The Closer (19 page)

Why now? What are you doing, Alex? Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow?

Those are my thoughts when I find out about this.

Alex has the right to be a free agent by the terms of his contract. That is completely his right, and he should go for the opt-out if that’s what he thinks is best. But what is the point of doing it during the World Series? Why hijack attention from the game you love? I am no psychologist, and I am not going to pretend that I am. You know by now that I am not one to judge harshly; I try not to judge at all. I don’t know what Alex’s motivation is. Maybe his agent convinces him that this is a great way to kick off a bidding war by
showing the world what a big deal Alex Rodriguez is… so big that they interrupt the World Series to talk about his contract situation. Or maybe it’s important for him to feel, well, this important. I don’t know. Controversies may not swarm Alex the way the midges swarmed Joba that night in Cleveland, but sometimes it’s close. I have spoken to him time and again about the beauty and benefit of keeping things simple.

I am hoping and praying that one day he will listen.

It’s November 29, my thirty-eighth birthday, the Series put to bed and another month closer to spring, but I am not in the mood to celebrate. I am in Panama for the funeral and burial of my friend and mentor Chico Heron, who has passed away after a long illness. I’ve known Chico for most of my life, and I loved him. If he hadn’t scouted me and believed in me, I would’ve had no shot at making the big leagues. If he hadn’t taught me the things he taught me, I don’t know where I would be.

Chico was a funny little guy, a man completely about Panamanian baseball. You could be playing on a rock-ribbed sandlot that was miles from everywhere, and you’d look up and Chico would be there. Then you’d be at the biggest stadium in Panama City, and he’d be there, too. Chico loved baseball and loved scouting, and he loved helping guys he believed in. Chico didn’t worry that I was skin and bones and only throwing in the mid-eighties when he scouted me as a pitcher. He saw potential. He saw what I might become—a kid who, with more weight and a lot of work, just might be a legitimate prospect. He recommended me to his boss, Herb Raybourn, and soon enough I was on my way to Tampa.

Even more than his eye for talent, though, Chico had goodness in his soul. He knew the right way to do things. Over and over, he would talk to me about giving everything I had at all times, about
being respectful and keeping my focus and persevering through the tough times that are definitely a part of the game and of life.

Trust yourself and believe in yourself, and trust in the Lord, Chico would tell me. When you have that trust, and you are willing to work and work, there’s no telling what you can accomplish.

I listened, and it changed my life.

Y
OU CAN’T HAVE A
stranger way to begin a baseball season than this. The last time I saw Roger Clemens, in the fall of 2007, he was in the Bronx, wearing a pin-striped uniform, trying to keep our season alive against the Cleveland Indians. Now I see him on the television screen, wearing a pin-striped suit in Washington, DC, trying to keep his legend alive against the accusations of his former trainer, Brian McNamee. It’s another low moment for baseball, with the issue of performance-enhancing drugs getting hotly debated in a hearing room on Capitol Hill. I know it’s important, and nobody wants baseball to be a clean sport more than I do. I still wish it would go away, and that almost everyone who ever cheated would go away, too.

It’s a time of big transition in my baseball life as well. Mr. T is gone, and Mr. G—Joe Girardi—is here. He’s the third manager of my career, and the first, of course, who had been not just a teammate of mine but a catcher of mine. The first time we were actually a battery in a real game was the first week of the 1996 season—in Texas, against the Rangers. I struck out Rusty Greer and sailed through two quick innings with Joe. He was upbeat and high-energy, a small guy with a big, positive presence who was really good at blocking pitches and calling games. He was all about the team, too. Batting eighth, right ahead of Derek, he had the most
sacrifice bunts on the team that year, stole thirteen bases, and had one of the biggest hits in the Series—the run-scoring triple off of Greg Maddux that got us going in the decisive Game 6 at Yankee Stadium.

Having a new manager may be a big change, but just as Joe was easy to play with, he is easy to play for. His moving into the manager’s office isn’t a problem in the least. I will work and prepare the same way as always, and I am going to do whatever he asks me to do.

He tells me he wants to limit me to one inning whenever possible, and be judicious when it’s my turn to pitch.

Whenever you call, I will be ready, I say.

Whether it’s the new manager or my new catcher, Jose Molina (Jorge misses much of the season with an injury, so the Yankees go out and get a Molina brother), I begin the year as if I’m about to turn twenty-nine, not thirty-nine. Two months into the season, I have twenty-six strikeouts, two walks, an ERA of 0.38, and fifteen saves. We go on a seven-game winning streak after that, and I get my nineteenth save by striking out the side against the Padres. It would feel a whole lot better if we weren’t just five games over .500 (50–45) when the All-Star Game arrives at the old Yankee Stadium for the final time.

