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After allowing 4 runs and 10 hits in 4 ⅔ innings, a 7.71 ERA, Cortes was designated for assignment—essentially, baseball terminology for being fired. Cortes felt that his long-shot career had reached a tipping point. “I just got DFA’ed,” Cortes recalled thinking, “by the worst team in baseball.” If he couldn’t pitch for the Orioles, an awful team headed toward a 115-loss season, then who would want him? To Cortes’s surprise, the Yankees still did.
Cortes had been a thirty-sixth-round selection in 2013, when he’d accepted a relatively paltry $85,000 signing bonus from the Yanks. Cortes’s parents, Nestor Sr. and Yuslaidy, wanted the boy they’d brought to Miami at 7 months old from Surgidero de Batabanó, Cuba, to be the first member of their family to attend college. The son of a forklift driver and a manicurist, Cortes wanted that, too, committing to Florida International University, while considering Miami Dade College as a backup.
He dreamed of following in the footsteps of local products like Anthony Rizzo, Manny Machado, and his baseball role model, pitcher Gio González, but there was no guarantee that a professional contract waited on the other side of campus. When area scout Carlos Marti dialed Cortes’s phone number late on the third day of the draft, nine rounds remained, and Cortes ranked tenth on the list of players that the Yankees wanted.
Marti recalled following Damon Oppenheimer, the team’s vice president of domestic amateur scouting, to the restroom in hopes of pleading Cortes’s case: “I know he doesn’t throw hard, and he’s not very impressive to look at, but this guy is going to get a lot of outs.”
Oppenheimer asked Marti if he’d stake his career on the pick. Marti shook his head.
“I just know that he’s going to help us,” said the scout, who’d later admit that he only envisioned Cortes’s ceiling as being one of a back-end starter.
Other teams grabbed a few of the names that Oppenheimer desired, and Marti’s request was granted. Standing a stocky five foot ten as he reported to rookie ball, Cortes did not light up the radar gun, spending three seasons at the lowest levels of the minors, while scraping the low 90s with his fastball. Cortes watched teammates with more talent become disillusioned and hang up their spikes. He would make someone tear the uniform off him, even if it meant struggling financially and eating Little Caesars pizza three times a week.
Cortes flashed enough moxie in the minors to tempt the Orioles in the 2017 Rule 5 Draft, a procedure granting Baltimore his contractual rights for six years, as long as they kept him on their major-league roster for the entire 2018 season. But Cortes’s audition had flopped, and the Yankees welcomed him back. Boone called Cortes’s number as a long reliever and one-time spot starter for thirty-three games in 2019, with Cortes pitching to a forgettable 5.67 ERA.
That November, Cortes’s contract was sold to the Seattle Mariners for $28,300 in international bonus spending pool money. Cortes spent the lockdown portion of the COVID-19 pandemic tossing in his Florida front yard; when the shortened season finally began in July, Cortes made five appearances, and a bloated 15.26 ERA delivered Cortes to another career crossroads. Pitchers who towered and glowered with 97 mph fastballs got more chances; guys who looked like Cortes were more likely to be stuck hanging on in the independent leagues, if at all.
During a stint at Seattle’s alternate site in Tacoma, Washington, Cortes sidled up to pitching coach Rob Marcello Jr., asking: “Tell me what I did in the minor leagues that helped me be so successful, and what I’m doing now that’s not correlating.” Marcello, a former minor-league pitcher, used a high-tech camera and reams of information to perform a deep dive into Cortes’s mechanics. They decided that Cortes’s cutter and changeup had the potential to be average pitches, but his fastball presented no challenge to the world’s most talented hitters.
Marcello suggested that Cortes try a different grip to generate spin, turning the baseball into a clock. Instead of holding the ball with his middle and index fingers at his natural 10:45 setting, Cortes rotated to 11:30, which made the ball travel with more backspin. Now he had a weapon that could make hitters swing and miss. Encouraged by the early results, Cortes threw harder, though his average fastball still only registered slightly faster than a Cole changeup.
He might have to do it with smoke and mirrors, but Cortes resolved to sink or swim his way, mystifying hitters with various arm speeds and deliveries, precision and funk. It was too late to revisit his boyhood fantasies of becoming a marine biologist; Cortes needed to make baseball work, and he continued to fine-tune his newfound grip in the Dominican Winter League.
