MLB

A-Rod’s transformation from pariah to hero complete

For one day in his life, there were no shades to Alex Rodriguez, postseason hero, though he put a put on a pair for yesterday’s parade.

A guy who has splattered himself on the floor of more canyons than Wile E. Coyote took a glorious ride up this one, typically without letting anyone see the whites of his eyes.

If Rodriguez had feared pulling a Dick Vermeil, nobody would have begrudged him. If A-Rod had wanted to shield himself from the glare of his own brilliance, it would have been for the first time in his life. If he just wanted to show how cool it was to be Alex Rodriguez on a day it certainly was, he fully played the part.

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There he was, in Yankees jacket and a fedora, standing next to Jay-Z by the entrance to the Bowling Green Subway Station, a $27 million-a-year man waiting to board his float as if it was his ship come in at last. There he went up Broadway, no Kate Hudson at his side, his main squeeze for the morning being one of the least recognizable Yankees, Francisco Cervelli, probably the way the third baseman liked it.

“A-Rod! A Rod!” screeched crowds 30 deep. In response, his head bobbed up and down as if he was timing a Tim Wakefield pitch. A-Rod’s kind of crowd, particularly with Jose Canseco not in it.

Rodriguez had delivered at long last and delivered himself in the process. Free from those postured grimaces following another postseason three-hopper to the shortstop, free at last from the fear of going to his grave the biggest failure ever to ever to break practically every career record in the book.

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At Rector Street, he was waving, as if good bye to all that. By Morris, both arms were upraised, A-Rod glancing up 15 stories at people leaning out windows. And none of them were holding up pictures of Madonna or friends he flew to Toronto.

At Wall Street, he leaned over to talk to his daughter Natasha. At Fulton Street, he reached out to catch a streamer but as it sailed too far from his reach, retracted his arm more quickly than he had ever denied anything.

He flinched at a roll of toilet paper, his only awkwardness of the day. Every shredded piece of paper landing on his head may as well have come from the last copy of the secret list of the 104 nabbed in the survey testing.

You hardly could hear yourself think, which would have come in handy in 2006 against Detroit. But on a day even the media transports were cheered, A-Rod wasn’t batting eighth any longer in these people’s lineup.

When, at Cedar Street, he chose not to opt out, the cheering somehow got louder, crowds 20-30 deep even on the cross streets wanting just a glimpse of him, no questions asked about whether the voters should forgive him his Hall of Fame chances. The master of ceremonies at City Hall were John Sterling, Michael Kay and Suzyn Waldman, not Katie Couric. A.J. Burnett playfully stole A-Rod’s Fedora off his head to go collect the pitcher’s medal from the mayor, returning it respectfully without whipped cream.

At the side of the stand, Selena Roberts was not waiting for Rodriguez with new information. Perfect end to a perfect day.

For six years in New York, there has been dust settling around him, even as he rounded the bases. Yesterday, that turned to confetti.

jay.greenberg@nypost.com