Jay-Z—the most successful rapper alive, the undisputed king of New York, probably the coolest guy on the planet—is jumping up and down, screaming like your little sister. Standing in front of his first-row seat down the third base line at Yankee Stadium, Jay just witnessed the most awesome thing he’s ever seen and maybe ever will. And this guy is married to Beyoncé, so that’s saying something.
It’s July 9, 2011: an impossibly sunny, 29-degree Saturday afternoon in the Bronx. The kind of day baseball is meant for. Moments before he started losing it, Jay and some 50,000 other onlookers were watching Derek Jeter, one of the greatest Yankees there ever was, stand in against Rays lefty David Price with one out in the third inning. Jeter worked the count full on five pitches before fouling off two more as the crowd chanted “Der-ek Je-ter” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap), drowning out the sounds of the B Train rumbling by just outside the right field bleachers. The eighth pitch Jeter saw, a 3-2 breaking ball travelling 78 mph and crossing the plate just above his knees, was a good one. The kind that looks like it’ll fall out of the zone for a ball but doesn’t. A lot of guys are fooled by that pitch. A lot of guys aren’t Derek Jeter.
Jay watched the sequence through the lens of his camera as Jeter spilled the barrel of his bat down toward the plate and caught every last seam of that breaking ball, shooting it to left-centre field. “Get out, baby! Get out!” Jay yelled as he momentarily forgot he was holding the camera and pointed it at the ground, watching history with his own two eyes as the ball sailed exactly 420 feet into the first row of Section 236, where everyone went nuts.
Three thousand.
It’s the second time in three nights Jay has come to the Bronx, hoping to witness this moment. He has more important things to do. He’s made himself unapologetically late for appearances at art galleries and listening parties for his new album, Watch the Throne, a collaboration with Kanye West. (Usually Kanye’s the one who’s late, but he never had an excuse this good.) Jay doesn’t stop squealing until Jeter’s crossing home into the waiting arms of Yankees catcher and longtime friend Jorge Posada following a brisk home run trot. And his heart doesn’t stop pounding until after Jeter puts a cap on a 5-for-5 day by driving in the winning run in the bottom of the eighth.
After the game, Jeter is stuck talking to the press while Jay makes his way back to the ringed tunnel that runs around the inner bowels of Yankee Stadium, providing access to everything from the kitchen, to the sprawling Yankees clubhouse, to the hole in the foundation where they dug up a David Ortiz Red Sox jersey mischievously planted during construction. It’s not far from that still-gaping hole in the ground where Jay leans against a wall, black Wayfarer shades pulled down over his eyes, the man who made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can waiting patiently for his chance to brush up against greatness. About 30 minutes later Jay gets his opportunity, grabbing Jeter by his shoulders and shaking him as if he was trying to find some way to get a little emotion out of the guy. “Great job, man,” Jay says with a grin wider than you can imagine. “What a way to do it, too. Like, what!?”
All Jeter can do is laugh. It’s the greatest achievement of his career and he’s not even sure how to process it. In this moment everyone wants a hug, everyone wants to offer congratulations. There’s no time to stop and think about what it means to become just the 28th man in history to reach 3,000 hits. But even if he had a chance, he never could have guessed what would happen next. No one there could have known that Jeter had just reached a turning point. That he was about to transform from declining veteran to resurgent star. That at the age of 37, absolutely everything everyone believed about him, and what he was beginning to accept about himself, was going to change. No one thought Derek Jeter could be born again.
***
IN THE CALENDAR YEAR since he deposited hit No. 3,000 into the left field bleachers, Derek Jeter has gone off. He hit .326 over his final 64 games of 2011, including 25 multi-hit games. Then he started 2012 hitting .404 through his first 25 games and was the first Yankee ever—there’s been a lot of Yankees—to reach 50 hits in the first 30 games of a season. Through 40 games he had more hits than anyone in the league and had already strung together hitting streaks of eight and 15 games. He’s climbed over 13 more players on the all-time hits list since 3,000, settling into the 14th spot, well within striking distance of the top 10. He hit over .500 against left-handers through the first 45 games of 2012 and clubbed five home runs after hitting just six last season. And if that wasn’t enough, on May 13 Siena College presented him with an honorary doctorate, officially making him Dr. Jeter. It’s been a good year.
All of this while confidently marching toward his 38th birthday on June 26 like it’s not a time when his biology, by design, should be doing everything it can to betray him. At an age when his skills are expected to erode, when his bat is supposed to slow, when his legs are meant to fail, Jeter hasn’t missed a step. The man won’t grow old. He’s playing like he’s 25 again.
