September 25, 2013
The Lineup Card
Nine of Our Favorite Moments Involving Retiring Players
Setting the Stage for Rocktober
Not only did the Rockies finish strong, but they virtually ran the table, putting together a 13-1 record that led to a one game playoff with the Padres for the NL West title. All everyone remembers now is the drama of that Game 163, and a questionable call at the plate where Matt Holliday scored and gave the Rockies their second playoff appearance in franchise history, and their first since 1995. Lost in the miracle was the tear Todd Helton went on to help carry his team to the title.
From September 16 until the conclusion of the one-game playoff with the Padres, Helton put up a ridiculous .377/.458/.639 slash line. He hit safely in 14 of 15 games. While it certainly wasn’t a one-man wrecking crew (Holliday, Brad Hawpe, and Garrett Atkins were also out of their minds in September), Helton was money down the stretch. I’m not a proponent of Hall of Fame cases based solely on clutch performances but if you are, Helton’s huge run down the stretch in 2007 cannot be ignored. —Mike Gianella
The Retirement Annoucement
Dozens of players walk away from the game or retire as an unwanted free agent, including players far better than Kotsay. (Magglio Ordoñez, for one.) But then I looked closer at his career. For 17 years, he stayed with major-league teams right until the very end. After being called up at age 21, other than rehab games, he never saw time in the minors again. He was never optioned back down. Hey, you did it. Even if I can’t remember exactly what you did. —Matt Sussman
DARREN OLIVER (Hasn't officially announced retirement)
Retirement, Part One
JASON GIAMBI (Hasn't officially announced retirement)
But Giambi's often-overlooked contributions were just as important. He took Pedro deep twice, once on a changeup in the fifth and once on a fastball in the seventh. Both were solo shots, and when he hit them it looked like they might both be meaningless. But as it turned out, those homers—as much as Posada's double or Boone's walk-off—represented the margin of victory in a 6-5 game.
All of ALCS Game Seven is viewable on YouTube, but I couldn't find Giambi's bombs alone online, so I've GIF'd them here:
Game Six of the 2003 World Series
As I learned to appreciate the nuances of the game, though, my bond with Pettitte went far beyond sympathy. He taught me the importance of pitching deep into games despite not having your best stuff. Hell, his move to first base inspired some less-than-legal pickoff tinkering of my own. I could never throw very hard, or snap knee-buckling curveballs, and I was never the best player on my team. But I was reliable, and nobody had more to do with my development than Andy Pettitte.
Still, I always wanted to see my major-league doppelganger win the kind of glory heaped on Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera. Great as they are, I believed Pettitte had just as much to do with the Yankees late-90s success as they did. When Game Six of the 2003 Series rolled around, I was sure Pettitte’s opportunity had arrived. And by some incomprehensible stroke of luck, 10-year-old me would be there to see it in person.
Pettitte pitched as well as I’d ever seen him pitch that night: over seven innings, he scattered six hits—five of them singles—and three walks, allowing only one earned run. The only problem was that Pettitte’s opponent, an electrifying Josh Beckett, was even better. The Yankees needed three measly runs to prolong the Series, but they struggled to get on base all night, failing to score the entire game.
Back then, I didn’t know what it was like to lose a loved one or face real hardship. Watching the Marlines pile on top of the Yankee Stadium mound was losing that loved one, and the only thing worse than the irony of “New York, New York” blaring over the speakers was knowing that Andy Pettitte was never going to reach superstardom.
Jeter and Mo were those kids who could mash home runs even in Little League, and I was Pettitte, always there and always contributing, but never equally adored. —Nick Bacarella
The Houdini Act in Game Four of the 1996 ALCS
But for me, Rivera’s elevation from absolutely great to the level of demigod happened in Game Four of the 1996 ALCS between the Yankees and the Orioles (the one that began with the infamous Jeffrey Maier interference “home run” catch). This was the year the Orioles loaded up and hit 257 home runs, third all time. Pretty much everyone in the lineup was a long-ball threat—it was the famous Brady Anderson 50-homer year.
The Yanks led the series two games to one and took a 5-4 lead into the eighth inning at Camden Yards. They opened it up in the top of the inning with three runs, the big blow a two-run homer by Darryl Strawberry off of Armando Benitez.
Rivera came out for the bottom of the eighth, having already worked a hitless seventh. But the first three batters all reached on singles, and although this is going back a long time, my memory is that none of the three balls were hit hard. One was an infield hit. So the tying run was coming to the plate with no outs. Three batters earlier, New York looked like a cinch to take a commanding 3-1 series lead; now the potent Orioles were a home run away from tying the game and putting the whole series back into doubt.
So what did Rivera do? He treated the Orioles’ threat the way Harrison Ford treats the threat posed by the guy with the sword in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He struck out Chris Hoiles. As I recall, one of these pitches was straight cheese up around Hoiles’s eyes, and he couldn’t lay off. Then he struck out Brady Anderson. Then he got Todd Zeile to pop out. Inning over.
At that moment, I decided Rivera wasn’t just a great young reliever. I decided he could probably do just about anything. The Yankees won the game, and the game after that, and went to the World Series and won that, too, their dynasty and Rivera’s formally commecing at the same time. The next year, Rivera became the Yankees’ closer, and you know the rest. —Adam Sobsey
The Bases-Loaded Walk During Save no. 500
On a Sunday night in Queens, the Yankees needed four outs from Rivera, whose save odometer was on 499. He was due up sixth the next inning, so no big deal if you don’t double-switch, right? Not exactly. Rivera, to that date a lifetime 0-for-2 hitter, ended up having to hit with the bases loaded and two outs, and to the delight of all the Yankees fans in the crowd, this was the result.
The Blown Save in Game Seven of the 2001 World Series
And so, in Game Seven of the 2001 World Series, the stars seem to be aligned for the Yankees in the eighth inning, when Alfonso Soriano put the Yankees ahead with a homer. Rivera came in to pitch the eighth, and I knew then—I knew—that the Yankees had won the Series again. I mentioned this at least twice to my mom, who was stopping in periodically as my dad and I watched. (Dad agreed with my deterministic assessment of the game at that stage. He assured my mom, “When he comes in, the game’s over.”)
Mom isn’t much of a baseball fan, but she’s absorbed some of baseball’s wisdom. She reminded us of the classic Yogi-ism, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” Mothers just know.
The experience of watching Superman fail that day changed the way I watched sports forever. It was a rite of passage into sports adulthood—a sports bar mitzvah. And it made me appreciate just how difficult his job was, and how much he meant to the Yankee dynasty that fell apart that November night in Phoenix. Twelve years later, we’ve seen how resilient he was, and is.
Far from being a dark mark on his record, Rivera’s loss in 2001 made me understand his greatness. —Dan Rozenson
Being the Last Great Bridge Reliever