The Closer (14 page)

A
S MUCH AS
I am committed to living in the present, I have a hard time with the ending of the 2001 World Series. I search for an answer as to why it unfolded the way it did. I don’t believe that things happen randomly, for no reason. I
do
believe that the Lord is in charge and has Infinite Wisdom, even if we may not understand it in that moment.

Eight days later, on a Tuesday morning, I get my answer.

I stop by the Stadium to pick up some stuff. Mr. T is there. I haven’t seen him since the Series ended.

Well, Mo, I guess we know why it happened the way it did now, don’t we? Mr. T says.

What do you mean? How do we know?

You didn’t hear? About the plane crash, I mean? And then he tells me about American Airlines Flight 587, from John F. Kennedy Airport in New York to Santo Domingo. It crashed that morning and all 260 people on board died.

Oh, no. Oh my Lord. That’s terrible, I say.

Yes, it is… such a tragic loss of life, he says.

It does not take me long to connect the dots. A dear friend and teammate of mine, Enrique Wilson, was booked on that flight, along with his wife and their two kids. When we didn’t win, there
was no parade, no post-Series celebration to stick around for. So Enrique and his family took an earlier flight. Our losing had saved his life, his family’s lives. Please understand that I’m not suggesting the Lord cared about Enrique Wilson and his family and didn’t care about the people who did die that day. And I am certainly not saying Enrique’s life is more important than the lives that ended in the tragedy. I am simply saying that for whatever reason the Lord had His own play that day, and in effect said to Enrique that it was not his time to join Him.

So there you go. Losing a game instead of losing a friend? I will take that trade a million times out of a million. As painful as it was to lose, it’s just another reminder for me that we are not the ones in charge—and that just because we may pray for something, that doesn’t mean it automatically comes to fruition.

Prayer is not like a vending machine, where you put in your quarters (or words) and then wait for the product to be delivered. It’s not as if I can say to the Lord, “I pray for this World Series victory,” or “I pray for a clean bill of health on my next checkup,” and then just sit back and wait for Him to deliver it. I very rarely pray for specific outcomes. When my agent is negotiating a contract for me, I never get down on my hands and knees and ask the Lord to make me wealthy. I don’t pray for a new car or a good MRI result, or a strikeout in a big spot. For me, the most meaningful prayers are when I ask for God’s wisdom.

So, no, my faith that we would win Game 7 is not realized. But in another way, a much more important way, it is realized. Because we are humans and we are so limited, sometimes we ask for the wrong thing, or don’t look beyond ourselves. But God knows what is ahead. He always has a plan for us, and in November of 2001, that plan did not include a ticker-tape parade for the New York Yankees, and it did not include a heroic moment for me.

It is a raw Saturday in April in the first week of the 2002 season, and we are playing the Tampa Bay Devil Rays (that is still their name then) at the Stadium. I am at my locker in the clubhouse, starting to get dressed, thinking about how beautiful my uniform is, and how much I cherish wearing it.

For me, putting on the Yankee uniform every day is a process full of rapture. You hear guys who get traded to, or sign with, the Yankees talk about how great it feels to be putting on the pinstripes. For me, the thrill never wears off. It is about the history of the uniform, the dignity and the championships, the way it stands for something enduring, for excellence. Maybe it’s because I am from a fishing village that is one stop from the end of the earth that wearing a Yankee uniform means so much. I just know I never take it for granted, for even one day. It’s so easy to get caught up in the problems and complications and sadness that life can confront us with, but by opening my heart to the Lord, I am filled with lightness, with appreciation for the gifts He has given me, with the ability to pay attention to what is good and not what is not good.

And when I am getting changed into my Yankee uniform, it is all good.

I am extremely methodical about how I put the uniform on. I begin with one sock, then the other. I move on to the undershirt. I carefully take the pants from the hanger and slip them on, and follow with the jersey. I take my time doing all of this. I want to savor it, and I do, day after day, year after year. Posada likes to tease me that I am so fanatical about my uniform that I probably try to get the pinstripes of the pants and shirt to line up. I don’t really do that, but he’s not far wrong.

I want to honor the Yankee uniform for as long as I am wearing it.

The uniform may be timeless, but there is more change around the Yankees this season than any year since I arrived. Paul O’Neill retires after the Series, and so does Scott Brosius. Tino Martinez is now a Cardinal, and Chuck Knoblauch is a Royal and retires himself after 2002, his rapid and mysterious decline ending his career prematurely. Jason Giambi, our big free-agent signing, is now our first baseman, and David Wells is back and we’ve also added Robin Ventura and Steve Karsay and Rondell White. It is another stellar season, with 103 victories, but it’s also the most frustrating season of my career, as I make three separate trips to the disabled list and pitch in the fewest games (45) of any year since 1995, when I was up and down from Columbus. A groin strain sidelines me in June, and shoulder tightness comes along later. The idleness is not easy. I can’t shag batting practice fly balls. I can’t do my job. I take pride in being someone my teammates can count on. I rest and get treatment, but I am not a good patient. I am not very good at being patient, either.

You can just ask Clara about that.

