SI Vault
 
MARIANO SAVES
TOM VERDUCCI
October 05, 2009
As the gates swing open upon another October, baseball will once again attempt to divine one of the game's great mysteries: how a man, closing fast on 40 and armed with but a single pitch, continues to dominate in the clutch like no other player
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October 05, 2009

Mariano Saves

As the gates swing open upon another October, baseball will once again attempt to divine one of the game's great mysteries: how a man, closing fast on 40 and armed with but a single pitch, continues to dominate in the clutch like no other player

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GOD TOUCHED MARIANO RIVERA ONE JUNE AFTERNOON IN 1997, AND RIVERA SHRUGGED.

Just three months into his new role as the closer for a budding Yankees dynasty, Rivera was suddenly unable to throw his signature four-seam fastball straight, not even during his daily toss with pitcher Ramiro Mendoza. Every catch a struggle, Mendoza told Rivera to knock it off, to quit making the ball dip and dart. Rivera assured his friend that he wasn't doing it intentionally. He was gripping the ball the same way he always had, releasing it the same way he always had. The wicked movement just ... happened.

And continued to happen while Rivera warmed up one late-June night in the bullpen at Tiger Stadium. The baseball, as if defaced, would not fly straight. New York bullpen catcher Mike Borzello had never seen Rivera throw like this before, and it made him nervous. "In the old Detroit stadium the bullpen was on the field," says Borzello, now the Dodgers' bullpen catcher. "So if you missed the ball, they would have to stop the game. And there's nothing more embarrassing than that. He started throwing these cutters. Immediately I checked the ball. Is the ball scuffed? What is going on here?

"When a guy is throwing 95 and the ball is cutting the last few feet before it gets to you, believe me, you never forget something like that. I was like, What are you doing?"

Rivera didn't have an explanation, and though he says he "didn't have any idea where the ball was going," his results did not suffer. He got the save in that game, then in the next three. Still, for a month, he worked with Borzello and pitching coach Mel Stottlemyre to eliminate the cutting action. "We were trying to make the pitch stay straighter, [as it had] in '95 and '96," Rivera says, referring to his first two seasons in the big leagues, "but it didn't work. Then I said, 'I'm tired of working at this. Let's let it happen.' And since that day we didn't try to straighten it out anymore."

He smiles. "And the rest is history."

Another night, another city (this time Baltimore), another game, another batting practice, and Rivera, three months shy of 40th birthday, 13 years into closing games for the Yankees—which, given the intensity of the job and the demands of the franchise, is the game's equivalent of spending 13 years sweeping minefields—smiled at the very familiarity of it all.

"Nothing changes," he says, not as a complaint but rather in joyful praise of this familiar baseball life. "This? Batting practice? I love it. I get a chance to shag."

Sameness has defined Rivera's career. The same dancer's body, loose-limbed, angular and trim. The same regal face with the high prominent cheekbones, the wide brown eyes and the row of pearl-white teeth, as aligned and polished as midshipmen at morning inspection. The same perfect delivery, in which simplicity begets beauty.

And, of course, the same pitch. Over and over and over.

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