“I wouldn’t have believed it myself,” Derek Jeter said afterward, and neither would we. He was talking about his ninth-inning walkoff single that beat the Orioles, 6–5, last night, winning the final Yankees home game of the year and the last of his twenty-year career. But the whole evening, in truth, was beyond dreams. The Yankees’ season had, for all purposes, ended with a loss the previous evening, which mathematically eliminated them from post-season play. They didn’t make it into October last year, either, but Derek had not played in any late games after his sidelining by that severe ankle injury. Last night’s encounter was the first meaningless game he’d ever played in pinstripes—but then he gave it meaning.
It was a weird affair from the start, with the first two Orioles batters knocking out solo home runs in the top of the first inning, even while the bleacher choir was going through its introductory chants. Derek’s double off the left-field wall helped the Yanks tie it up in the bottom half, and we were free over the next hour or more to watch his naked, intelligent face in riveting closeups, while he fought and almost lost the battle with his emotions. Between pitches out at short, or while on the bench, he flicked his pale gaze this way and that, taking in the heart-rending familiar, and he pressed his lips together, or dropped his head, or looked elsewhere in birdlike twitches. Once we saw him retreat to the tunnel.
Strangeness persisted: a little throwing error of his on a routine play, in the second; a botched everyday infield flip by Orioles shortstop J. J. Hardy, in the seventh, that leaked in two go-ahead Yankees runs and granted Derek a gift R.B.I. The game now rushed toward its promised damp but satisfying closing ceremonials, with the Yanks up, 5–2, and the sellout crowd of forty-eight thousand-plus hoisting their phones still again while sustaining the continuous “De-rek Je-ter!” … "De-rek Je-ter” plaint and farewell.
The O’s, who are fighting the Angels for the best record in the league and the favored home-field advantage in the post-season, refused the Kleenex. Facing Yankees closer Dave Robertson in the ninth, they produced a two-run homer by Adam Jones and a solo shot by Steve Pearce that tied the game, 5–5: silencing, no-doubt-about-it shots that felt like a social gaffe.
With the on-field hugs postponed and the chance of some debilitating extra innings ahead, we suddenly saw that, this way, Derek, third up in the home ninth, would come to bat at least one more time—as he did indeed. It all seemed to happen at once. Never did a great game finish faster: a leadoff single by Jose Pirela, a sacrifice bunt by Brett Gardner, then Derek, inside-outing a first-pitch middling fastball by Baltimore reliever Evan Meek, singling sharply to right to score the pinch-runner Antoan Richardson for the walkoff. It was hit No. 3,463 for Jeter—sixth most in major-league history.
Derek’s and the Yankees’ leapings; the hugs and kisses from ancient teammates Jorge and Mariano and Andy and Bernie, and from Mr. T., and from his parents; the Gatorade shower; and a teary walk, towel in hand, back out one more time to his shortstop position were absolutely his due, one felt, and ours. In the interviews, he at last admitted to the pain and difficulty of his recent weeks and days, but then briefly smiled and said, “I'm happy I did get a hit to win the game.” Classy to the end, he congratulated the Orioles and promised that he’d d.h. in some of the last three weekend games, up in Boston, to honor the fans there, but, for us, would never play shortstop again.
Departing, he’d given us a post-season after all.
