It’s no secret that Andy Pettitte has been my favourite Yankee and
stalking victim imaginary boyfriend since I was 12 years old. I adore him. I love everything about him.
Whenever this is revealed, I catch the usual flak — "Why not Rivera?" "Come on! Pettitte over Donny Baseball?" "Are you kidding? You ever heard of Derek Jeter?"
All things considered, their confusion makes sense. Unlike Jeter, Andy isn’t a superstar loaded with G-moments. He’s not flashy or outgoing or blessed with movie-star good looks. He doesn’t even have Cooperstown-worthy regular season numbers. But what he does have is the uncanny ability to raise the level of his pitching in baseball’s most pressurized situations.
Time and time again, Andy Pettitte has delivered without ego or excess, and while he’s had his stumbles (2001, anyone?), there is no one I want on the mound more when a season is on the line. I know he’s 37 years old and I know he’s pitching on three days rest, but tonight, I’m not fazed. Andy Pettitte’s career has been defined by games like this, and no one will stop him from delivering a 27th world championship to the New York Yankees. Not Pedro Martinez. Not Chase Utley. And not even Joe Girardi’s atrocious attempts at management. My man has got this.