He’d been altering his pitching motion as far back as his high school days, incorporating herky-jerky pauses that befuddled hitters. He’d periodically trimmed that part of his arsenal during his early minor-league career, sensing pressure to fit in, but picked it up occasionally while pitching with the Double-A Trenton Thunder. Sometimes, Cortes wondered if the act made the decision-makers think of him like something of a sideshow. Now he wanted to stand out, skepticism be damned.
“He’s really authentic,” Blake said, “in who he is.”
Against long odds, Cortes had become a star. He was even being noticed on the streets of New York more, though he believed that was more attributable to his old-school mustache than his pitching prowess. The “Super Mario” had been Cortes’s most successful choice by far, much better than the clean-shaven, goatee, and full-beard looks he’d tried over his first few big-league seasons.
“I go out there every fifth day like it’s the last time I’m going to pitch,” Cortes said. “I think that’s how I’ve handled my whole career, even the minor leagues. For me to be able to go out there, enjoy the moment and just be part of it, I think that’s what keeps me level-headed—with that sense of urgency to do well every time.”
Marti, the scout who’d once gambled his livelihood on the Hialeah Kid’s success, had by then left baseball in favor of teaching government and economics at Cortes’s alma mater. He frequently told students that no one would blink an eye if Cortes entered their classroom holding a ladder and wearing a maintenance shirt; surely, that would not be the case if Judge or Stanton stopped by to change a light bulb.
That everyman quality was part of Cortes’s charm; he’d lobbied for the Yankees to adopt a turtle as a pet, which they named “Bronxie” and kept in the clubhouse during the club’s 2021 postseason drive.
That winter, Cortes had a “Nasty Nestor” tattoo inked on his non-pitching hand, desiring a permanent reminder of what could be a fleeting moment in the sun. Even while dining with teammates, Cortes still sometimes looked around the table at faces of players like Judge, Stanton, Cole, and Rizzo, wondering what he’d done to finagle an invitation with that crew.
“I grew up in Miami,” Cortes said. “I watched Stanton when he was on the Marlins. It’s so cool to share a clubhouse. Sometimes, I see myself sitting on the couch with Anthony Rizzo. I’m like: ‘Hey, what’s up, dude? I can’t believe I’m sitting right next to you.’ ”
* * *
Boone continued delivering good news as Carlos Mendoza padded across the cramped visiting quarters, the same room that Maris, Mickey Mantle, and every great American League player of the last century had inhabited, at least for a brief stay. Clay Holmes sat quietly at his locker, on the far wall. The bench coach summoned Holmes to the manager’s office, walking past the perpetually mildewed shower, which had finally been protected from prying eyes by a clubhouse attendant’s long-overdue decision to procure a $3 vinyl curtain.
Holmes wasn’t sure what Boone wanted, and a curious expression was evident to everyone in the room. Knowing that his new closer wasn’t much for chitchat, Boone cut to the chase, noting, “Well, the most dominant reliever in the sport gets to go to L.A. for the All-Star Game. You earned it, and we’re all reaping the rewards.”
Holmes nodded and cracked a smile, replying flatly, “Sweet. That’s awesome. Awesome.”
Once he exited the office, Holmes returned to his locker, dug out his cell phone to call his wife, Ashlyn, then sent a group text message to alert his family that they should begin pricing flights to Los Angeles. Wielding a nasty power sinker that Cole called “one of the best pitches in baseball,” Holmes had assumed the closer’s role when Aroldis Chapman was sunk by an early-season combo of ineffectiveness and injury. In forty-one appearances before the All-Star break, Holmes held opponents to a 1.31 ERA and .182 batting average, with sixteen saves. It marked an impressive turnaround for the twenty-nine-year-old, who’d hardly been a household name when the Yankees acquired him from the Pittsburgh Pirates in July 2021.
Clutching bottles of water and a fresh tube of toothpaste in the checkout lane of a Pittsburgh Target that day, Holmes had felt his cell phone buzz. Recognizing the number, he thumbed a green button to accept the call. Ben Cherington, the Pirates’ general manager, eschewed pleasantries and cut to the chase. Holmes had been traded to the Yankees. He thanked Cherington, then spun and strode through the store aisles, searching for a razor.
