Every player knows that there are accomplishments in baseball that might seem personal, yet in fact they belong not to the individual but to the history and legacy of the game itself. Twirling a no-hitter, hitting for the cycle, the grand slam, the perfect game. None of these is meant to be just another tick on a résumé; they’re for the game to own. These markers are much bigger than the players who, technically, accomplished them.
As rare as a blown save from Mariano Rivera was the freak accident last week that put him on the disabled list for the first time since 2003, ending his season and perhaps his career.
As we all know, in the arid world of Arizona, political temperatures have been rising about a new law that makes it a crime to be without immigration papers, and relies heavily on “reasonable suspicion.” The reaction within the professional sports world would have been unheard of in my playing days, and underlines a real generational gap. In an unprecedented show of solidarity, players, owners and front-office personnel are uniting, disgusted by Arizona’s approach to addressing concerns over the undocumented.
The Yankees released me from my contract in 2005. Several years later, I texted Derek Jeter, who still had the same cellphone number, to ask whether he would inscribe a bat to my newborn son. (It arrived the next day; this is the Derek Jeter I know.) Now a few more years have gone by, and Jeter, 37; my son, 3; and my daughter, nearly 2, all find themselves very much tangled up in ... numbers.