14

Losses

IN THE FIRST INNING of Game 3 of the World Series against the Florida Marlins, Josh Beckett, a twenty-three-year-old kid with a wicked fastball and a curveball to match, strikes out Derek Jeter on three pitches. Jeter spends the next three hours and eight innings doing more than anybody else on the team to make sure we win the game. As I watch him do this, I realize it has been ten years since we were teammates in Greensboro, the year he made fifty-six errors and I knew—I knew—he was going to be a great, great ballplayer.

What I saw then, in 1993, is the same thing I see now: a man with an insatiable desire to be the best, and to win.

You think about Derek’s résumé of big moments, and it’s staggering. The double that started the rally against Pedro in Game 3. The flip play. The home run in the tenth inning of Game 4 to beat the Diamondbacks in 2001. The leadoff homer in Game 4 against the Mets in 2000. The hit that started the big rally in Game 4 against the Braves, the one that culminated with Jim Leyritz’s home run.

And now it is on display in Game 3 against Beckett and the Marlins, in a Series that is supposed to be about as competitive as a Globetrotters–Washington Generals game—a mismatch in star power, payroll, tradition, and pretty much everything else. We split the first two games in New York and know beating Beckett tonight can alter the course of the whole Series. So after that initial strikeout, here is what happens:

Jeter doubles to left and scores in the fourth inning. He singles to center to lead off the sixth inning. He doubles to right and scores the go-ahead run in the eighth inning.

Beckett pitches seven and a third and strikes out ten and gives up just three hits and two runs. All three hits, and both runs, come from Derek Jeter, a man who never stops competing and embodies the ethos of the Joe Torre Yankees: He gives his personal all but always wants it to be about the team.

I am warming up in the visitors’ bullpen, getting ready to come on for Mussina, who is superb all night. Minutes after Derek’s third hit and second run knocks Beckett out of the game, I am on the mound, throwing six pitches to retire Pudge Rodriguez, Miguel Cabrera, and Derrek Lee. We explode for four more runs on an Aaron Boone solo homer and Bernie’s three-run homer, and then close it out in the bottom of the ninth.

We’ve beaten the Marlins’ best pitcher and have Roger Clemens going in Game 4, and David Wells in Game 5. Nobody is taking anything for granted, but I like how we’re situated, and when pinch hitter Ruben Sierra laces a two-out, two-run triple down the right-field line in the ninth inning to tie Game 4 at 3–3, it just seems familiar, like another Yankee workday in October.

It’s a hit straight out of 1996 or 1998 or 2000, I think.

And from that point on, very little else goes right for the Yankees in the 2003 World Series. We are the ones who become the Washington Generals. As much as it stings to think about, the truth is undeniable: We are not the same team we used to be. It’s not even close. The Marlins are fast and aggressive and play with spunk, but, I am sorry, those teams of ours that won four World Series in five years would’ve hammered them. They would’ve found a way, and willed their way through as a team. Because those were guys who cared more about winning than anything else. And it’s just not like that anymore.

We leave the bases loaded in the top of the eleventh, and then watch as Alex Gonzalez, the Marlins shortstop, hits a game-winning homer off of Jeff Weaver to lead off the bottom of the twelfth. It’s a highlight straight out of the Aaron Boone playbook, only now we are on the receiving end.

So the Series is tied at two games apiece, and then Game 5 unspools faster than a runaway fishing line. During infield practice, Giambi tells Mr. T he’s not sure he can play first base because of a bad knee, and then Wells has to leave after an inning with a bad back. We get one hit in eight at-bats with runners in scoring position. It adds up to a 6–4 defeat. We go back to Yankee Stadium, where Andy pitches really well and Josh Beckett is even better, spinning a five-hit shutout and striking out nine, doing it on three days’ rest. We whimper off to clear out our lockers, to another off-season that doesn’t include a parade.

Anything short of a championship tends to result in big changes for George Steinbrenner’s Yankees, and 2004 brings about the biggest change you can have: the acquisition of Alex Rodriguez, the American League MVP, a man widely considered the best player in baseball. Alfonso Soriano goes to the Texas Rangers in the deal, and Alex, deferring to Derek, goes to third base from his natural position of shortstop. It’s Alex’s third team in four seasons, and I’m thrilled we have him, but as I look ahead to my own 2004 season, the final year of my contract with the Yankees, I have an overwhelming desire to not go anywhere. I do not want to chase the biggest contract I can, and I do not want to wear another uniform. Maybe this makes me an agent’s worst nightmare, because I have no interest in playing the free-agent game, posturing about all my options and leaking stories about how I might be on my way someplace else.

