A Winning Friendship (page 2 of 2)

Spontaneous, Contagious -- and Real

Last year, during the first game of the American League Championship Series, the guys rallied when Rivera returned to New York from the funeral of two family members who drowned in a tragic accident at Rivera's home in Panama. As soon as the pitcher appeared in the eighth inning, Jeter and Posada moved to the mound. In one of the most tender moments in baseball, Jeter's arm rested on the pitcher's shoulder, Posada gave him a gentle poke in the stomach, and far away, in center field, Bernie took several steps toward the infield.

The word real surfaces often, like a mantra, among these four friends. It is their highest compliment, and may be, said Williams, what keeps them connected to one another in the rarefied world they inhabit. "Some people get false with it," he said, opening his locker. "We stayed real."

A little later, Jeter watched Williams leave the clubhouse. Wearing a polo shirt, and sliding his cell phone into his jeans, the tall center fielder looked like just another guy at a suburban mall as he disappeared through the door.

"That was one of the first things I noticed about him," said Jeter. "You can tell by the way a guy carries himself if he is genuine or not." The reality factor, said the shortstop, is what initially attracted him to Posada and Rivera as well.

"Those first years are the loneliest," said Posada. "I came here from Puerto Rico. I didn't know a soul. I'd go home by myself. Once you sign up and go to the States, you are set apart from your friends at home. You think you are going to get new friends, but you find out you are competitors with your teammates and you don't know who to trust."

"I cried myself to sleep every night in the minor leagues," explained Rivera, returning to his locker from the training room. "I was so lonely. I couldn't even cry in English, man. Only Spanish."

Except for jeter, who remains single, the four players all have family-oriented lives. "Winning draws you together too," said Williams. And their multimillion-dollar contracts are another common ground.

"Once you sign a big deal, your family and friends start calling you for money and stop talking to you about their lives," continued Williams. "They think they are protecting you, but it makes you feel like an outsider to your own life. We turned to each other more and more."

Bernie williams is the older brother of the group. He is quiet and analytical. At spring training, straddling a chair in front of his locker, he leaned forward to talk, intently and eye to eye. A sense of finality lurks around the edges of his days. He is in the last year of a seven-year contract, and at 37, he keeps returning to what connects him to the players he is closest to, to the turn of character they share.

"So much of it has to do with fear and how you handle it," he said. "At first you are scared about not making it. The fear is selfish, and you use it to drive yourself. Then, after you make the club, you fear letting down the team and you use it to keep alert. "Some guys get big behind the fear; they make themselves out to be more than they are. Other guys get gratitude. I've always stuck with the ones who know it's not them. We all know who we are, and we all know we're lucky."

Then, as if describing the final fear, the one that, traditionally, has bedeviled men, the fear of losing their purpose and their friends when they retire, Williams blurted: "I have no idea what's going to happen after the game. None. If I think about it, it takes my breath away."

As if sensing a shift in the emotional balance, Jeter glanced sideways from his locker. Across the clubhouse, Rivera craned his neck, and then he glanced at Posada. Posada shook his head.

Early in a player's career, fear is simply an energy, an itch. As a player matures, fear becomes a vision, a picture of one's final game.

"We say we will always be close. But you always think that every moment is always. And it never is," said Posada the next day, as the clouds vied with the sun to dominate the midmorning light. He joined Williams, Jeter and Rivera in front of the dugout for photographs, and continued. "I see how it is, once a guy leaves the game. We're all happy when he comes back, and there's a lot of catching up, and then there is this moment when there is nothing left to say." A shadow passed over each of the four faces, and the camera began to click, click, click.

"Hey, man, we'll still be talking," said Rivera in his singsong English. He was seated in the center, and in his excitement, he let loose his arms, causing the players standing behind him to flinch and lose their well-practiced smiles. In that instant, affection and habit outweighed uncertainty. Click, click. The burst of laughter behind him was spontaneous, contagious -- and real.

Earlier in the day, Rivera tried to capture the essence of this friendship. "I lost a lot when I got money," he said. "I lost a lot more when I got fame. As time went on, I needed these guys more and more. Other than my family and God, they are all I got that matters. The rest can go away in a minute." Friendship. It doesn't get any more real than that.

From Reader's Digest - October 2005

 

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