November 1 and the World Series is tied. I drive home to sleep in my own bed. It’s hard to beat this.

Mussina gets a second shot at Arizona in Game 5, and he is back on form. He has six strikeouts and allows just one hit through four innings, though we’re not touching Miguel Batista, the veteran right-hander starting for Arizona, either. In the fifth, Finley leads off by driving a 1–2 pitch over the wall for the game’s first run, and three batters later, catcher Rod Barajas does the same thing.

Batista seems to be getting stronger as the game goes on. I head to the bullpen in the bottom of the sixth.

We sure like to do things the hard way in this World Series,
I think.

Mussina stays aggressive, and when he pops Williams up with two on to get out of the top of the eighth, a splendid night’s work is done. We put two on in the eighth but don’t score, and Ramiro takes over for the ninth. As I begin to warm up in the bullpen, I
hear the fans in the bleachers and right-field seats chanting, “Paul O’Neill! Paul O’Neill!” They have been cheering him all night, knowing that if we don’t pull it out this is likely going to be his last game at the Stadium, since he seems headed for retirement. The chant is engulfing us in the pen. I get goose bumps listening to it. Paulie doesn’t know what to do. He keeps spitting in his glove and tries to pretend nothing is going on. I’m thrilled for him that he is getting this kind of send-off, because he deserves nothing less.

Ramiro sets down three Diamondbacks in the top of the ninth, and we are exactly where we were a night earlier: down two, with Byung-Hyun Kim on the mound. Jorge leads off with a double down the line, but Spencer grounds out and Knoblauch strikes out, and now it’s Scott Brosius’s turn. He takes a ball. Kim looks at Jorge, then gets set. He submarines the 1–0 pitch and Brosius swings and the sound is good and off the ball goes, deep into the left-field seats. Now it is Scott Brosius’s right fist in the air.

You can’t make this stuff up.

For the second straight night, we are down two, down to our last at-bat, and we hit a game-tying two-run homer. As Brosius rounds the bases, Kim is crouched on the mound, like a catcher. In the TV close-up he looks as if he might cry. Bob Brenly, the Diamondbacks manager, comes out to take him from the game in favor of Mike Morgan.

I cruise through an easy tenth, but Morgan is cruising through us, too, retiring seven straight. In the eleventh, I give up two singles, and after a sacrifice, we walk Finley to load the bases. With Johnson looming in Game 6, I know exactly how huge this moment is. I come at Reggie Sanders hard, go up 0–2, and get him on a liner to second.

Now the hitter is Mark Grace. Again I go up 0–2, and that makes all the difference. I can make him try to hit my pitch, and I do, getting him to bounce to third for an inning-ending force.

The game keeps going, Sterling Hitchcock (he got traded back to the Yankees from the Padres in midseason) relieving me and pitching a scoreless twelfth, and Albie Lopez coming on for Arizona. Knoblauch greets him with a single up the middle, and Brosius bunts him to second. Soriano comes up and, on a 2–1 pitch, serves a ball into right for a single, and here comes Knoblauch with the winning run. We win our third straight one-run game and protect our home court. All we need is one more, and a fourth straight world championship is ours.

W
E ARE BACK IN
the desert for Game 6, and the night turns out to be as pleasant as sitting on a cactus. Going back to 1996, Andy has proven himself to be as big a gamer as you will find, but he doesn’t have it tonight, and neither do we. The Diamondbacks score one in the first, three in the second, eight in the third, and three in the fourth. Randy Johnson is on the mound. It’s pretty clear we are not going to tie or win this game with another ninth-inning home run.

The final score is 15–2, and the Diamondbacks have twenty-two hits, two more than we had in the first four games of the Series. Ten of the hits come against our long reliever, Jay Witasick, in one and a third innings. I feel for Jay. It’s his only appearance in the Series, and his job is to take the beating and try to save the other arms in the bullpen. The whole night is about as ugly as it can be, but it only counts for one loss, so here’s how I look at it:

Now it’s a best-of-one World Series.

The matchup for Game 7 is right out of a movie script… two of the best pitchers in the game… two jumbo right-handers… Curt Schilling and Roger Clemens. Their combined record for the year is 42–9.

I don’t think this will be a blowout.

Mr. T isn’t sure what he’s going to say to us in the locker room
before the game. He has already said so much to us, told us how proud he was of us and how he’d never forget this team and its makeup.

I think I’ll let you have the floor, Mr. T says to Gene Monahan. The guys in this room don’t respect anybody more than you.

Geno laughs when Mr. T tells him this, because he doesn’t think he’s serious.

When he told me he
was
serious, I just about crapped in my pants, Geno says.

It is an inspired idea by Mr. T. Geno is so much more than a trainer to us—somebody who helps our bodies heal and nurtures us through the physical grind of the season. He is also as kind and generous a man as you will ever meet. All he wants to do is give and serve. To make you feel comfortable, feel better. He is a special man.