Maybe it costs me money, too. I extend my contract for two years in 2004, a year before it’s up, and a few years later, the Phillies offer me a contract for four years and $64 million, almost $20 million more than what the Yankees offer. Do you know how long I consider that? For about half the time it takes you to read this page. The reason is very simple:

I have never played the game for money. I like money as much as the next person, and am fortunate to be able to provide well for my family, but it has never been my motivation for playing. I always felt that if I played the game the right way, if I worked hard and tried to be a good teammate and honor the game, the money aspect of it would take care of itself, and that is exactly what has happened. There hasn’t been one time in my career when I looked at what somebody else was earning and felt shortchanged. Why would I do that? Why concern myself with other people’s business?

It would do me not one iota of good. It would make me restless and unhappy, tying my contentment to the size of my bank account. The Lord has given me much more richness through His wisdom, as it is written in Hebrews 13:5:

Keep your life free from love of money, and be content with what you have, for He has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Contentedness for me comes from the Lord, and is available to me wherever I am, at any time, whether I am surrounded by fancy walls or no walls. I don’t need anything but the love of the people who matter to me. It’s how I choose to look at life.

Not that I need it, but as we head into another postseason in 2004 I get a powerful reminder of how little money really matters. It’s minutes after we beat the Twins in the Metrodome to take the American League Division Series in four games; I have just put the Twins away in a ten-pitch bottom of the eleventh.

We file into the clubhouse to begin with the Champagne-spraying. It never gets old; it feels new to me every time. Mr. T puts a hand on my shoulder and asks me to come into his office. Derek and Mel and a few of the other coaches are there.

Mo, something happened, Mr. T says. His eyes begin to well up. He is struggling to find words.

I’m very sorry, Mo. I think Clara should be the one to tell you.

I have no idea what is going on.

They bring Clara down to the clubhouse. She is crying, too. I find out later she doesn’t want anyone to tell me anything until after the game. She suffers with grief the whole night, getting comforted by other Yankee wives.

There has been an accident at our house in Puerto Caimito, Clara says. Victor and Leo were at the pool and they were electrocuted. Neither of them survived.

I can’t believe what I am hearing. Victor is Clara’s cousin and someone very close to us. I’ve known him my whole life. Leo is his fourteen-year-old son. As I try to take this in, all I can do is embrace my wife and weep with her in Mr. T’s office. Soon I learn all the horrible specifics. Clara and I built the house several years earlier, a place for us to stay when we go back. Victor takes care of the yard and the pool. He and Leo are working there and it’s a very hot day, and Leo decides he’s going to cool off, so he jumps in the pool. There is an electric fence nearby that we use so our dogs don’t get away. One of the cables for the fence accidentally got into the pool, electrifying the water. Leo gets shocked into unconsciousness, and dies from drowning. When Victor sees his boy in the water, he jumps in to rescue him, and the same thing happens to him.

Clara and I fly back to New York with the team and catch a flight the next day for Panama. I go to the funeral home to see the bodies of Victor and Leo. I want to see them. It may sound gruesome, but I need to see them, to say goodbye to them and express the depth of my sadness, and pray for them. It is a small room in the basement of a building in Panama City. They bring out the bodies, which are being prepared for burial. It is one of the saddest moments of my whole life, to see the lifeless bodies of a cousin who is like a brother, and his young son.

I begin to pray over the bodies.

Dear Lord, I know that Victor and Leo are in Your eternal kingdom now, and know that they are in perfect peace. Please bless them and keep them and help their family through the terrible grief they are experiencing. Please give all of us the strength we need in this hour, and help us to find comfort knowing that through Jesus Christ there is eternal life. Amen.

The funeral is held at Church of God of Prophecy in Puerto Caimito on Tuesday morning, October 12, a two-hour service attended by hundreds of people. Rev. Alexis Reyes talks about how fame and money do not matter in this world. It is our love of Jesus Christ that matters. We go to the cemetery nearby and release balloons into the sky. I leave Panama City at about 2:30 p.m. on a private plane provided by the Yankees, and I land in Teterboro Airport in New Jersey a little after 7:00 p.m. The Yankees arrange for my documentation to be handled quickly so I can get on my way. They have a blue Cadillac waiting for me and we drive through north Jersey, across the George Washington Bridge and down the Major Deegan to the Stadium. It’s the second inning when I arrive. I’ve spent a good part of the day crying and am emotionally exhausted, but it’s good to be back at work and to immerse myself in game preparation, mental and physical. I want to compete. I want to get in this ball game and help my team win.

That would be the best healing agent of all.

I head right for the clubhouse. Geno is there, waiting for me. We share a long hug. It feels so good to see Geno’s kind face. We talk as I get rubbed down and go through my routine. In the bottom of the fifth inning I arrive in the bullpen, with the Yankees leading, 6–0. Every guy out there comes up and hugs me. The fans in the bleachers spot me and a “Mariano” chant begins. It is exactly where I need to be. The guys give me a quick update on the game—Matsui has four RBIs, including a three-run double that helped chase Curt Schilling after three innings—and soon the lead goes to 8–0. I sit down and watch the artistry of Mussina, who has a perfect game into the seventh, before the Red Sox suddenly throw up five runs, making this a game that I will almost certainly pitch in. When Tom Gordon gives up a two-run triple to Ortiz with two outs in the eighth, the lead is down to one and the phone rings, and it’s time.

