Legends of the Fall: Part V of V

It had been a competition, and circus all the same.

And now, the 2003 American League Championship Series would be decided on one game, on one night.

 Pedro Martinez had his legacy to protect, damaged in Game 3.

Roger Clemens had his dignity to fight for. It was common knowledge that Clemens would dive into retirement immediately following the ’03 season. He couldn’t be remembered as a loser, defeated by his successor./

 Aaron Boone had been benched, in favor of Enrique Wilson, he of the unfathomable success against Pedro Martinez. Boone had been such a mess with the Yankees, his footwork at third base discombobulated, his swing unimpressive, that his acquisition, which cost the Organization Brandon Claussen, was emerging as one of the worst transactions of 2003.

/

 With one out in the first, Todd Walker hit a frozen rope single to center, but would eventually be stranded, after Nomar Garciaparra and Manny Ramirez both flew out to right.

Roger Clemens had started strong. The Stadium crowd was electric, 57,279 people bound together by a razor thin strand separating euphoria and agony.

/

 Pedro Martinez emerged from the Red Sox dugout, bright red sleeves clinging to his arms, eyes serene, booed by those in attendance at Yankee Stadium who cared enough to hate him.  

/

 The Yankees scratched out a rally against Martinez, a Nick Johnson walk and Bernie Williams single forcing Pedro into a high stress confrontation with Hideki Matsui, who flew out to center, ending the first.  

No score.

/

May 28th, 2000. It was a humid night in the city.

 At Yankee Stadium, two immortals squared off, Roger Clemens of the Yankees opposing Pedro Martinez of the Red Sox.

 The emotional riptide underlining the game became secondary, as the two masters expressed their talent with the palette presented by nine innings.

  Clemens struck out 13 that evening, without allowing a walk. His splitter was hellacious.

 Pedro answered with his customary brilliance. He pitched a complete game shutout.

 Clemens had preserved his shutout two outs into the ninth, until Trot Nixon, a dead fastball hitter, provided the scoreboard’s lone blemish, rocketing a two run home run.

 Nixon had been a first round draft pick of the Red Sox. He shared distinct similarities with the Yankees’ Paul O’Neill. They both played right. They were both excellent fielders with great arm strength. They were both extremely intense, and both struggled mightily in hitting their brethren, lefthanders.

 Nixon’s inability to hit left handed pitching blocked his path to stardom. He became a cult figure in Boston, the original Dirt Dog, always willing to get his uniform dirty for the team.  

     Nixon’s blast off Clemens that memorable May night was, at that juncture, his crowning moment as a Red Sox.

It also provided a revelation: Nixon had Clemens’ number.  

 Trot was truly a terror for Roger. He couldn’t be beaten inside with heat, couldn’t be intimidated with chin music, and wouldn’t offer at his diving splitters.

Nixon would simply sit on Clemens’ fastball, clocking it with stunning regularity.

 Three years later, on a cold October night, nothing had changed.

/

  After a one out single by Kevin Millar, Clemens’ nemesis entered the batter’s box.

  Trot proceeded to launch a Clemens’ fastball, somewhere in the vicinity of his shot from seasons gone by.

 The crowd was quiet, the fret level palatable. The Yankees had their best chance in Game Six, letting it slip away. Now, they faced a 2-0, Game Seven deficit against the best pitcher of their generation.

And the second inning wasn’t even over yet.

 After Clemens struck out Mueller for the second out, Jason Varitek lashed a double down the right field line.

 Johnny Damon, his head still swimming, flicked an easy ground ball to Enrique Wilson.

  Wilson picked the grounder, measured his sight, loaded the howitzer, and made a terrible throw, way beyond the reach of Nick Johnson.

 Joe Torre’s touch in the postseason had previously been magic. Now, after whispers that the Yankee manager had stubbornly stuck with Contreras far too long the previous evening, he rolled another snake eyes, deciding to play Wilson over Boone.

 The Red Sox had another run.

The Yankees were digging a shallow grave.

/

 Jason Giambi had been dropped to seventh in the batting order, a decision merely solidifying his diminishing status as a Franchise player.

 Jason had been a high priced addition to the Yankees in 2002, as George Steinbrenner, bidding against himself, signed the slugger to a seven-year, budget-busting contract.