We come off the field after batting practice. Everybody is at the lockers. Mr. T goes to the center of the room.

Geno, you got the floor, he says.

Geno looks aghast for a minute. His face is saying,
Oh my Lord, now what do I do?

He has been with the Yankees for forty years. The spotlight is never, ever what he wants. But he has it now, and he’s running with it:

No matter what happens tonight, guys, you have had some year, Geno says. From Day One of spring training, through 9/11, through two tough series… you’ve played with such heart. You’ve played with class and you’ve been winners—you’ve been true Yankees. And I’ve never been prouder to be part of a club, because of what you guys bring every day. Whatever happens out there tonight, you guys are going to walk into this clubhouse and you are going to be the same champions you’ve been all year. Nothing will change that.

The room is completely silent after Geno finishes, except for the
sound of bench coach Don Zimmer crying. A lot of us feel like crying.

Now I want to say a few things.

This is our game to win, I say. We just need to trust. Trust in our heart, trust in each other. My heart, it comes from the Lord. We are blessed to be here again, to be with each other. Whatever happens, I am going to trust the Lord.

My point is not that the Lord wants me to save the game, or that the Lord is on the side of the Yankees and not the Diamondbacks. It is that the Lord is always there for us. His grace and mercy are infinite. They are there for us to the end of the age. So really there is nothing to fear, no result that isn’t part of the plan, for we are in the arms of the Lord. That belief is what frees me to live, and pitch, in the moment.

Roger and Schilling both come out in top form. Roger strikes out eight guys in the first four innings, and Schilling is even sharper, allowing one hit and striking out eight through six.

Finley leads off the bottom of the sixth for the D-Backs with a looping single to center, then Danny Bautista, the right fielder, smokes a fastball to the wall in left center. Finley scores the first run of the night, before a brilliant relay throw from Derek nails Bautista as he goes for a triple. Roger gets out and we go to the seventh, and Derek leads off with a single to right. Paulie follows with a single up the middle, and with one out, Tino drives a hard single to right to score Derek and tie the game. Spencer almost gets us two more runs, but Finley runs down his drive to right center for the final out.

The game moves into the eighth. Sori is leading off and falls behind, 0–2. He fouls off two pitches and then Schilling delivers a low splitter and Sori is all over it, golfing it over the left-center-field fence. It’s the first time we have the lead in Bank One Ballpark since the first inning of the first game. Moments after Sori’s ball lands, the bullpen phone rings.

Mo, you got the eighth, bullpen coach Rich Monteleone says.

Miguel Batista and then Randy Johnson get the final two outs in relief of Schilling, and I come on for the bottom of the eighth. Luis Gonzalez is leading off. I go to the back of the mound and hold the ball in my right hand, and close my eyes and pray:

Dear Lord, please keep me safe and keep my teammates safe, and allow me to use Your blessings and Your strength to do my job. Thank You for all the ways You have blessed me. Amen.

I strike out Gonzalez on a cutter right under his hands, then get Williams to chase a fastball up for another strikeout. Finley drives a single to right and then I get Bautista to chase a cutter up and out of the zone to strike out the side.

Johnson sets down Bernie, Tino, and Jorge in order and now it is time. There are three outs left in the season. Three outs separating us from another championship, not just a fourth World Series in a row, but a championship for the city of New York. I am thinking only about hitting Jorge’s glove, taking care of business, one cut fastball at a time.

Get three quick outs and let’s get out of here.

I have as powerful a sense as I have ever had that we are going to win this game. This is my fifty-second postseason appearance. I have converted twenty-three straight save opportunities and have the lowest ERA of any pitcher in World Series history. I am not overconfident. I just know in my heart that we as a team are going to finish the job, because we do that as well as any club I’ve ever seen.

My warm-up pitches feel good. All I am thinking about is throwing the best pitch I can… spending the inning in the tunnel with Jorge and his glove.

The first hitter, veteran first baseman Mark Grace, fights off a 1–0 pitch and hits a broken-bat looper into center for a single. David Dellucci pinch-runs for him, extra speed that is important with the next hitter, catcher Damian Miller, surely bunting. Miller
squares and taps his bunt almost straight back to me, an easy force at second. I pounce on it and fire to Derek at second, but my throw sails to the right, into center field. It is the second error of my Yankee career.

It is an easy play. I just blow it.

I get back on the rubber. Bank One Ballpark, as quiet as a funeral parlor just a minute earlier, is suddenly throbbing with sound and excitement. Mr. T comes out of the dugout. The infielders converge on the mound.

Let’s just get an out—make sure we get one, he says. I hear him, but my mind is elsewhere.

I am going to smother this bunt. I am going to be all over it. I’ve just made a terrible play on a bunt and now I am going to make amends.

As the pinch hitter, Jay Bell, steps into the box, I am almost ready to charge the plate before I throw. Bell has the reputation of being a very good bunter, but if I have anything to do with it, these runners will not be advancing.

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.