All kidding aside, I find that no player has defined my lifetime of Yankees baseball as completely as has Mariano Rivera.  Rivera has been pitching the 9th inning
for the Yankees since 1997, and many call him the best relief pitcher in
baseball history.  Statistically, that’s a fair assessment: to date,
Rivera has recorded 526 regular-season saves and a career ERA of 2.25.  
In nine seasons he has recorded an ERA of below 2.00, and on two occasions has
saved more than 50 games in a season.  He has saved 39 career postseason
games, has five World Series rings to his name and has played on seven pennant-winning teams.  In a word, “dominant” describes his
career.

There is a difference, however, between dominance and art.  Even
in baseball, one can recognize art.  A good player, even a great one or a
legendary one, is not necessarily an artist.  I have watched Mariano
Rivera pitch since I was a very, very small child, and he has never struck me
as anything less than a master craftsman.  He throws, for the most part,
one pitch — a cut-fastball, usually located with impeccable precision.  On
the mound, he exudes calm confidence and austerity.  He exhibits none of
the snarling, fist-pumping, adrenaline-driven emotional response so often seen
by successful pitchers, especially those who make careers out of pitching the
9th inning. 

I feel, when I’m watching Rivera, almost like I’ve stumbled
upon a painter in a studio, as opposed to an athlete in front of 50 thousand
spectators.  The game stops – because you know it’s almost certainly over,
anyway – and you just watch him.  The same pitch… break a bat on the
inside corner, freeze the hitter over the outside … however he wants,
wherever he wants, over and over with the same result.  When something goes wrong (or, on the rare occasion, something goes terribly wrong
and a blown save results), it’s not “a part of the game.”  It’s
remarkable.

Nothing was a clearer indication of exactly how remarkable he is than last postseason, when he was the only one of the eight closers on the eight different teams who made the playoffs to neither blow a save nor take a loss.  He is a stark contrast to the nature of the postseason – among all the volatility, he is a constant.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget the last two innings of Game 6 of last year’s World Series; by the top of the eighth, most of the Phillies fans who had been in the college common room had left, and, as Joe Girardi made that one last call to the bullpen, the tension and excitement was so thick among the fifteen or so remaining Yankees fans that it was palpable — I freely admit that I cried. It was exit light, enter night — we all knew, 100%, what was coming, and we all just had to wait for it.

Perhaps this level
of high praise for an athlete means I take it all too seriously… however, taking it all too seriously is something I’m willing to risk. And, besides, in the history of any sport,
there are very few athletes like Mariano Rivera.  I feel lucky to have
seen him play, and to have been able to spend my childhood rooting for him.  ”Mo,”
“Sandman,” “The Hammer of God” … I find him more than
worthy of this modest tribute.

Till next time,

Ana

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