Closing time -- it's not for everyone

SHELTON E-mail: Click here Archive

By GARY SHELTON

© St. Petersburg Times, published April 1, 2001

As job descriptions go, this one sounds easy enough. Baseball closer. Short hours, high pay, major recognition.

What could be easier? Three outs to go, three bases to spare. A half-inning's worth of work, and you're a hero. Ten minutes worth of sweat, and they're icing down the shoulder and the beer, not necessarily in that order.

All you have to do is shut the the door. Just that.

Except for this: There are monsters trying to get in.

And this: They have teeth.

And this: They are hungry.

And this: They can smell blood.

This is the way the closer earns his keep, by shooing away disaster before it can get to his team. He lives halfway between success and failure, all grit and glare and arm and attitude, and he attempts to turn a last chance into none at all. He is part lion-tamer and part test-pilot, part trapeze performer and part firefighter, part gunslinger and part nitroglycerin juggler.

He is the man who writes the game's final chapter, whose performance says whether this was a good night or a bad one, maybe even a good season or a bad one. He is the quintessential arm against the sea of troubles. He is the man responsible for keeping Jacque Jones from turning into Chipper Jones. Or, worse, Indiana.

[AP photo] Kansas City Royals Roberto Hernandez throws a pitch against the Philadelphia Phillies in Clearwater. Hernandez says that being a closer is "a stresfful job."

Just finish it. Just turn out the lights, stop the bleeding and send the crowd home. Turn into Tom Gordon, and lead the lost little girl out of the woods.

That's all.

"There are a lot of people who have the physical ability to close," said Rays manager Chuck Lamar, "but there aren't that many who have the mental ability to deal with the pressure. That's why they're so special."

Oh, it sounds easy enough, doesn't it? To the casual observer, three outs in the ninth sounds very much like three outs in the first, or the fourth, or even the eighth. The same number of strikes are required per out, and the same number of outs per inning. The plate is the same distance away, and the fences, and there are the same number of fielders behind the pitcher. All the closer has to do is place the cherry on top, right?

Except for this: These are the three toughest outs of the game, the time when mortals want to be Roy-stupid-Hobbs or some other kind of hero.

And this: The other team's best hitter always seems to be coming to bat.

And this: The air seems to get thinner at closing time.

And this: If you aren't crazy to start with, this job will take you there.

"When you're the closer, you're facing the best of everything," Rays manager Larry Rothschild said. "The best hitters. The best pinch-runners. The best pinch-hitters. With the very good teams, the ninth inning is when the sense of urgency hits them."

Face it. The ninth inning was made for great players. Rays coach Terry Collins remembers when he managed the Houston Astros, and his team played the Padres, Tony Gwynn always seemed to be coming to the plate in the ninth. "You got to the point where you wondered how many places in the order he was hitting," Collins said. Understand then, what kind of job opening it is that the Rays have been interviewing for the entire spring. They need a pitcher with a combative air, a rubber arm, great stuff and a bulletproof ego. They need someone who can turn eight innings worth of effort into a nine-inning victory. They need someone to come and save the day. They need someone to become Mighty Mouse.

Or, failing that, they need a fairly reliable Roberto Hernandez imitation.

You remember Hernandez, right? For three years, he has been the dragonslayer around here. Because of him, closer never has been among the list of shortcomings of the Rays. As an organization, one of the first things the Rays did was sign Hernandez and put him in charge of the last things they did.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. Hernandez drove you crazy. He was a thrill ride every night, walking two, striking out one, walking another, getting a popup, then finally getting out of trouble with a fly to right. For all of his success, Hernandez was never a guy who calmed your nerves as he stalked toward the mound. He was the firefighter who burst through the door carrying kerosene under each arm; you were never quite sure if he was going to put out the flame, or if it was going to put him out.

That said, if you had to name an MVP for the Rays' first 1,000 days, it was Hernandez. Because of that, the biggest hole in the team's roster as it goes into its fourth season is the closer.

"It's a stressful job," said Hernandez, now with the Royals. "You have to have amnesia, win or lose. You have to be arrogant. You can't be afraid. You have to go out there when you don't have your best stuff and convince hitters you do. You can't show your emotions. If you have any doubt, any negativity, it's going to beat you. You have to have a tough skin."

Hernandez knows about that. After games, he sits at his locker, his face as blank as if he were daring you to guess the outcome. But it wasn't always that way. He remembers his second season as a closer, when he would go home and weep over his failures. That was before he realized a key component of the closer. Your memory has to be as weak as your arm is strong.

There have been relievers who never got over their struggles. Remember Mark Wohlers? He was never the same after Jim Leyritz hit a Series-altering home run off him. Remember Mitch Williams? He never recovered from Joe Carter's homer in the World Series. Remember Donnie Moore? He gave up a homer to Dave Henderson in Game 5 of the 1986 American League Championship Series, costing the Angels a place in the World Series; he committed suicide three years afterward.

"The best ones are the same every day," said catcher John Flaherty, who also has caught Jeff Reardon and Trevor Hoffman in his career. "It doesn't matter if you've saved several in a row or if you've blown a couple. You have to be the same way. That's tough, because this is a profession of streaks. It's almost as if a closer isn't allowed to do that."

Who then, would want such a job? Who in their right mind?

There are some who will stop you there, because for a long time, you could make a case that closers weren't in their right minds. Once, they were characters who seemed as on the edge as the time of the game in which they worked. They were the Nasty Boys and the Wild Thing and the Mad Hungarian. They were Dennis Eckersley shooting out hitters with his fingertips. They were about Rob Dibble's tantrums and Al Hrabosky stalkings and Mitch Williams' wild ride.

"Some people need a gimmick," Hernandez said. "Some people use that stuff to pump themselves up. I say if it works, do it. Otherwise, the game will spit you out."

What, then, should a manager be looking for in a closer?

Easy. He should find someone with a specialty pitch that dazzles hitters, and with enough control to keep them off bases. He should make sure he's competitive enough to want the ball every day, egomaniacal enough to want it after everyone else is done with it. He should find someone with enough physical and mental resiliency to do it again tomorrow tonight. Then he should find out if he's a motorcycle-riding, bungee-jumping, alligator wrestler.

If he can lead lost children out of the woods, that's nice, too.

© 2006 • All Rights Reserved • Tampa Bay Times
490 First Avenue South • St. Petersburg, FL 33701 • 727-893-8111

Contact the Times | Privacy Policy
Standard of Accuracy | Terms, Conditions & Copyright