It’s a far cry from this time last year, when every baseball writer in the United States was polishing off a Jeter career obituary. They started writing them after a 2010 season that was not necessarily bad but sub-par compared to his standards. He made 739 plate appearances, more than anyone else in the AL, but hit just .270—a full 43 points below his career line—with 179 hits, tied for the lowest mark in his career. There are major-league ballplayers who would sell everything they have to reach 179 hits in a season. More than 200 players made at least 400 plate appearances in 2010 and only 15 of them had more hits than Jeter. But by the time the Yankees’ season officially ended on Oct. 22 with a game six defeat to the Texas Rangers in the ALCS, the vultures were circling, ready to pick apart the corpse of a career. “They weren’t ready to; they were doing it,” says Yankees hitting coach Kevin Long. “A lot of people were quick to count him out and say his best days are over.”
Publicly, Jeter said he never paid attention to the press or the numbers, but privately something was eating away at him. He wasn’t getting to the ball quickly enough. His swing was taking too long. That could have come from a number of factors, whether it be the way pitching has improved over the past 15 years or Jeter’s age affecting his mechanics. He spent his off-season away from baseball, resting, and reported to spring training in March 2011 ready to work with Long on shortening his swing. The problem, they decided, was Jeter’s stride—the step he takes with his left foot as the pitcher releases the ball. So Jeter started swinging without a stride at all, saving himself precious fractions of a second with which to see the pitch and get his bat through the zone. But Jeter never took to the new approach, hitting .254 with just seven extra-base hits through the season’s first 45 games, providing ample fodder to those who said he was over the hill. By the time he strained his right calf and hit the disabled list on June 13, Jeter was still hitting just .260, and even the most optimistic fans were starting to wonder if he really was done.
Jeter fought the Yankees hard to avoid the DL or at least stay with the team but was eventually overruled and told to head home to Tampa, where the club has a training facility, to collect his thoughts and try to sort things out. There, he started working with Yankees scout Gary Denbo, who was a hitting coach in the organization for 10 years. The pair decided to scrap everything he had worked so diligently on since spring, reverting back to Jeter’s natural swing, stride and all. “It was never really given a chance,” Long admits of the abandoned adjustments. “But you can’t just sit back and not try to make a change. Sometimes even just getting out of the routine of what you normally do for a short period of time can unlock something.” Jeter returned to the Yankees lineup on Independence Day, and after five games he already had nine hits, including his 3,000th. In all, since returning from Tampa, Jeter has 153 hits and a .337 batting average in 109 games. Only three players have hit better over that span. None of them are in their 30s. “I marvel at it—it’s just remarkable what he’s doing,” Long says. “People keep saying at some point there’s going to be a decline in what he’s able to do—it’s just mother nature taking its toll. But he’s proven a lot of people wrong.”
***
EVERY DRIVER and every doorman in this over-crowded city has his own version of the story. The time Derek Jeter walked in or out or by, quickly and confidently moving through their lives, never staying in one place for too long, but lingering enough to make an impression. About the jaw-dropping woman on his arm; maybe she was blond or brunette, maybe a supermodel or an actress, rarely the same girl twice when he’s single. About how gracious he is, how he said hello and asked how everyone was doing. How genuine and honest and humble he came off as. How Derek Jeter is just the best dude and if circumstances were different they would probably be bros.
This is why, against all odds, Jeter has managed to avoid any kind of scandal or negative attention regarding his personal life in 18 years of being the brightest star in baseball’s biggest media market. New York is a hell of a place for the famous, wealthy and single to exist, and Jeter’s made the most of it. But unlike other athletes, Jeter’s privacy is protected—everyone considers him a friend, and no one talks. This city looks out for you when you do your day job so well and with so much class. “I think the way he handles himself overshadows what he’s done on the field,” Yankees outfielder Nick Swisher says. “I pick up stuff from him as a person, as a teammate, as a leader.”
For a guy who has a lot of fun off the field, he makes the most of his time on it. Everything within the game is a game to Jeter. When he steps into the box for batting practice he asks the teammates he hits with for scenarios. First and third, one out. Bases loaded, two away. Runner on second, none out. Whatever. Anything to give him an objective. Then, depending on where he can hit the ball, he will predict results. Hit a grounder to short with a runner on first; damn, double play. Liner to right with runners on the corners; man, that would’ve gotten down, one ribbie for sure. Grounder to third with none on; damn, easy out. When you’ve taken pre-game batting practice almost 2,500 times you need to do something to keep it fresh.
Before a game in New York earlier this May, just as Jeter stepped in for his pre-game swings, as if on cue, Jay-Z’s “What More Can I Say” blared from the speakers pointing out of each dugout at field level that make watching batting practice a deafening experience. It was an appropriate soundtrack. There’s never been a n—- this good for this long / this hood, or this pop / this hot, or this strong. With every swing, the barrel of the bat diving into the zone from over his head, Jeter shoots ball after ball around the diamond. He hits them mostly along the ground these days, unable to elevate balls as much as he used to. He still comes in to the plate from well outside as he always has; that unique swing that defies most conventional hitting practices yet brought him success, 3,150 times and counting. That swing has more hits than any Yankee. More than any active player. More than any other career shortstop. More than 99.9 percent of those who have ever made a major-league plate appearance. Rip after rip, cut after cut. It’s a wonder he ever tried to change it. And then the chorus hits.