Since that day, the six-foot-five, 245-pound Holmes looked like a diamond in the rough. Shawn Hill and Brandon Duckworth, a couple of former pitchers in the Yankees’ scouting ranks, were credited with having looked beyond Holmes’s high walk totals and ERA with Pittsburgh. They eyed his stuff and underlying performance, suspecting he’d benefit from a change of scenery. Hill’s internal report said that trading for Holmes would be “a no brainer.”
It was a full-circle moment for Holmes. As an eight-year-old in Slocomb, Alabama, a city of 2,094 and the self-proclaimed “home of the tomato,” Holmes had pitched and played third base for a youth baseball team that borrowed the Yankees’ nickname. Holmes’s father, Wendell, was a local pastor who also served as the team’s coach.
One day in 2001, Wendell Holmes mailed a letter to Yankee Stadium, asking if the team would donate souvenirs to the boys on his team. Two boxes soon appeared on the Holmes’s doorstep containing Yankees caps with the World Series logo stitched on the sides. The kids cheered, and though Holmes grew up in Atlanta Braves country, Yankees memorabilia would forever adorn the walls of his childhood bedroom.
The tallest, and best, player on that youth Yankees team developed into one of Alabama’s top prospects. Pittsburgh selected Holmes in the ninth round of the 2011 draft, handing over a $1.2 million signing bonus that kept him from attending Auburn University. Holmes’s ascent toward the majors featured a 2014 season lost to Tommy John surgery and more than a few bouts of wildness, but he made it to the Show in 2018.
When injuries limited his 2020 season to a lone appearance, Holmes spent his downtime digging into pitch analytics, specifically focusing on his sinker—the ground ball–inducing pitch that, upon arrival in the Bronx, the Yankees’ coaches instructed him to throw even more frequently.
“I’ve just started learning my best sinker and trying to throw that one more often,” Holmes said. “The feel has definitely come along and I’ve been able to throw it to both sides of the plate if I need to. It’s been a combination of things, but first is being in good counts with it so I can let the action do the work.”
* * *
On the day Boone delivered buckets of good news to his All-Stars, Jose Trevino had been focused on scouting reports for the Red Sox lineup, preparing to guide Jameson Taillon through his seventeenth start of the season. As it did for Cortes and Holmes, a tap came for Trevino, who wore an expression of uncertainty during Boone’s preamble.
“I know you’re all about winning a championship. That’s what we’re here to do, right?” Boone said. “One of the reasons we’re in this position that we’re in right now is because of you.”
Trevino swallowed hard and blinked. Worst-case scenario images of a trade, demotion, or release flickered through his mind. “So, there’s a little break in the championship run next week,” Boone continued, “and I think you should go to L.A. so you can be in the Midsummer Classic.” Finally, Trevino exhaled, sporting a relieved grin as he cradled his cheeks in his palms. Twice, Trevino asked his manager if he was being serious.
“You’re a major-league All-Star, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you,” Boone replied.
Ambling onto the Dodger Stadium diamond, Trevino watched with a measure of bemusement as Shohei Ohtani, the Angels’ magnificent two-way superstar, navigated a packed media horde behind home plate. Even with NEW YORK across his chest, Trevino could enjoy relative anonymity in this circle.
He wore custom spikes adorned with Yankee Stadium’s iconic frieze and the famous phrase from Joe DiMaggio, “I’d like to thank the good Lord for making me a Yankee,” the same words that had been printed on a sign above the clubhouse runway at Yankee Stadium, inviting a grazing touch from Derek Jeter before every home game.
“When I was growing up, I didn’t dream about playing in the majors; I dreamed about playing for the Yankees,” Trevino said. “I’m thankful to be here, and I feel like wearing the Yankees uniform has helped me reach my potential.”
* * *
Forty-two years had passed since the last All-Star Game at Dodger Stadium, which featured eight future Hall of Famers in the starting lineups and ended with Ken Griffey Sr. claiming Most Valuable Player honors. That iconic number, 42, loomed large with a pregame tribute to barrier-breaking legend Jackie Robinson, narrated by actor Denzel Washington, who sported a replica of Robinson’s Brooklyn uniform jersey.