 After a superlative initial campaign in the Bronx, marred by an early October exit, Giambi found himself hobbled and slumping in the second half of 2003. The media cast Jason as a scapegoat, a symbol for the Yankees self-defeating excess.

 His personality, open and affable, was deemed soft.

 And after his second half tailspin leaked into Game One of the ALDS, a Yankee loss, Giambi was torn apart by the tabloids.

  Despite a huge hit in the late innings against LaTroy Hawkins in Game 2 of the ALDS, Jason couldn’t find redemption.

 And, as he struck out against Pedro Martinez in the bottom of the second of Game 7, Giambi officially entered infamy.

 The Yankees had been a Dynasty before his arrival. Now, with him, they would fail to reach the World Series for the second straight season, an unacceptable proposition within the crushing pinstriped universe.

/

  Kevin Millar’s high fly climbed through the sky before diving downward into the left field seats.

 It was the top of the fourth, and it was a leadoff home run.

 On this night, Clemens simply didn’t have it. And after a Trot Nixon walk and a Bill Mueller single, the game was in Joe Torre’s hands.

 If Torre let his heart bleed, if he left Clemens in for sentimentality, allowing the legend to walk off his mound one last time under his own volition, the game would surely be lost.  

  It wasn’t time for respect.

Torre wouldn’t let the past cloud his judgment of the present.

There was a game to be won.

 Roger Clemens had the ball taken from his right hand, leaving to a standing ovation.

/

 From the Yankee bullpen entered Mike Mussina. He had already lost two games in the Series.

 Here was a slave to routine, forced into his first ever relief appearance, with runners on the corners and nobody out.

 A complete meltdown was in the offing. Game 7 was becoming a car wreck.

 

Jason Varitek stuck out. Johnny Damon grounded into a double play.

 This sequence occurred so quickly that its absolute enormity is easily understated. Mike Mussina had demonstrated ultimate athletic grace under pressure.

 He had temporarily saved the game.

But the Yankees still had to hit against Pedro Martinez.

/

 The Yankee offense remained stagnant through the fourth, despite a Hideki Matsui double.

 Pedro wasn’t dominating. He was grinding it out, taking the identity of an entire team with him to the mound that night.  

His fastball wasn’t crackling, his curve wasn’t dazzling, but he still had his change, and he still had his miraculous power of deception.

 Most importantly, he still had his will.  

In Boston, they wondered when to start counting outs.

Pedro was dealing.

/

 The Yankees were finally on the board. Jason Giambi’s solo home run to right center field opened the fifth inning.

Pedro shook off the blow and promptly retired the side in order.

 The Yankees had a sliver of hope at last. But, to earn anything else, they needed Mussina to match Martinez pitch for pitch, out for out.

/

 Mike Mussina’s final inning of Game Seven was a breeze. All told, he’d pitched three scoreless frames, allowing two fifth inning hits, and zero runs.  

 He’d been lied to. Before the game, Torre promised Mike that he wouldn’t be bought into the game with men on base under any circumstances.

Without a comeback, his performance would be lost in time, a footnote.

/

 The Yankees’ were running out of time.

 Pedro was cruising now, in the bottom of the seventh. With one out, he got the better of his rival once more, as Jorge Posada lined to center.

 Two out.

 /

 The maligned Giambi was due up next. It seemed ironic. The Yankees’ only run had been produced by their newly anointed scapegoat.

Too little, too late, the scribes would say.

 Only, it wasn’t. With his team’s electrocardiogram barely registering, Jason Giambi launched a towering drive to dead centerfield.

 Johnny Damon raced to the wall, measuring a leap as he reached the warning track.

  Damon had soldiered on through the series, his reactions dimmed after the collision with Jackson.

   He was able to maneuver his glove over the blue padded fence, his spikes to digging into the soft padding of the wall.

 But, despite his usually aggressive climb, Damon appeared tentative in positioning his glove over the fence, his faculties not in a peak form.

  Had he not suffered the concussion on Oakland, leather may have found twine, and history could have reversed course.

 Instead, Giambi had his second home run, inches from the reach of Johnny Damon.

 The Yankees were back in the game. Pedro’s wizardry was waning.