It’s my ninth All-Star Game, and the most special to me of all—baseball’s best gathering to say farewell to a shrine. The most powerful part of the experience for me is seeing George Steinbrenner back at the Stadium. He hasn’t been around all year. We keep hearing about his failing health and his diminished faculties, so it is great to see him in person.

And you can’t mistake how much it means to him to be here. In the pregame ceremony, riding in from the outfield in a golf cart, Mr. George is weeping as he rolls along toward the pitcher’s mound. He hands baseballs to four Yankee Hall of Famers—Whitey Ford,
Yogi Berra, Goose Gossage, and Reggie Jackson. They embrace him—and then throw the balls to their designated catchers: Whitey to Derek; Yogi to Joe Girardi; Reggie to Alex; Goose to me.

I’m not even sure when I first officially met Mr. George, but I am positive I was already in the big leagues. If he was around spring training when I was younger, I watched him from afar, but mostly I just went about my work and tried not to get noticed.

Mr. George is surrounded by his family at the All-Star Game, and he looks overcome through almost all of the festivities. It’s sad to see a man who has always been such a commanding (and demanding) presence, such a forceful leader, with his vitality gone. I want to thank him for giving me a chance, and giving me the honor of wearing the uniform of the New York Yankees, but I am not sure what to say or do—whether to approach him and risk an awkward moment if he doesn’t know who I am. I decide it’s best to let him enjoy his family and the farewell to the Stadium, a place he has helped make one of the legendary venues in all of sports.

It is one of the last times I ever see Mr. George Steinbrenner.

We come flying out of the box to start the second half, winning eight in a row. Joba, now a starter, pitches a 1–0 masterpiece in Fenway on a Friday night in late July, and after I finish it by striking out Mike Lowell and J. D. Drew, we are just three games out of first—the closest we’ve been since the first week of May.

And then we slide right back to mediocrity again. We lose four of five games and give up forty-four runs in the process, not the sort of pitching that is going to take you places. We lose Wang in June to a freakish ankle injury when he’s running for home in a blowout victory over the Astros in Houston (sadly, he has never been the same pitcher since), and we have only one starter—Mussina—with an ERA under 4.00. Plus, we’re no better than an average offensive team this year, and that’s not a good combination.

The Red Sox come to town in late August, and it’s a series we really need to win, if not sweep. We do neither. Andy gets roughed up in the opener, a 7–3 defeat, and in the next game we send out Sidney Ponson, and soon a Red Sox rout is on, and so is the Dustin Pedroia Show.

He gets three hits, scores four runs, and drives in four on a grand slam off of David Robertson. He runs and dives all over the place, is covered with dirt from beginning to end, and plays with such passion you’d think it was the last ball game he’d ever get to play.

Until he comes back the next day, and the day after, and plays the same way.

There are a lot of players I admire, and Dustin Pedroia is right at the top of the list. Nobody plays harder, gives more, wants to win more. He comes at you hard for twenty-seven outs, every time. It’s a special thing to see, a little guy like that who is willing to do whatever it takes. I’ve seen many top-notch second basemen in my years in the big leagues. Roberto Alomar was a staggering talent who made the game look easy, who could beat you with his glove, his legs, or his bat. Robinson Cano has a beautiful stroke and is as good in the field as almost anybody. Before he started having his throwing problems, Chuck Knoblauch was another guy who could take over a game with his speed and grit. But if I have to win one game, I’d have a hard time taking anybody over Dustin Pedroia as my second baseman.

Just over three weeks later, our season is effectively over, and so is our postseason streak of thirteen years. The Rays are the AL East champions, the Red Sox are the wild-card winner, and the Yankees are out of luck, six games behind at 89–73. Like Derek and Jorge, I’ve been to the playoffs every year of my career, but the simple truth is that we don’t deserve to go this year. I finish with one of the
best statistical years of my career (39 saves in 40 chances, 1.40 ERA, 77 strikeouts, and 6 walks), but all of that and 45 cents will get me on the bus to Chorrera.

Our final piece of business in the 2008 season is to say goodbye to Yankee Stadium. After 85 years and 26 world championships, the final game is played on Sunday, September 21. The Orioles are in town. The gates open seven hours early so fans can walk around and have a proper farewell. From the time I leave home for the Bronx that day, emotions flood me like water over the bow.

I think about the first time I stood on the mound in the postseason—top of the twelfth inning in the 1995 ALDS against the Mariners, striking out Jay Buhner to begin three and a third innings of relief, before Jim Leyritz belted his homer in the bottom of the fifteenth.

I remember celebrating the Series sweep of the Braves four years later with Jorge and Tino and everybody, and I remember kneeling in prayer in the dirt as Aaron Boone rounded the bases four years after that.

