What must it feel like to see the empire’s Mariano Rivera jogging to the mound when you’re down a couple of runs? Though we are not privy to the inner monologue of Philadelphia’s hitters, it would surely be screaming: “We’re doomed! Doomed, I say”!
Yes they were. Mr. Rivera overshadows all, much like an eclipse of the sun sends the tribesmen of aboriginal civilizations scurrying away from the boiling pot holding the leader of a safari who stumbled onto sacred ground. The hi-def screens at Yankee Stadium should read “Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here” when Mr. Rivera stands 60-feet, 6-inches from the hexagonal plate we fondly call home.
He should be the MVP every year. The exception that proves the rule, of course, is the seventh game of the 2001 World Series, but that was against a drawn-in infield. In this case, a six-out save seemed all but predestined. Rivera is Calvinism personified. Since God has already determined who is to be saved, it matters not a whit what one does on the diamond to achieve it.
A.J. Burnett left his evil twin in the clubhouse, allowing only one run and Mr. Rivera to summon the gods to push the moon between the sun and the earth and scare the Phillies into submission.
Pedro , for his part, made two mistakes, but “for want of a nail” on the hoof of a horse a battle is lost.
We must question, however, Charlie Manuel not sending the runners in the eighth inning with one out on a 3-2 count, as the redoubtable Tim McCarver pointed out. Still, blue’s call was wrong. There was no double play. Utley was safe, but life is not fair, something we are impressed with every day.
The cure for the senior circuit representatives? They must resume swatting the ball out of the confines to retain their championship. The series, as this sporting life, will not be won by small ball.
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