 Enrique Wilson finally contributed to the cause with a fluke single, his ground ball to first hopping over the bag and carrying Kevin Millar into foul territory, where the defensively challenged chatterbox promptly lost his footing and spilled to the turf.

 Following Wilson, Karim Garcia won his final bout with Pedro Martinez, whistling a single into right field in front of a charging Trot Nixon. Garcia’s rip reverberated throughout the stadium. Martinez’s invincibility had been shattered, and the undeniably due Alfonso Soriano was striding to the plate, representing the go-ahead run.  

 Grady Little, who, for the entire second half, had seen Martinez tire in the late innings, Grady Little, who, just 10 days prior, had seen Martinez succumb to his pitch count against the A’s, would stick with his ace through the seventh.

 It was a risky, but defensible move.

The game seemed at hand.

/

 The Stadium was eerily quiet again. Martinez had summoned, from the depths of his greatness, one final fastball, blowing away an overmatched Soriano, ending the threat.

 As Pedro sauntered off the mound, he pointed to the heavens.

 He had delivered seven strong, and would presumably leave the rest to his bullpen, strong all October long.

The decision looked obvious.

  Pedro, despite his escape, had been hit hard in the seventh. Posada’s line drive counted as an out in the box score, but had been stung. Giambi had pulverized a home run. Karim Garcia had smoked a single.

These weren’t cheap knocks, token bloopers.

 Pedro was displaying uncompromising signs of fatigue.

/

 David Wells was summoned from the bullpen with one out in the Red Sox eighth, his first pitch torpedoed by David Ortiz, a screaming line drive of a home run which extended the Red Sox lead another run.

 Had Ortiz not gone deep, had the Red Sox possessed less of a cushion, their manager may have been far more inclined to pull Pedro.

Instead, as the Yankees practically limped off the field, down to their final six outs of 2003, Martinez rose gingerly from the Red Sox dugout, ready to fulfill his fate.

/

 Nick Johnson popped out to short, the first out in the Yankee eighth.

The Red Sox were five outs from the World Series.

 The Chicago Cubs had been five outs away against the Florida Marlins in Game Six of the National League Championship Series, before they imploded amid a twisted collage of bad breaks, questionable managerial decisions, and defensive blunders.

It was as if the Cubs had squeezed the life out of their own victory, squashing it into bitter, acceptable defeat.    

Were they cursed, or just fatally flawed, players in a Shakespearian tragedy?

/

 Red Sox fans had begun oozing into the lower deck of Yankee Stadium, ready to celebrate the franchise’s greatest victory in 85 years at Ground Level.

   Their decibel level climbed as Pedro, their ace, the chosen one who would lead them where Clemens could never, jumped ahead of Derek Jeter, and readied a blazing fastball to finish him off.

 /

 The Yankees had won without Derek Jeter in the regular season.

 On this night, they wouldn’t have had a chance.

/

 Jeter pounded Pedro’s offering, shooting the high heat on a line into deep right, barely over the head of Nixon, who had momentarily misread the drive.  

 There was a runner on second, one out.

Pedro stayed in the game.

/

 Bernie Williams was a gentle soul, endearingly polite despite his unconcealed aloofness.

 Early in his career, Bernie had been teased mercilessly by veteran contemporaries, dubbed “Zero” by players, who, fittingly enough, never really amounted to anything.

 Bernie would, however, blossoming from bespectacled outsider into a star.  

  Underneath his shroud of shyness, Bernie was an artist on the field, a poetic fusion of grace and style. He was playing a different game, transcending comparisons. Nobody slid into home like Bernie Williams, rhythmically spinning upright. Nobody finished a swing like Bernie Williams, flipping the bat aside following contact, a discarded instrument.

 Williams’ was perfectly equipped to handle pressure, immune to it.

When October arrived, Bernie would simply continue playing his game.

He could own a moment without even knowing it.

It made him dangerous. It made him Bernie.

/

Zero had done it again.

 He singled into left center, driving Jeter in from second, and cutting the Red Sox lead to two runs.

 Ortiz’s home run loomed even larger.

  Alan Embree had been warming in the bullpen, ready to face the next hitter, Hideki Matsui.

 The fans had received their final wind. Pedro Martinez had exhausted his.

 Grady Little emerged from the Boston dugout.

