Joe DiMaggio once famously said, “I would like to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee.”

Decades later, Mariano Rivera took the sentiment a step further when he asserted, “I think the Good Lord is a Yankee.”

As the person to bring the Principle of Separation of Church and Sports to the world, you would think I might take umbrage at this statement.  Yet, having now earned 500 saves in pinstripes in addition to four World Series rings, I understand how Mariano Rivera might have come to such a belief.

I have joked in the past about the possibility that Mariano Rivera is an alien, who hails from a planet of mutant adorable perfect people.  After all, what other explanation could there be for all that, well, mutant adorable perfection?  It’s not just the numbers — the 2.30 career ERA, the 1.02 WHIP.  Nor is it the remarkable longevity of Mo’s career as a closer –  at fourteen seasons, his tenure exceeds that of any other closer in baseball by over six years.  It’s his eerie calm on the mound, the confidence he inspires in his fellow teammates. When “Enter Sandman” blasts over those loudspeakers in The Bronx, it brings a crowd of tens and of thousands to a fever pitch.  Yet, meanwhile, Mo trots his way onto the field, carrying with him the energy of someone who’s steady, grounded.

Mariano attributes his unusually even keel to his faith in God. A devout Christian, more often than not, Mo can be found reading the Bible in the clubhouse. (As previously established, back when Edwar Ramirez was around, on the rare occasions when Mo wasn’t occupied with the Good Book, he could always be enticed to play a round of Chase Edwar Around The Locker Room.  And why not? That’s just good clean fun.)  Lest he forget his devotion to God while he’s working his magic on the mound, Mo has inscribed a reference to Phillipians on his glove: “I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.”

I do not claim to know from whence Mo gets his strength, but at times it appears that he can, indeed, do all things.

Mo was not always such a religious zealot, but there is a compelling argument that suggests that he may well have been born blessed. As the son of a fisherman in a small impoverished village in Panama, Mo wasn’t what you’d call a likely candidate to be a major leaguer — let alone a first ballot Hall of Famer. (That, he certainly will be.) Growing up, resources were scarce — so scarce that Mo did not have the advantage of learning the game with some of the equipment that is typically thought to be helpful when playing baseball, such as a glove or a bat.  So, Mo and his friends created makeshift mitts out of milk cartons and fashioned tree branches into bats. Of course, all Mo ever really needed in order to develop into the player he is now was the ball, and even those were precious rare commodities — often tattered and taped together.

But, still, it was enough.

Despite his natural abilities on the field and his love of the game, Mo had not always planned on becoming a ballplayer.  After he graduated from high school, he went to work for his father as a fisherman.  It was a job he abandoned rather quickly as he found it to be “way too tough.”  He came to this revelation shortly after he had to abandon an 120-ton capsizing commercial boat.  Go figure.

Mo was no fool, however.  Like any young Central American fisherman, he had a fallback — professional sports.  He went out for the Panama Oeste squad, where he actually got his start as a shortstop.  As fate would have it, the Panama pitching staff was so lousy that they were more or less looking for volunteers wherever they could find them — Mo agreed to step up to the mound.  He was eventually scouted by Herb Raybourn,  director of the Yankees Latin American operations, who saw Rivera’s great potential.  Having had no formal training as a pitcher, Mo had not yet developed his velocity, but his was clearly a raw talent.  Despite the fact that Mo was throwing a fastball in the 85-87 mile per hour range, Raybourn was able to recognize this. He knew he had something special in front of him.

And Mo has been nothing if not special.  From the time he emerged on the scene and established himself as a closer, he has impressed players and fans alike with the artistry and near perfection of his signature pitch.  For a batter facing Mo, the question is never so much, “What’s he going to throw this time?”  With Mo, you know.  It’s going to be a cut fastball in the 92-94 mile per hour range.  The question for a batter facing Mo is always, “How in the hell am I going to hit it?”

It’s for this reason that Mo is the likely candidate for a nickname such as
“The Hammer of God.”

This brings me back to my original point, if I’m Mariano Rivera, reflecting back on my tenure as a Yankee — the pennants, the championships, the saves, the All-Star Games, the awards — maybe I would feel inclined to believe that the Good Lord was, in fact, a Yankee.

While the Good Lord’s team allegiance is subject to debate, particularly in recent years, Mo is a strong believer in the idea that God has a hand in everything that happens. For example, Mo doesn’t regret that blown save in 2001. You know the one — Arizona Diamondbacks, bloop single, total travesty. While Mo may not have saved the game, he believes the loss of the game may have ultimately saved his friend. Had the Yanks won that championship, Enrique Wilson is on American Airline flight that ultimately went down, and he doesn’t survive.  It’s like Mo says, God has a hand in everything.

Whether or not I share Mo’s faith, I have to respect it. Never has he displayed anything resembling hypocrisy or vanity. He doesn’t seek out attention or accolades.  When he credits God with his success, he doesn’t appear to be saying it simply because it’s the thing to say. One gets the sense that he believes it. He doesn’t talk about Christ and then show up later that same day on the pages of the Post with reports of the latest scandal in which he has become embroiled.  He talks about Christ and then he builds schools and churches in his native Panama, holds sermons on off-days in New York. He plans to move to Panama when he retires and live out his days as an evangelical minister – far away from the glaring limelight of the New York City press corp.  Mo plays baseball because he loves baseball.  One never senses, however, that he needs the attention or the approval of the adoring crowds.  When he retires, I presume he’ll be just as content to disappear into obscurity, living a life of religious servitude and local celebrity somewhere in Central America.

Two nights ago, Mo became the second pitcher in history to reach the 500 save milestone.  (Trevor Hoffman was the first.) Rivera, for his part, claimed to be more excited about having earned his first major league RBI — a run-scoring walk against K-Rod. It was certainly his night on both counts.  Moreover, it was a tribute to the fact that so many years later, Mo remains one of the best in the game.  If you evaluate his overall career, the best in the game. However, the cracks are beginning to show. He is not, after all, an alien from another planet. He’s a person from Panama. Consequently, he’s fallible — fallible, and getting older. Every time I re-learn this lesson, I’m a little surprised.

When the day finally comes when Mo decides to turn in his pinstripes, I like the image of him in white linen suit and straw hat, preaching the word in a little church somewhere in Panama City with the sun blazing at his back.  In the meantime, if the Good Lord really is a Yankee, then for the time being, Mo remains the Hammer of God. After last Sunday, there can be no doubt.