Keidel: Mariano Rivera Was A Rare Blend Of Dominance And Decency
By Jason Keidel
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The Yankees honored the 1996 club this weekend, the first, glittering domino of the dynasty. And they appropriately closed with the greatest closer in baseball history.
Much like his entire career, Mariano Rivera strolled onto the diamond at peace, knowing the result long before we did, with the same grace and head-down humility that defined his career as a closer.
A closer? The closer. The pitcher nonpareil who, even within the glittering circle of the Core Four, still stands well above the rest. But he will be the last one to tell you this, so painfully modest, his manner so slight, you literally wonder if he's real.
Much like the pitcher, who dominated the best players in the world, many of them juiced-up behemoths, he coolly said thank you to the teammates, media and masses. And like the pitcher, he didn't have a prepared speech, no platitude-laden, lawyered-up missive. He merely spoke off his blessed cuff.
Much like the pitcher, who beguiled the best hitters with one pitch, a heavy cutter that snapped bats at the handle, leaving the bewildered batter limping back to the dugout with a splintered knob in his fist.
Mo has all the bona fides for a New York icon, from the modesty to the blue-collar ethic to the epic production. His 652 regular-season saves have an unreachable, Cy Young, 511-win quality. And his high deeds under brown leaves are even more sublime. His playoff numbers -- 0.70 ERA and 42 saves -- laughably lap the field and may be even more unattainable than his summer stats.
But as surreal as his stats may be, they are not the most impressive part of the man. Baseball feasts on its history and mythology, and the notion that the great ballplayer has an everyman physique and neighborly quality to them.
That's largely nonsense. The greats long ago laughed off the notion that they are role models and preteen exemplars, that some enchanted moment with a child could change the kid's life forever. Except with Rivera. Considering how accomplished he is, and how absurdly better he was than his peers, he's astonishingly approachable and decent, literally as kind to the janitor and equipment manager as he is to the Steinbrenners.
If you want first-hand proof, seven years ago, WFAN's Sweeny Murti set up some time for yours truly to interview Rivera for a CBS feature. I'd never met the man, and, frankly, I was anxious.
I'm not one of those jock-sniffing fans or reporters who lives vicariously through the very athletes I was never talented enough to become. I'm rarely impressed by sports stars away from the arena. Many go out of their way to prove how human and flawed they really are.
But Rivera reduced me to a child. How would I greet him? What would I say? Was there some pseudo-audition I needed to pass to prove worthy of his time?
While I expected to spend five minutes at his locker, a sterile distance between the immortal and reporter, he lapped his arm around me took me to the dugout. Instead of five soporific minutes, we spent an hour next to each other, musing over almost everything but baseball. The laconic, iconic closer dropped knowledge on life, marriage, religion. Though we were born two weeks apart, his avuncular charm made me feel like he was generations beyond me.
Though most ardently religious, he speaks without preaching, basks without boasting and loves his god without lecturing us. His goal was to reveal his soul, not to convert the epic sinner sitting next to him.
All the while, the arms of cackling children waved over his head as they reached down into the dugout from the stands. He was unfazed, applying high-fives and the occasional autograph, yet still appeasing this reporter.
Never is a high-end athlete or celebrity as cool as they or their PR machines purport. Except Rivera. If possible, he is cooler and kinder, an impossible amalgam of dominance and decency.
He instantly sensed my anxiety and put me at ease. Though he was clearly the boss, he let me nudge the discussion in any direction. But by the time I smoothed my nerves, I'd forgotten why I was there and rather reveled in his presence.
An hour. In the dugout. In Yankee Stadium. In its maiden year, 2009, when they were on their way to their 27th World Series title. Rivera had myriad things to do that were surely more pressing, if not more productive, than chat with me, reduced to a drooling dolt with a pen, pad and trembling hands.
Over the subsequent years, I spent a little more time in the Yankees locker room, and still felt his spiritual ease, humility and humanity. There were some nice guys (Curtis Granderson), loquacious characters (Nick Swisher) and some with megawatt smiles and innate humor (Robinson Cano).
Joe Girardi had the hardest, bone-crunching handshake I've ever felt. And A-Rod was the only Yankee not to shake my hand as I roamed the infield before the game. Jeter, for all his reputation as Captain America, never speaks or strolls outside his inner circle. If you're not a member, he has no time for you.
Which Makes Mo even more surreal. Pick any part of his stardom -- his money, his fame, his production and place among his peers -- and he clearly is the dean of pitching, of performing, of etiquette, on this planet.
Maybe someone will pass Rivera along the left lane of history. Maybe someone will pitch well enough long enough to assume the statistical throne, however unlikely.
But we will never see any man, in any sport, with this hybrid performance and personality. As much as any Yankee in history, Rivera was able to bask in Broadway's glow without burning in its glare.
I hardly pretend to be Studs Terkel, or any media luminary with a global reach. But I've met my share of famous athletes. And only two made me feel like I was in the presence of greatness: Muhammad Ali and Mariano Rivera.
Lord knows if he even remembers meeting me, much less talking to me. But he made me feel like it was the highlight of his night. And that's chief among the abundant magic that is Mariano Rivera.
Follow Jason on Twitter at @JasonKeidel