Even as a lifelong Yankees fan, Derek Jeter never moved me the way he moved most of you. He was a novelist’s nightmare. He told you everything and showed you nothing. His postgame pressers were a burden of bromides, corporate clichés that he could repeat by rote for 15 years. It was his persona to hide his personality.
I was a Mariano guy. He wore his heart on his blessed right arm. You could see Mo’s soul on his face. Of course, that doesn’t make one player, or man, better than the other. It’s just a matter of aesthetic appreciation.