He had to take Pedro Martinez out of the game.

 Martinez had extinguished his strength in escaping the seventh.

His velocity was still there, but, in reality, this fact meant little. A tiring pitcher will lose the ability to locate with consistent precision before his velocity tapers.

  Little’s mound conference with Pedro Martinez and Jason Varitek didn’t last long.

 He asked Pedro a question. Satisfied with the answer, he tapped Martinez on the shoulder and hurriedly jugged off the field.

 This wasn’t the Pedro of 1999. This wasn’t even the Pedro of 2003. This was a pitcher who had nothing left, and need to be pulled out of the game.  

 Grady Little had allowed the past to cloud his judgment of the present.

/

 Location. It was Martinez’s undoing against Hideki Matsui.  

  Attempting to jam Hideki, Martinez unfurled a fastball that sailed back over the inner half of the plate, allowing barrel to meet ball, resulting in a laser down the right field line.

 The ball landed in fair territory, before bounding into the grandstands, a ground rule double.

 In the blink of an eye, the tying runs were in scoring position with less than two out.

 Pedro stayed in the game.

 He would face Jorge Posada.

/

 At this point, Grady had his reasons, ill conceived as they may have been.

  The stat sheet said Pedro had Posada for lunch.

The radar gun said Pedro still had his fastball.

Common sense said that Pedro had allowed three ringing hits in a row. Common sense said that Pedro was finished, missing his spot badly against Matsui.

  Revenge had to be on Posada’s mind.

  All those insults, all those strikeouts.

 And, then, there was what happened in Game 3.

/

 As the Yankees verbally unloaded on Martinez after he intentionally threw at Karim Garcia, the voice of one Yankee resonated the strongest.

 After all, Jorge Posada and Pedro Martinez had a past.

  Pedro’s response to Posada, spewing from the top step of the visitor’s dugout, was to point at his head, a message to Jorge:

I’ll remember what you said.

 The national television audience saw a villain making another threat.

The Yankees and Red Sox saw a continuance of the hostilities between two prideful players who freely expressed their contempt for each other.  

/

It had to be a fastball. Pedro Martinez’s bravado wouldn’t allow anything else. He was going to throw heat right past Posada. He was going to embarrass him.

 For Pedro, there was no other way.

 Posada didn’t hit the ball well, his bat crumbling upon contact.

 The ball looped into short centerfield, parachuting downward between Todd Walker and Nomar Garciaparra, and in front of Johnny Damon.

 As the three Red Sox fielders converged in vain, a great roar echoed forth from Yankee Stadium, of equal measure triumph and relief.

 The ball landed softly in shallow center. Hideki Matsui never hesitated, scoring from second.

 Jorge Posada took second, left unoccupied.

 He roared in the direction of Martinez, victorious.  

Pedro would remember.

/

 Grady Little would finally take the ball from Pedro Martinez, after four straight base hits, after three doubles, after the lead was lost.

 Pedro would point to the heavens once more, before he receded, out of the scene.

/

  Alan Embree was utilized for one batter, beating Jason Giambi with a fastball and forcing him to pop out to center.

  There were, at long last, two outs in the eighth inning.

 Little bought in Mike Timlin to face Ruben Sierra, pinch hitting for Enrique Wilson. With first base open, Grady elected to intentionally walk the dangerous Sierra, leaving the game to Karim Garcia.  

 Sierra was bereft of speed, and represented a vital insurance at first base. Joe Torre opted to pinch-run, sending in the relatively fleet Aaron Boone.

/

 When Karim Garcia drew a rare walk against the uncharacteristically wild Mike Timlin, the bases became loaded, Yankee Stadium a palace of euphoria.  

/

 Alfonso Soriano’s scorched ground ball was ticketed for center field. It would have given the Yankees a 7-5 lead, with Mariano Rivera on the mound in the ninth.

 Alas, the ball struck the mound, shooting upward, giving slow-footed Todd Walker enough time to capture the orb and flip it to Garciaparra, ending the inning.

/

 Mariano Rivera would be the difference, against the team that was different.

 The cold blooded closer quickly retired Bill Mueller on a ground ball to second, before Jason Varitek singled to right.

 The Red Sox catcher, their heart and soul, would exit for a pinch runner, Damien Jackson.

