The Apotheosis of Alex Rodriguez

It’s impossible to explain to someone who doesn’t live in New York the level of adoration which Derek Jeter receives. Every youngster, myself included, idolized him as a little leaguer, fought over who’d wear #2. We echoed his batting stance, his ritual of extending his right hand backwards towards the umpire, kicking the dirt at the plate, something I still do to this day, even in intramural softball games.

He’ll be elected mayor with 98% of the vote. We’ll build him a statue out in the harbor next to Lady Liberty, in a pose echoing his famous jump-throw pose. He’s a god among men in this city, a reputation he fully deserves. Clutch hit after clutch hit, squeaky-clean, home-grown, no controversy. He was, and still is, everything our franchise strives to be.

In many ways, Yankee fans’ innate distaste for Rodriguez was tied to his relationship with Jeter. Together, at times, they seemed to be the Gatsby and Buchanan of early-21st-century baseball. Early in their careers, when Jeter was with the Yankees and Rodriguez the Mariners, they were the best of friends, calling each other for advice on dealing with the media, staying at each others’ apartments, and posing for awkward magazine covers.

Then, the friendship cooled, for reasons still unknown, and the tension between the two began to leak onto the field. I’ve been a die-hard Yankee fan for my entire life. Some moments stand out. This is one of them.

It was a muggy August day, a few weeks before I was to start sixth grade. My father and I, as we did every night, every afternoon, were watching the game together, new school and old school fans. I’d give him the backstory of the young players on the opposition, the guys he didn’t know yet. That’s Nick Markakis. He was their number one prospect before the season. Used to be a pitcher. He’d return the favor by regaling me with stories about Yankee killers from his childhood. Brooks Robinson. That guy used to beat us like a drum. He must have hit .400 against us.

So there we were, stretched out in our usual place, drinking lemonade, watching our team get shellacked by a dreadful Orioles squad. Our starter that day had been Jaret Wright, who, incidentally, is on my shortlist of “most hated Yankees,” alongside such luminaries as Paul Quantrill, Vidal Nuno, Kevin Brown, and Kelly Johnson. He’d gotten drilled for five runs in three innings, and they never looked back.

It was the eighth inning. Jay Gibbons, a pudgy outfielder who, ironically enough, would later would be accused of using PEDs himself, lofted a fly ball to third. It could not have been more clear at the time; this was A-Rod’s ball. Well, Jeter, at shortstop, didn’t think so, and drifted over to his left. He kept drifting as Rodriguez camped under the ball.

No one was surprised when they finally bumped into each other, the ball dropping softly onto the infield dirt, scoring yet another run for the Orioles. Jeter glanced at Rodriguez and muttered something under his breath. Rodriguez returned the favor. My father shook his head and changed the channel.

It was as if some trickster god encapsulated Rodriguez’s first three years in pinstripes and jammed it into one play. He called for the ball. Jeter didn’t hear him. They collided. A run scored. And after the game, Rodriguez bore the brunt of the blame. Jeter, who went after a ball that was never his to begin with, was spared.

A few months later, Rodriguez found himself batting eighth in an elimination playoff game against the Tigers. His playoff struggles, well documented over the past few years, had finally caught up with him. And he performed horribly, and the Yankees lost the series.

2007 dawned. He declared he wasn’t friends with Jeter anymore. He bashed 54 homers and won the MVP. He interfered with a pop fly against the Toronto Blue Jays by yelling at Jays infielder Howie Clark while running between second and third. The next day, he was spotted leaving a Toronto hotel with a blonde woman that was not his wife.

After the season, he opted out of his contract, becoming a free agent. The timing was strange. It was during the 2007 World Series, the grandest stage of all in baseball. His critics, red with fury, saw it as another example of his self-absorption, his not-Jeter-ness.

Rodriguez, it turns out, was also furious with the timing of the announcement, firing his agent Scott Boras and resolving to get the issue taken care of. He signed another deal with the Yankees, ten years, through the 2017 season.

2008 was a season of endings. Longtime faces of the mid-2000s Yankees, Mike Mussina and Jason Giambi, left the team. The cathedral of baseball, Yankee Stadium, closed its doors for good. The next spring, a shining new megachurch opened across the street. It was a new chapter in Yankees history. But, of course, when talking of the recent Yankees, a chapter cannot begin without a quote from Alex Rodriguez.