For someone who may seem outwardly serene and composed, I have moments when my buttons get pushed and I lose it, the hottest buttons being traffic and rude people. One time Clara and I stop in a little neighborhood pizzeria. The place is in New Rochelle, a city about fourteen miles northeast of Yankee Stadium. We have been going there for years. It’s a modest roadside storefront, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a liquor store, with no frills and great pie. It’s a place where I can just hang out and be with the guys and not have it turn into a mass autograph session or photo op. You like these kinds of places when you are in the public eye. I try hard to be accommodating and treat all people with respect, but sometimes you don’t want to be on display, and that’s how it is at our pizza place.

It’s early afternoon when Clara and I walk in, and there’s one
other customer in there, a stocky Latin fellow, in his mid-thirties probably. He doesn’t seem to know who I am until the guys in the shop greet me.

Then he pipes up.

Hey, give me some tickets.

The guy looks as if he’s been drinking or is under the influence of something. His words are slurred.

I don’t say anything. I just laugh and kind of look away.

C’mon, man, give me some tickets. You guys make all this money. You can afford it. I want some tickets.

Now my temperature is rising. I am not laughing anymore. To me, patience and keeping one’s temper in check are fruits of the Holy Spirit. The fruits are eluding me at this moment.

Leave him alone. He is our friend. Don’t treat him with such disrespect, one of the countermen says.

The guy is not letting up. He takes a step toward me. I look at Clara, and she doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t have to. She is calm, steady.

Her look says:
Take it easy. Let it go. Turn the other cheek.

I pause for a minute. I don’t like the way you are talking to me, I tell the guy.

Now he raises his voice, steps closer.

Too bad, you cheap so-and-so, he says, calling me as bad a name as there is, and now I have had it. My blood is boiling and I’m ready to hit this guy, and hit him hard. Clara grabs me and says, Pili, no. The countermen order the guy to leave the store, escorting him out.

He curses again and is on his way. All I can think of as I try to settle down is thank God my wife was there, because if I had been alone I would’ve belted the guy.

I’m sorry that happened, one of the countermen says. He had no right to do that. He must’ve been drunk.

It’s okay. It’s not your fault.

I look at Clara and she still has the same expression on her face:
You don’t have to react. The guy is just looking for trouble. Don’t let it get to you.

She is completely right, of course, and that is what I have to work on, and I do work on it, every day. If somebody cuts you off when you are driving or flips you off, what do you do? Flip him back? Curse him or chase him? To me the little daily encounters are more challenging than bigger things, and how you react in those situations when nobody is watching is more telling than anything.

I pray to the Lord all the time to help me be more patient—to not overreact. Sometimes it can be dangerous. One time, Clara and I are driving on Interstate 95, heading to Baltimore. Cars are flying on the interstate, as usual, when all of a sudden a guy blows past me and swerves into our lane—crazy stuff. I lean on the horn, and the guy slams on his brakes as if he is daring me to ram into him. He speeds up and I speed up with him.

Pili, no, Clara says again. Let him go.

I am not in listening mode. I am in retaliation mode, being a reckless fool, again turning away from the Spirit. I pull alongside the guy and start to creep over toward his lane. I am going to teach him, show him who he is messing with, swap a little paint to set him straight. The same person who is not fazed by thirty-seven thousand people riding him in Fenway Park is losing his mind over a macho motorist, endangering himself and his wife in the process.

How idiotic is that?

Stop it! Stop it now! Clara says. This is crazy. She is right, of course. She finally gets through to me, gets me to calm down. It takes much longer than it should have.

I am an imperfect man on an imperfect journey, but I am trying
to be better. Next time I am in that situation, I hope I just let the guy drive away.

I’m doing more watching and waiting this season than I want, by far, but another first-place finish in the American League East earns us a best-of-five division series against the Angels. They are the best-hitting team in baseball (.282), a young club that won 99 one year after winning just 75. We have been crushing home runs all year (223 in all), and Game 1, at Yankee Stadium, brings no change. Derek, Giambi, Rondell White, and Bernie all homer, and even though Roger and Ramiro get slapped around a bit, I get the save in an 8–5 victory on thirteen pitches, retiring Tim Salmon and Garret Anderson to finish.

We rally from an early 4–0 deficit in Game 2 to go up, 5–4, but then the Angels get late homers from Troy Glaus and Garret Anderson to take the game, 8–6. The series shifts to Anaheim, and we jump out to a 6–1 lead after two and a half innings, but here come the Angels again, getting three more hits, including a homer from Adam Kennedy and a homer and four RBIs from Tim Salmon, and rolling to a 9–6 victory.

We are one game away from getting bounced out of the playoffs earlier than we have in our entire championship era.

By the time the Angels put on a parade worthy of Disneyland in a seven-hit, eight-run fifth inning against David Wells, we are basically done. The final score is 9–5. The Angels hit .376 for the series and come from behind in all three victories. They are fearless and relentless, and their bullpen dominates ours. Though I cannot fathom the result, how it happens is a bit familiar. Their grittiness reminds me of exactly the way we played when we were winning championships. You can win all the games you want in the regular season, but when your postseason ends in four games it is impossible to feel good about the year.

Our third son is named Jaziel, which means “strength of God.” He is born seven weeks after our season ends, a Caesarean section delivery by Dr. Maritza Cruz, Clara’s obstetrician. Jaziel weighs almost nine pounds, and all goes fine for him, but Clara has severe hemorrhaging that requires another surgical procedure. I am in the delivery room with her when Dr. Cruz realizes the extent of the bleeding. It is terrifying to see my wife this way, a strong woman suddenly so vulnerable.

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.