by Jorge Posada
Joe went with essentially the same lineup in Game 4, and things weren’t looking good when we fell behind 6–0 after five. I left the dugout and went out to the bullpen at that point. We’d gone through three pitchers by then, none of whom seemed to be able to put hitters away. But the relief pitchers did what you say to them when the gate opens and they’re ready to trot out to the mound: “Hold ’em right there.” Then the guys came back and won it 8–6 with some clutch hitting to tie it, including Jim Leyritz’s three-run homer in the eighth.
I’d heard it happen at the Stadium, that sound of a crowd’s enthusiasm being sucked out of it. When we won it with two in the tenth on some walks and a mishandled pop-up, it was like getting toward the end of a movie and realizing you’d seen it before—but you liked it a lot and kept on watching. By Game 5 of that series, when Andy Pettitte and John Smoltz went through their opposing lineups with some nasty, nasty stuff, it was a totally different movie than it had been two games earlier.
I sat there mentally calling both games, trying to figure out what each of them was going to throw. I don’t know what my percentage of correct guesses was, but I know that I wouldn’t have seen either of them shaking his head from side to side very often. That’s not because I’m a genius, but because both those guys had their best stuff and they stuck with it. Didn’t matter if you thought that Andy’s heater or Smoltz’s slider was coming. That night they could have probably told the hitters what they were sending home and it wouldn’t have mattered. As much as any other game, that one taught me something I’d take behind the plate for years to come: when a guy is on his game, don’t get in his way. Don’t make him do something to make it harder for him. There are no points awarded for degree of difficulty in baseball. Get an out. Get it as efficiently as you can.
That was as fun to watch as any 1–0 game could be. I wished that I could have been out there with Andy that night. It’s fun to catch when a guy is on like he was that night. There’s something about putting down a sign, seeing the guy go into his motion, setting up, and then having that ball come right to your glove. You didn’t throw it, but you still feel a part of it, like the whole thing wouldn’t be real if you weren’t there to confirm for everybody in the park that that pitch is now in the record book, verified and authentic. I think that’s why I sometimes just have to say, “Yes,” which I’ve heard other players say in response to pitches, fielding plays, or hits. You can’t help putting a stamp on it, certifying that it just happened.
It was especially gratifying to see Andy bounce back from a tough outing that way. To be a part of a 12–1 blowout loss and then put his team ahead 3-2 in the World Series with a 1–0 win like that says a whole lot about Andy. As much as we all say that you have to put bad games behind you, it’s tough to do. You can put them behind you, but they’re still there, sometimes well within range of messing you up in the next one. Some ballplayer whose name I don’t remember said, when asked about his night after a bad game, “I slept like a baby. I woke up every hour and cried.” Well, that wasn’t Andy at all. That loss hurt; after Game 1, I saw him as down as maybe I would ever see him in his career. But even though he had to face the media and he knew that people were questioning him, he responded like the stud that he is.
I think I yelled out the loudest yes! of my life the next night when John Wetteland got Mark Lemke to pop up to Charlie Hayes at third base and the ball settled into his glove. I was already tearing toward the mound, and there’s a photograph of me grabbing Wetteland, and just behind us was Joe Girardi. He caught that game and had two hits, including a big triple to drive in a run. I wasn’t trying to steal any attention from John or Joe. I just loved the game so much, loved winning so much, and was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even think, I just ran.
That’s the best part of those victories—the not thinking. Your mind goes blank, and you just respond spontaneously. You let go. Whatever selfish concerns you might have had before the final out, whatever agenda or schedule you’ve set for yourself, however much you feel like you’ve contributed to that ultimate victory, none of that matters. Your guys, not the other guys, did it.
There would be time later for me to think about how much I wanted to be the guy behind the plate when a final out in a World Series ended with us winning. In those moments when we mobbed one another on the field—and during those long hours we spent in the clubhouse celebrating and later in the parade and until it was time to start thinking about next year and spring training and all of that—I was just happy to let go and let it all sink in. That’s what it felt like to be a winner, to have the matter decided in no uncertain terms. To have an answer and no questions, no doubts.