The hitter is Kevin Millar. I fall behind, 2–1, and then bring a cutter that Millar rips at but pops to short. Bernie’s two-run double in the bottom of the inning gives us a three-run cushion, and with two guys on, I get Bill Mueller to bounce into a 1-6-3 double play, a rousing finish to a wrenching day.

Nobody needs to remind us that this Red Sox team has a bunch of guys with pit-bull makeup, guys who are gamers, even after they go down two games to none one night later, when we win, 3–1, behind Jon Lieber, who outpitches Pedro. I get another four-out save, striking out Damon, Ortiz, and Millar, and off we go to Boston, but Red Sox hopes that the sight of the Green Monster and the Pesky Pole will change their fortunes get buried beneath an avalanche of Yankee home runs, over the Monster and other walls, too. Matsui hits two of them and goes five for six with five RBIs. Alex Rodriguez has another, drives in three and scores five. Gary Sheffield also homers and has four hits, and Bernie has four hits, too. It is a nightlong BP session and a 19–8 triumph for us, and with Duque matched against Derek Lowe in Game 4, it doesn’t even look as if it will be a fair fight.

We hold to a 4–3 lead through seven innings of Game 4. The bullpen phone rings.

Mo, you got the eighth, Rich Monteleone says. As I stand up and start getting loose, a drunken fan begins to holler at me. I ignore him, but he continues. It is impossible not to hear him. He is right in my ear.

Is he really doing this? I think. Is this where we are now?

The drunken fan decides it would be fun to taunt me about my cousin and his son. He is going on about it, one sick and twisted insult after another. I can’t even write what he says, it is so ugly. I wouldn’t even want it in my book. I put all my attention on Mike Borzello’s target. I am not going to let a drunken fool take me away from my task at hand. More than angry, I am sad. Sad that a human being could stoop so low, sad that this man is so full of poison, and so miserable in his own life, that he would bring up the deaths of two people I love, one of them a child.

It is a new low.

I enter the game with us leading, 4–3, in the bottom of the eighth. Manny singles, but I strike out Ortiz and get through the heart of the Sox order with no drama. In the ninth, the leadoff batter is Millar. He has had success against me, so I am extra careful, especially after he smokes a foul line drive early in the at-bat. My 3–1 pitch is high and Millar walks, and is immediately replaced by Dave Roberts, who is in the game to steal a base. I know it. Jorge knows it. The whole park knows it. Roberts stole thirty-eight bases in forty-one tries this year, and his lead is big. I throw over to first, fairly easily. Then I throw over again, and then a third time. He just beats the tag of our first baseman, Tony Clark.

I am thinking we might pitch out, but the call never comes. On my first pitch to the next hitter, Bill Mueller, Roberts is off. He gets a good jump. The pitch is up and away and Jorge makes a strong throw to Derek, who slaps the tag on just an instant late. Roberts is in scoring position with nobody out. Mueller fakes bunt and takes a strike. I throw a cutter over the plate, not where I want it, and he spanks it up the middle. I try to spear it as if I were a hockey goalie, even kick out my leg, but the ball goes into center and Dave Roberts goes home.

Mueller had hit a game-winning homer off me in July, a big emotional boost to the Red Sox in a game that featured a fight between Alex and Jason Varitek after Alex got hit with a pitch. Now he has gotten me again, and the fans in Fenway are loving it.

I get out of the inning, but the damage is done, and it becomes much worse, when Ortiz, the hottest hitter on earth all through the playoffs, blasts a two-run homer in the bottom of the twelfth.

The game lasts five hours and two minutes, and it not only gives the Red Sox a game, it gives them hope. In Game 5, we’re up, 4–2, in the eighth and lose in fourteen innings. We come back to the Bronx in Game 6, Schilling outpitches Lieber, and we lose, 4–2, and with each passing inning, we look tighter than spandex on a fat person.

It’s as tangible as the interlocking N and Y in our logo. We are waiting for something bad to happen, mired in negative thinking. It’s another round of evidence of how the makeup of our team has changed. The guys from the championship years wouldn’t have succumbed to it. They would’ve found a way. This team does not. The Red Sox complete the greatest comeback in postseason baseball history with a 10–3 drubbing. A year after Aaron Boone, the Red Sox have four games’ worth of epic moments of their own, and nobody feels worse about it than I do.

I am the one who left the door ajar, after all, blowing the save in the ninth inning of Game 4. That inning changes everything. But even as I leave Fenway Park and head back to our hotel that night, I have a very clear thought:

We have a 3–1 lead. If we can’t win one more game, we don’t deserve to go to the World Series.

And we didn’t.