 Grady Little avoided a double play, Jackson bolting on a hit and run as Damon grounded out to Boone, now playing third, for the second out.

 With two gone and the go ahead run on second, Todd Walker had a chance to break the tie.

 Walker was a hardnosed, physical player, who compensated for his shortcomings in the field with a solid bat.

 After the Red Sox clinched a Wild Card berth, Walker, in a post game interview, proclaimed that Boston would go “kick Oakland’s ass.”

 Todd backed up his tough talk with two Game One home runs.

 He was the perfect remedy against Rivera, short, compact swing against that devastating cutter.

/

 For a split, aching second, Walker had done it.

 He’d gotten around on a cutter and muscled it into short right field, over the head of Soriano.

 But Walker’s hit would die in midair, a victim of Mariano’s late movement.

All it takes is an inch. An inch lower, and Walker’s bat would have been broken into pieces. An inch higher, and Walker might have been a hero.

 Instead, the sinking line drive nestled into the glove of a leaping Soriano, as Mariano pumped his fist in satisfaction.

/

 Mike Timlin had been in big games before. He had recorded the final out of the Blue Jays’ 1992 World Series victory against the Braves, cleanly fielding Otis Nixon’s bunt before throwing the speedster out at first base.

 Here, in the bottom of the ninth of Game 7, he would do his job once more, retiring Nick Johnson, Derek Jeter, and Bernie Williams in order, without incident.

/

 Rivera was back out for the tenth. He hadn’t worked three innings in years. Silently, he prayed he wouldn’t have to tonight.

  He would stare down the heart of the Red Sox order. Nomar Garciaparra struck out looking, on a perfectly placed cutter, over the plate and under the letters. Manny Ramirez grounded out to second.

 David Ortiz doubled to left.

  It was Kevin Millar’s turn, the face of this Red Sox team, his chance at glory.

 He popped out to short.

 Rivera had held the line again.

/

 The door to the Red Sox bullpen swung open.

 Tim Wakefield, bidding for Series MVP honors, was coming into the game. He could work deep into the night, giving the Red Sox a definite edge if they could survive Rivera, tie intact.

/

 The Yankees still couldn’t touch Wakefield. After a long evening of fighting biting fastballs from the likes of Pedro Martinez and Mike Timlin, the knuckleball was all the more numbing.

They went in order, into the eleventh.

 Game 7 had come down to two pitchers, and two pitches, Rivera and Wakefield, cutter and knuckleball, seamed in time.

/

Mariano Rivera hadn’t worked three innings since September 6TH, 1996.

Trot Nixon struck out looking. Bill Mueller tapped out to second. Doug Mirabelli stuck out swinging.

Inning over.

/

  Aaron Boone’s brother, Brett, was providing color commentary for Fox during the American League Championship Series. He was having a tough time of it, barely speaking above a whisper, not elaborating on his points, inadvertently providing dead air through prolonged periods of silence.

 Brett was appropriately smashed by television analysts for his struggles, who wondered why, in the playoffs of all places, Fox would throw an untested analysts to the wolves.

 It became an entertaining subplot of the Series. How many times would Play-by-play man Joe Buck beg Boone to say something, anything of substance, before Brett chipped in with a “yeah”, and little else?

 As the eleventh inning began, Buck wondered aloud to Boone if the Red Sox had the pitching edge, due to Wakefield’s stamina and the Yankees’ dearth of bullpen depth past Rivera.

  Brett mumbled something barely coherent about just enjoying the game, as his brother Aaron stepped to the plate, leading off the eleventh.

/

First pitch knuckle ball, floating precariously toward the inside part of the plate.

 It was gone the second he hit it.

 Aaron Boone knew it.

Tim Wakefield knew it.

/

 Yankee Stadium sailed into sweet rapture, sound and fury signifying everything.  

  A team waited for Aaron Boone at home plate.

 After circling the bases, he would leap happily into the mess of humanity, a hero.

 Mariano Rivera ran out to the mound, where he’d misplaced his soul, collapsing upon it, physically taxed, mentally exhausted.

He was carried off the field.

 The New York Yankees had won the 2003 ALCS.

 Brett Boone stared down at his brother, his blood.  

His silence would finally suffice.

/

– Matt Waters