Washington passed the microphone to Mookie Betts, the Dodgers’ outfielder, who asked the crowd of 52,518 to mark the occasion of Rachel Robinson’s one hundredth birthday by singing “Happy Birthday.”
It was a spirited and competitive contest, and four Yankees made significant contributions. The National League grabbed an early two-run lead facing the Rays’ Shane McClanahan, and a runner stood at first base with one out in the top of the fourth inning as Stanton stepped in for his second at-bat of the night. Stanton had yet to notch a hit in an All-Star Game, striking out four times, including once already on this night. Dodgers pitcher Tony Gonsolin started Stanton’s second at-bat with a couple of strikes, but there would be no whiff this time. Stanton launched the righty’s next pitch deep toward the left-field bleachers, the very same area where he’d once chased batting-practice bombs.
Stanton’s 457-foot homer tied the game, a clout witnessed by at least fifty family members and friends for whom he’d left tickets, including his father. The night of the 2015 blast that hit the back canopy of the left-field pavilion, then bounced into the parking lot, Stanton had hugged his dad outside the visiting clubhouse as they laughed giddily. This moment was even better. Stanton had hardly settled back into the dugout when the American League took the lead, with the Twins’ electric outfielder Byron Buxton also going deep off Gonsolin.
“He was telling us,” Buxton said, “how he used to sit as a kid just a few rows from where he hit that home run. You couldn’t be any happier for him.”
The AL’s relievers ensured that the lead held up, including Cortes, who partnered with Trevino to author a scoreless sixth inning. The Cortes-Trevino battery provided some of the evening’s best entertainment; both players wore microphones for the FOX broadcast, capturing their on-field banter after the lefty opened his frame with a strikeout of the Braves’ Austin Riley.
“You want this ball?” Trevino asked. Replied Cortes: “Yeah, why not?”
Trevino was still wearing his microphone when he stepped to the plate in the seventh inning, lashing a single off the Brewers’ Devin Williams for his first All-Star Game hit.
“I need that ball; this is my first All-Star hit right there!” Trevino said. “This is unreal!”
Holmes appeared more even-tempered, but was no less excited in the eighth, facing three batters in his first All-Star appearance. Emmanuel Clase, Cleveland’s fireballing closer, struck out the side in the ninth to seal the AL’s victory, setting the stage for the on-field Most Valuable Player presentation—an award named after Ted Williams, the legendary Boston Red Sox outfielder. There was little debate; the hometown boy had earned the honor. Stanton held a commemorative bat high above his head with both hands, a moment that he said was “incredible.”
“I think this is right up there with anything I’ve done personally,” Stanton said. “I have some goals in terms of winning a championship and going all the way, but for the road I’ve gone on to get to where I am now, right where it all began for me as a kid, this is very special.”
As Stanton returned to the AL clubhouse, his teammates chanted, “M-V-P!” To that, Stanton beamed.
“I can’t really explain how special this is,” Stanton said. “It’s hard to put into words that this is reality right now. It’s really cool.”
’61 FLASHBACK: HALFWAY TO RUTHVILLE
It was not even Independence Day, and Roger Maris was already halfway to Ruthville.
When Maris slugged his 30th home run of the 1961 season on July 2, taking Johnny Klippstein of the Washington Senators deep, the Yankees were rolling. New York had won twenty-two of thirty-two games in June and appeared on a straight path toward another World Series, while discussion of Babe Ruth’s record was becoming more common in the Yankee Stadium press box. Joe Trimble of the New York Daily News is believed to be the first writer to ask Maris about chasing Ruth.
“Listen, I don’t give Babe Ruth a thought. Not now or ever,” Maris said. “I don’t think about the record, and I’m surprised I’ve got as many homers as I do.”
Trimble raced to his typewriter at rickety Municipal Stadium in Kansas City, feeding a clean sheet of paper through the roller. Five years earlier, Trimble had stared at an empty diamond, hours after Don Larsen pitched the only perfect game in World Series history. His mind, he told colleague Dick Young, had gone blank.