My family had come for the Series, and it was great to be able to share that experience with them. It was also good to have my dad understand me so well. As happy as I was, he sensed that I wanted to be a bigger part of the whole experience. Just before I left to go to the victory parade, he hugged me and said, “Remember this. Enjoy this. Get better.”
I heard him, and I listened to him.
CHAPTER TEN
Making It There
Everybody has heard the expression “That’s why they play the games.” It means that no matter how things look on paper, no matter what the statistics tell you, once you get out on the field things don’t always go as planned.
As I started my off-season workouts and once again played for Santurce in the Caribbean League in anticipation of the 1997 season, I had to wonder about my chances of sticking with the big league club. After all, between them, Joe Girardi and Jim Leyritz started 143 of the 162 games behind the plate and all of them in the postseason. With both of them still on the roster and me not getting much of a chance to prove myself, not to mention carrying a career .071 batting average in five different call-up scenarios, I only had my faith in myself and my willingness to bust my ass to back up any real hope I had of being a Yankee full-time in ’97.
A fringe player’s fortunes hang on a lot of things going right for him. My own fortunes also depended, it seemed, on somebody else doing something “wrong.”
I say “wrong” because I can’t really say that Jim Leyritz letting out his frustrations at being pulled from a game in ’96 when he was struggling had anything to do with his being traded on December 5 for a pair of minor leaguers. Joe Torre didn’t have a doghouse, but he didn’t let guys show him up either. From what I heard and later read, Jim did express his frustrations a little too loudly, and Joe called him into his office the next day to let him know that wasn’t going to fly. If Jim had a gripe, he needed to deal with it privately, Joe said, just as Joe did himself.
When the Yankees decided to sign Girardi to a longer-term contract, Jim knew that meant he wasn’t going to be the everyday catcher, so he thought he’d be happier somewhere else. When the deal was announced, Jim even credited and thanked Joe for his contribution to getting the deal done, which says a lot about Joe and how his players felt about him. Of course, if you know your Yankees history, you know that Jim wound up playing for us in 1999 and 2000.
With Jim gone, I didn’t take for granted that the spot on the roster was mine. In fact, I never assumed anything, and I came to every spring training with that attitude. I had to earn my way onto the team. I know that sounds like something I should say, but it’s the truth. And I wasn’t the only one who came to camp that year feeling that way. The Yankees didn’t make an offer to John Wetteland, even though he’d saved all four wins in the World Series, and Jimmy Key, who was a big part of the staff in ’96, signed elsewhere when the Yankees wouldn’t agree to a second year on his deal. Loyalty cuts both ways, but the bottom line is the bottom line, and you can never get too comfortable from one year to the next or take anything for granted in this business. That’s why I went after it hard in the weight room and on the track and reported to Tampa in even better shape than the year before.
With about a week to go before we headed north, Bob Watson and Joe Torre called me in again.
I was feeling pretty good about my chances, but still, I was anxious. I walked out of that meeting with their congratulations ringing in my ears and a huge grin on my face. I went to find Derek, and I told him.
“I know,” he said with that little grin of his.
“How did you know?”
“Joe and Bob told me.”
I couldn’t believe he knew before me. “When?”
Derek shrugged. “Not sure.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“They told me not to. What do you want to do about dinner?”
Derek could only keep up the no-big-deal attitude until later that evening. When the check came, he slid it toward me.
I looked at him. We’d just had a couple of steaks, and the bill was well over $200.
“You can afford it.”
Next a bottle of wine arrived, and I also noticed that what was sitting on the little plastic tray was a receipt, not a bill.
“Congratulations,” Derek said. “And about time too. I knew they’d come to their senses.”