These moments, of course, are merely a small, personal sample, a few special memories of a Panamanian boy who was going to be a mechanic. What about all the other historic moments, and all the iconic players, from Ruth to Gehrig to DiMaggio to Berra to Mantle and now to Jeter? What about their feats and memories, and their glories?

Derek says the aura and the tradition are just going to move across the street, but are they? Can the spirit and soul of this Stadium ever really be recaptured? I don’t know—still don’t.

Yankee Stadium is not just a home office for triumph. It is a place where I grow up as a pitcher, and as a man, a place with special, spiritual retreats deep within it. There is the trainer’s room, where I spend all those middle innings for all those years with
Geno, an athlete and a healer, a young man and an older man bonding over balm and shared values and a mutual belief in the importance of thoroughness and hard work.

There is the tunnel beneath the left-field stands, where I make the walk to the bullpen, turning left out of the clubhouse and following the corridor around, behind home plate, and continuing down toward the left-field foul pole, where I turn right and wind through Monument Park toward the pen.

There is the bullpen bench, which is where I watch the game, taking in the verdant splendor of the field before me, sharing the time with my bullpen soul mates. I love that bench, and how I mark the nightly rhythms of my job there, playful and silly at first, then turning more introspective almost by the batter—until I am transformed into someone else entirely, into a man whose whole world is centered on getting people out and securing a victory.

I love that bench. I love it so much that the Yankees were kind enough to let me take it home when the old Stadium closed for good.

And then there is the bullpen mound, where I go to work after I get the call, going through my precise warm-up routine and waiting for the doors to open, and making my solitary run toward the mound.

I cherish this place and I want to honor this place. I want to be the last man to stand on that mound. I want to throw the last pitch, and get the last out.

The power and poignancy of the day never let up. It seems as though half of Cooperstown is on the field before the game, and Yankee greats are everywhere. Bobby Murcer, one of the most beloved of all Yankees, passed earlier in the summer, but his wife, Kay, and their children are there, all wearing Bobby’s No. 1 jersey, basking in a huge cheer. Bernie is there, of course, and he probably gets the biggest roar of all. Julia Ruth Stevens, the daughter of the
Babe, throws out the first pitch to Jorge. Yogi is in his old heavy flannels, talking about how the place will always be in his heart.

Julia’s father homered in the first game ever played in the Stadium, and the homers continue. In the bottom of the third, Johnny Damon rips a three-run blast that gives the Yankees an early lead. Andy does his best to protect the lead, but the Orioles tie it up in the top of the fourth, before Jose Molina, who has had two homers all season, hits his third into the netting in left center, giving us a 5–3 lead.

In the trainer’s room, Geno finishes up his rubdown.

Thanks, Geno, I say.

Just doing my job, he says. And I know you’ll do yours.

Thank you, and God bless you, I say.

Andy gives way to Jose Veras in the sixth. I make my way down the left-field corridor beneath the stands. I don’t want to leave this place. I don’t want this to be the last time.

Nostalgia doesn’t hit me very often.

It is hitting me now like a freight train.

Now, for the last time, I am in the pen that has been my baseball home for fourteen years.

Joba (back in the bullpen now) pitches a strong inning and two-thirds and we tack on two more runs. The phone rings in the pen in the eighth. Mike Harkey answers.

Mo, you got the ninth, Harkey says.

Derek grounds out to third to end the bottom of the eighth, and it’s time. The blue doors open, and “Enter Sandman” starts up and I make my last run across the outfield in the old Yankee Stadium. The crowd is standing and cheering. It is surreal.

I get to the mound and pick up the ball. I need for this to be business as usual; I need to focus on these three outs, even if it is not business as usual at all.

The first Orioles batter is Jay Payton. He hit a three-run homer
off of me in the ninth inning of Game 2 of the Subway Series eight years before, down the right-field line. You do not forget things like that.

I get Payton on a weak grounder to short, which is ably handled by Derek. I get ahead on the next batter, 0–2, come with a hard cutter inside, and he bounces it to second. Two outs. One to go. But before I even get on the rubber to throw another pitch, I see Wilson Betemit running from the first-base dugout toward shortstop. Joe wants Derek to leave the old place in a fitting way, with one last massive ovation.

And that is exactly what happens.

Derek Jeter, the last Yankee icon in a fabled Stadium, runs to the dugout and is summoned again to do a curtain call.

The next Orioles hitter is Brian Roberts. He has always been a tough out for me. On a 2–1 pitch, he hits a grounder to Cody Ransom at first. I break off the mound, but Cody takes it himself for the final out. He tucks the ball in my glove and shakes my hand. The Yankees didn’t win enough games this year, but we won this one, the last game ever played at 161st Street and River Avenue.

And for that I am very grateful.

I know exactly what I am going to do with this ball. I am going to give it to George Steinbrenner. He is the one who deserves to have it.