He admitted to using steroids that offseason in an interview with Peter Gammons. He cited the “enormous pressure to perform” in his first season in Texas. And suddenly, Yankee fans’ images of Rodriguez were confirmed. He couldn’t perform under pressure. He couldn’t handle the spotlight. Couldn’t do it. This was a man destined to never come through in big spots.

It’s a funny thing, though, about 2009. It was the season where Rodriguez broke free from his chrysalis of self-doubt and media frenzy, becoming what he was meant to be when he got here. A world champion. It all started with one swing of the bat, in Baltimore in May. Coming off the DL, Rodriguez smashed a three-run homer on the first pitch he saw. The Yankees rode the momentum to the playoffs, never looking back.

2009 was a magical year for Yankees fans. I was a freshman in high school, and I still remember right where I was every time Rodriguez launched a clutch hit in the postseason.

ALDS Game 2, the homer off Joe Nathan to tie the game? At home with one of my Mets fan friends, who hated the Yankees and A-Rod with the fury of a thousand suns. He was so annoyed he didn’t speak for the next ten minutes.

ALCS Game 2, the homer off Brian Fuentes to tie the game? At my friend’s house, the one Yankee fan in a salty sea of Mets backers, cheering until I thought my skull would burst.

World Series Game 3, the homer off Cole Hamels in Philly, the first instant replay in World Series history? Well, it was Halloween, and we’re having a party. The combined cheers nearly split our walls when it was confirmed.

It was then it happened. Rodriguez elevated to the status he’d always wanted to be. He was The Man, The Myth, The Legend. The man we’d have to thank for a World Series ring.

And from there, it slowly went downhill. From 2010 to 2012, his years were a mess of injuries and missed opportunities. He made the last out of the ALCS in 2010 and the ALDS in 2011. Both times, he struck out.

In 2013, the slow mess of the past three years came crashing down. The story broke that he’d used PEDs more often than previously admitted. He’d been a customer at the Biogenesis clinic and tried to cover up information from investigators. The MLB suspended him, effective immediately, for 162 games, unprecedented in the history of the sport.

At the time, he was on the disabled list and immediately appealed, meaning he’d play out the season until a decision could be reached. His first game back was against the Tigers, on August 9, 2013. Funnily enough, I was there.

And I booed him.

No, he didn’t deserve it. Maybe from away fans, but not from the crowd at the Stadium. He didn’t need people like me to tell him what he did was wrong. He was about to pay the price.

And he did, by sitting out the 2014 season. As Derek Jeter, his on-and-off buddy, took a grand retirement tour around the majors, culminating in a storybook game-winning hit at home and a standing ovation at Fenway Park as he left the field for the final time.

In 2o15, no one knew what to expect from Rodriguez. He was warmly received on Opening Day, a stark contrast to his first appearance at the Stadium following his suspension. He fit into the lineup and began to play.

And then something completely unexpected began to happen.

He started to play well.

He smacked homers and clutch hits, he showed patience at the plate and appreciation to the fans. Even when his patience was tried, he displayed poise and professionalism. Two pitchers, Houston’s Brett Oberholtzer and his old friend, Philadelphia’s Cole Hamels, tried to hit him with pitches. Rodriguez sat back, leaned on his bat and grinned, taking the high road.

And he started to crawl closer to 3,000 hits, a milestone afforded to the best and brightest. Jeter had done it a few years before in grand style, a blast to the left field bleachers. In Rodriguez’s first attempt, he came up against Sam Dyson of the Marlins.

Dyson fired four pitches way inside, walking Rodriguez and drawing the ire of the Yankee Stadium crowd. I won’t say that I think Dyson was trying to hit him. But I will say that at the time, I was sure Dyson was trying to hit him.

The next day, in his first at-bat against Justin Verlander, he blasted the first pitch he saw into the right-field stands. 3,000, with a homer. Just like Jeter.

He finished the season productive, rehabilitated his image, made himself likable, a classy, veteran presence. He came into 2016 riding the wave, hoping to produce in a similar fashion.

But it didn’t happen. After running for so many years, Father Time had finally caught up with Rodriguez. For much of the summer, he’s been riding the bench. Now, he’s declared his retirement. Next year, he will join the team as a special advisor and instructor.