We opened our title defense against Seattle in the Kingdome. Even though it wasn’t our home opener, getting to be on the field on any opening day was a big thrill. The Kingdome was nearly as loud as I remembered it from the playoffs in ’96. They beat us in a good ball game, and Joe penciled me in to start game 2. We jumped out ahead with three runs in the top of the first. Batting ninth, I was in the on-deck circle when the Mariners finally got three outs. In the bottom of the inning, Andy went to the mound, and I think he was a bit amped up. He got the leadoff hitter, and then Alex Rodríguez stepped in.
At the time, Alex was just 21 years old and beginning his second full season as a starter. He was an impressive athlete. The way he carried himself, the way he moved, his size, his swing, everything screamed that he had loads of talent. He also had a wide smile and seemed to love what he was doing. Things got much better and then much worse for him. When we got closer down the line, that smile was still there, but you could see in his eyes that he was not having nearly as much fun as he did back then in Seattle and later in Texas. Not that he didn’t work hard, but the game always came easy to him; life, however, would be a different story.
We wound up winning, 16–2, but even in the blowout I struggled at the plate, getting six at-bats that day with just one hit. I did drive in an important insurance run in the top of the ninth to make it 15–2. The insurance was against Derek giving me too much grief about starting out the year 0-for-6—and all in one game. The hit also ensured that I wouldn’t spend the entire flight down to Oakland fixating on all six of those at-bats.
I wanted to get out of the gate quickly, but I didn’t. I started three games in a row and went a combined 3-for-15. Not terrible—well, close to terrible—but not good either. Of course, I had visions of lighting it up and convincing everyone that I should do the bulk of the catching, but that year I wound up starting only 52 games behind the plate. My first major league home run didn’t come until the first week of May, against Kansas City at their place and off Jim Converse. I hit it left-handed on a 3-2 count, and it was a no-doubter off one of the supports near the fountains in right-center field. I ran around the bases thinking of all those times in the backyard on my makeshift field with my friends, fantasizing about what it would be like and making that crowd noise sound. This was in Kansas City and we were already up 9–3 on a cold Sunday afternoon, but it didn’t matter to me that all I could hear was the sound of the air rushing past the ear hole in my helmet, not a crowd roaring approval. I was having a good day and wound up going 3-for-5. The guys gave me a great greeting, and since the ball had hit that support it came back into the field of play and I was able to get it.
I thought it was cool that the guys didn’t give me the silent treatment, as teams often do when rookies hit their first home run. Technically, I was still a rookie, but they didn’t do any kind of rookie hazing stuff because I’d been around so much. The Yankees weren’t as into that as some clubs anyway. In ’96, toward the end of the year when I was up with the big club, I went to my locker and saw that my clothes had been replaced with a double-breasted pinstriped suit (of course) with wide lapels. I had to wear it out of the Stadium one night to sign autographs and then on the flight to the West Coast. To be honest, I wasn’t embarrassed at all by my pimp outfit. That suit was badass, and I kind of wish that I still had it.
I avoided another rookie prank in ’97 because it had already been pulled on me the previous year. During a series on the road against Oakland, I got invited to go out to eat with a bunch of the guys. Derek was there, along with David Cone, Tino Martinez, Chili Davis, and about ten other players. We went across the bay to a Ruth’s Chris Steak House in San Francisco and had steaks, lobsters, and wine. At the end of the meal, David Cone said, “Okay, let’s play credit card roulette.” Guys reached for their wallets and put their credit cards on a plate that was being passed around. I looked at that plate and saw a bunch of specialty cards from big-name banks and companies. I put down my poor little American Express card, which I had to pay in full every month, and then handed the plate to Ramiro Mendoza, another rookie. Everyone kept talking to us, and I realized a few moments later that they were doing it to distract us.
