Free The Closer by Mariano Rivera Page B

easy journey by any means. Midway through the year, Clara flew up from Panama to visit me. She was almost five months pregnant. The doctor warned her about staying away from chicken pox because of the impact it could have on the baby. It turned out her flight had almost as many kids with chicken pox as it had motion-discomfort bags.
    Clara, predictably, came down with chicken pox shortly after. When she had her next ultrasound, the news was about as bad as it could get. The doctor told us our baby already had a pool of fluid in the back of his head and would most likely be born with a large growth in the area that could ultimately be fatal. He said that because Clara was already exposed to the disease there was nothing we could do.
    We were devastated. We prayed constantly about it. Clara connected with a group of Christian Latina women and joined them on a retreat, where there were prayers, and more prayers, for our unborn baby.
    Clara rested and took good care of herself. We stayed as positive as we could.
    Maybe the doctor is wrong. Maybe the baby will be fine, I told her. You can’t lose hope.
    The next time she visited the doctor, Clara was close to seven months pregnant. The ultrasound showed that the fluid had dissipated. The baby looked healthy.
    I’m thrilled for you, but I have to say, I have no idea how this happened, the doctor said. I don’t think I have ever seen a case like this in all my years of practice.
    On October 4, 1993, in Panama City, we welcomed Mariano Rivera Jr. into the world. Both mother and child came through it beautifully, and so did the father, who spent most of that day, and many days that followed, thanking the Lord.

The Call
    T HE BUS TRIP FROM Rochester, New York, to Pawtucket, Rhode Island, is seven hours. It seems even longer when you make the trip after getting swept four straight. We pull into Pawtucket late at night, a tired bunch of Columbus Clippers piling into a roadside Comfort Inn. It’s the middle of May 1995, and after spending 1994 in Single-A, Double-A, and Triple-A, I am off to a strong start with the Clippers, striking out eleven guys in five and two-thirds innings in my previous start.
    We finally win a game to start the series against the PawSox. Tim Rumer gets the victory, and Derek Jeter, hitting .363, knocks a double to put us ahead to stay. Rain postpones the second game of the series. I don’t want to spend the whole day in my $45-per-night hotel, so I do what minor leaguers usually do when they are on the road: check out the local sights at the mall. The sights aren’t really local at all, since most malls look identical, a Gap here, a Foot Locker there, a food court in the middle. In Rhode Island, I just notice that
everybody
is wearing Boston Red Sox gear.
    Late in the afternoon, I’m back in the room when the phone rings.
    It is the Clippers’ manager, Bill Evers.
    Mariano?
    Yes. Hi, Bill. What’s up?
    I have some good news and bad news for you. What do you want first?
    The bad news, I guess, I reply.
    Okay. The bad news is that you are no longer a pitcher for the Columbus Clippers.
    What’s the good news?
    The good news is that you are now a pitcher for the New York Yankees.
    Excuse me?
    You better pack. You are going to New York.
    I hear his words the first time. They are not sinking in.
    Are you serious? I say.
    I couldn’t be more serious, Evers says. The Yankees want you to get down there as soon as you can. You need to reach out to the traveling secretary to make the arrangements.
    Okay, thanks very much.
    Don’t thank me. You earned this, he says.
    I hang up the phone. For a long time, I have imagined what it might feel like to get the call to the big leagues. Now I know.
    I stand up on the bed and start bouncing up and down, and keep on bouncing, a Panamanian jumping bean. My poor downstairs neighbor. But he won’t have to put up with this for long.
    I am going to the big leagues.
    Las Grandes Ligas.
    When I finally stop bouncing, I get on my