What more can I say? / What more can I do?
***
NO MATTER WHAT he’s done this year, no matter how good he’s been for how long, everyone in New York is still waiting for that other shoe to drop. The drivers and doormen all ask him how much time he has left. The media still have those obituaries on file.
On a chilly Toronto night in mid-May, Jeter was granted his first off day of the season after playing every single inning of New York’s first 36 games. An off day for Jeter is different than it is for most guys. He doesn’t take batting practice, he doesn’t do fielding drills. He stays in the clubhouse, mostly, getting treatment, relaxing. He watches the game from the dugout in a hoodie, and if the outcome is decided by the ninth and his services aren’t required, he ducks out early, changing quickly in the clubhouse and darting off well before media are allowed in five minutes after the final pitch. It’s not an off day, it’s a day off. He’s earned the right.
But on this day, he couldn’t even reach his locker before the game without shoving his way through the curious mob of media circling it, trying to sniff out any signs of trouble. “Let me tell you guys right now—I’m fine,” Jeter says, unprovoked, as he hangs up his designer jeans in the second overflow locker next to the one with his name on it. “There’s nothing wrong. Just a day off. Everyone can relax.” Later, his manager Joe Girardi is pestered with an endless line of queries about his motivation for choosing this day, of all days, to sit his best-performing player. “At some point I had to do it. He hasn’t had a day off all year,” Girardi pleaded. Question after question poured in until someone asked him if he tires of the over-analyzing of a minute decision in a 162-game season. “It’s New York, right?” Girardi says with a shrug. “People want answers.”
When it comes to Derek Jeter, the answers are rarely there. Not when you ask him about hitting—Jeter’s mantra is he does not think about hitting, therefore he does not talk about hitting—and not when you look at the stats. One of the best or worst things about baseball today, depending on how you feel about sabermetrics, is how scrutinized it is. An endless stream of statistics is available as quickly as your fingertips can move, carefully engineered to demonstrate exactly how useful a baseball player is, based on cold, hard numbers. And they all say no one of Derek Jeter’s nearly 38 years should be this good.
Since turning 36, Jeter is making less contact on pitches inside the strike zone. He’s swinging at more pitches outside of it. He’s making contact on fewer fastballs in 2012 despite seeing more of them. Jeter’s comparables by age alone predict a steady decline in his production. Yet the hits haven’t stopped. Flying in the face of every projection, Jeter is hitting more than almost anyone else in baseball. He’s killing the trends. He’s laying them to waste.
Hitting coaches used to call Jeter’s swing slump-proof, but maybe the new term should be sabermetric-proof. Jeter commits every statistical sin you can name but he’ll still reach over the plate, pound that outside pitch into the ground and muscle it through a hole. It’s baseball in its purest, most simple form. Just hit the ball. Send it to open grass. Jeter is one of the 15 best to ever do that. If he keeps this up, he’ll soon be one of the 10 best. “That’s just the way Derek is. He hits balls that most guys can’t,” says Yankees pitcher Andy Pettitte, who has known Jeter for more than 20 years. “What he does is special. You won’t ever figure out how he gets it done.”
Maybe Jeter shouldn’t be figured out. Maybe he should just be appreciated, marvelled at. Maybe it’s time to stop trying to predict his demise and sit back to watch the greatest player of a generation do his thing. Like Jay-Z did on a sunny Saturday last July. “He’s a classic example of a Yankee and a winner—someone who just puts on his hard hat and goes to work every day and really wins,” Jay said that afternoon. “It’s amazing.” A player who’s nearing 38 and still dominating his game isn’t something that has to be explained. It can simply be enjoyed. What a cynical thing, to try to project his failure; how righteous it must feel to prove everyone wrong.
It’s not hard to tell why Jeter picked Jay’s first verse from Watch The Throne’s “Otis” as his walkup music this year. The same song Jay was supposed to be playing for critics when he was instead at Yankee Stadium, waiting for 3,000. Jay is practically narrating as Jeter brings his right foot toward the plate, planting it confidently near the back of the box. I invented swag / Poppin’ bottles, puttin’ supermodels in the cab / Proof. The left foot comes in next, shoulder-width from its opposite, with his right hand raised toward the umpire for balance. He taps the plate with his bat and revolves it once, sometimes twice if the pitcher is taking his time. Now he’s ready. Now the player everyone came to see is locked in. The song goes out. I guess I got my swagger back.
Truth.
This article originally appeared in Sportsnet magazine.