A few seconds later, Tino Martinez held up a card and said, “Lo siento.” I couldn’t believe it: Ramiro had to pay the bill. I was so relieved. They sent the slip down to where the two of us were sitting. It was more than $4,000. Ramiro looked at me, and I looked at him. I know I didn’t have that kind of money. When Ramiro shook his head and swore, “This is bullshit,” I knew he didn’t either. The room was silent, and then they busted out laughing.
David Cone had already paid it—they just wanted to see us squirm. David was one of the real leaders on those teams and he organized a lot of those team outings. He was also somebody we could all count on to step up and say something when it was needed. Coney’s ’97 season was typical of how things went for us that year. He started 29 games and was 12-and-6. That’s not a lot of starts or decisions, but he was named to the All-Star team. His shoulder trouble in September frustrated him, though, and didn’t allow him to perform at his best. It also put a real strain on the rest of the staff. Injuries are always part of the game, and Coney’s shoulder and, at times, Andy’s back were problems they had to deal with.
Since I wasn’t up all year in ’96, it’s hard for me to pinpoint what the difference was in ’97. I know that we didn’t set the world on fire in the opening months of the season: at the start of June, we were eight and a half games behind the Orioles, who were playing really well at 36-15. We then had a great June: by the end of the month we trailed the Orioles by five and a half games, having gone 17-8 to cut into their lead. Nobody seemed to be paying too much attention to the standings at that point, except maybe fans and some of the more vocal of the media guys. In the clubhouse, all was business as usual. Guys knew that it was a long season and where we were in June didn’t really matter.
What did matter in June was playing the Mets in interleague games. Even for us, they weren’t just another series in a 162-game season. Derek and I had both moved into the Ventura, an apartment building on the Upper East Side. We didn’t plan it this way, but getting to Shea from there was as easy as getting up to the Stadium, if not easier. At that point, Derek was starting to get recognized more and more, and he had to pick and choose his spots in deciding when and where to go out in the city. It wasn’t like we were prowling around at all hours of the night—that wasn’t Derek’s thing, and it wasn’t mine either. We played mostly night games anyway, so we were getting home fairly late and then getting to the ballpark early. We needed rest, and I was still in that mind-set that I wasn’t going to do anything off the field that could damage my reputation. More than that, I just wasn’t that interested in New York’s wild late-night scene.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved being in New York. I loved being able to come home from a game and have restaurants still be open, wi
th takeout places on every block and all of that. Even more, I loved coming out of my building and feeling the energy of the city. The street noise, people walking around at all hours, the sense that a whole lot of living was going on around me—all that was a real change from places like Oneonta, Greensboro, and even Columbus and Santurce. Later I would talk to a lot of guys who said that they didn’t want to have anything to do with playing in New York. It wasn’t just the expense, or how crowded it was, but just the intensity of it all, how much media there was to deal with; it didn’t seem worth it to them. They wanted to quietly go about their business. I could respect that, but even though I wasn’t born a big city guy, I think New York’s rhythms suited mine. I didn’t like to sit still. I liked the passion that people brought to everything—from their recommendations on where to get the best bagel or the best cannoli, to the best route to any location, to even the best strategy for crossing one of the avenues or hailing a cab. New Yorkers, for the most part, thought that they knew best, and they brought that same passion and vocal intelligence to the game.
If a guy failed to execute, or if they believed that Joe was making a wrong move in bringing in or not bringing in a relief pitcher, you could hear either a low rumble of discontent or a loud expression of anger and indignation. I heard similar reactions in other cities, but even in that first year visiting every park in the American League and a few in the National, there was something different about the Stadium crowds. I guess that some of it had to do with how it felt getting to the park. You were in the middle of a densely populated area, driving along crowded streets with people who drove and even walked differently from everywhere I’d been before. People were hustling, or dodging around those who weren’t. You’d think that this would make me feel more anxious by the time I got to the park, anticipating the game, but getting to the clubhouse was always a bit of a relief. It was a calm center where you could relax a bit and let that city-buzz settle for a while before the game began and the energy of those 40,000 to 50,000 people built up again.
