Don’t start at zero. You will not get the full impact of Mariano Rivera’s journey, even if no one in history has ever taken the road from zero to 602 saves before.
To fully appreciate the scope — to understand completely — you must begin at less than zero. You must compute the staggering odds against Rivera throwing even one major league pitch, much less enough to become a legend; the face of October majesty; the greatest late-game weapon in the history of baseball.
You must go back to a fishing village in Panama and milk cartons for gloves. You must go back to a $2,000 signing bonus and an 85 mph fastball.
You must go back to non-prospect status and elbow surgery. You must go back to being left unprotected in the expansion draft and nearly being traded for Felix Fermin.
You have to go back to before there was a single save, before anyone had a clue that the skinny kid from Puerto Caimito would throw, arguably, the most distinct pitch the game has ever seen.
KING’S Q&A WITH MARIANO RIVERA
For if you think Tom Brady has come far from the sixth round to NFL greatness or Albert Pujols has had an amazing road from Maple Woods Community College and the 13th round to immortality, then know this: Arguably no athlete has ever traveled further to go farther than Rivera.
Go back to Panama in the late 1980s, not exactly a hotbed for baseball.
Imagine the dusty fields of the 1989 national tournament and focus on the shortstop with the good arm. See him volunteer to pitch because the ace of the team was doing so poorly.
Watch Mariano Rivera do so well that two of his teammates — Claudino Hernandez and Emilio Gaez — tip off a Yankees scout named Chico Heron, who invites the righty to a tryout camp. Heron likes the looseness in Rivera’s arm, likes it so much Rivera is invited to stay for the entire week of the camp.
No other club is interested in Rivera. He is 20, very old for a Latin prospect. His fastball is rudimentary, mainly clocking about 85-87 mph.
But the head of the Yankees’ Latin operations, Herb Raybourn, has his imagination going. What would that 155-pound kid with all that athleticism look like with some weight on his bones? What could the fastball become then?
So in February 1990, Raybourn travels to Puerto Caimito. This is where the Riveras dance with poverty. This is where Rivera’s father ‹ Captain Mariano ‹ operates another man’s shrimp boat. This is where a $2,000 signing bonus isn’t an insult, like back in the States. So in his father’s home, Rivera signs his first professional contract. He is off, but certainly not running.
Under the direction of Brian Sabean, now the Giants general manager, the Yankee minor league policy in the early 1990s is to use pitching prospects as either starters or closers. Rivera is neither. He is such an organizational afterthought that he is deployed as a spot starter and a middle reliever even as he puts up good numbers and demonstrates the impeccable control that would become his hallmark.
Wait, the obstacles are not quite large enough yet. Rivera, trying to expand his starter’s repertoire, incurs nerve damage by overthrowing breaking balls. Think about that: Two decades ago, Mariano Rivera needed surgery because he couldn’t master the art of making a ball break enough.
His rehab includes playing catch with Ron Guidry and Whitey Ford, and you can imagine this being as close to greatness as Rivera will get.
He makes just 10 starts in 1992, again pitches very well. But he is only at Single-A. He is turning 23 in November, the same month as the expansion draft to stock the Marlins and Rockies. The Yankees protect pitchers such as Mark Hutton, Domingo Jean and Sam Militello. But they never feel compelled to protect Rivera. Each round they pull three more players back, none is Rivera. And three rounds go by and neither the Marlins nor Rockies select a budding genius.
Instead, Rivera stays a Yankee. His arm gets stronger and – as Herb Raybourn believed – better nutrition and training have added miles per hour on the fastball. By 1995, Rivera has married elite athleticism, a stoic demeanor, unflinching self-confidence and pinpoint precision to be ranked as the Yankees’ ninth-best prospect by Baseball America. But that wasn’t even best in his family. His cousin, outfielder Ruben Rivera, was first, followed by Derek Jeter and Andy Pettitte.
Rivera is still a starter midway through the 1995 season when the Yankees contemplate trading him to Detroit for David Wells. But in what Rivera would describe as an act of divinity, his fastball suddenly reaches new heights, climbing to the 95 mph range. Then the general manager Gene Michael refuses to deal him. That October, Michael becomes even more impressed. Nobody in the Yankee bullpen can slow down the Mariners of Ken Griffey Jr. and Edgar Martinez and Jay Buhner. No one but Rivera.
Used more out of desperation than inspiration by manager Buck Showalter, Rivera throws 5 1/3 shutout innings in the Division Series. The Yankees lose anyway.
Still, this is Rivera’s route, which means nothing simple, nothing handed to him. So he begins next spring with a new manager in Joe Torre, but a familiar role, which is to say none. The organization, meanwhile, is fretting about trying to win with a rookie shortstop named Jeter. And here are the Mariners breaking in their own young shortstop, Alex Rodriguez, and suddenly Fermin is available. Seattle asks for either Rivera or Bob Wickman.
The Yankees’ top brass meets the week before the 1996 season begins. They decide to stick with the rookie shortstop, evading perhaps the worst day in organization history: Trading Rivera and demoting Jeter.
Instead, Rivera and Jeter, who had played together at four different stops in the minors, become breakout stars for the 1996 champions, cornerstones of a dynasty. Rivera is a long man in April 1996 and indispensable by May.
Torre recognizes the weapon. The ball is flying out of ballparks like never before, but no one can hit the skinny righty. Rivera finally has a role. Well, actually many roles. To this team he is middleman and set-up man, lefty specialist and righty specialist.
And on May 17, 1996 — with closer John Wetteland unavailable — Rivera pitches the ninth to protect an 8-5 victory over the Angels. Career save No. 1. He is already 26 years old, still a season away from replacing Wetteland as the full-time closer. He has yet to perfect the pitch that will define him: A cut fastball that will snap bats and break hearts.
Yet here he is now, at 41, the all-time save king and, perhaps, the greatest postseason pitcher ever. He has more saves than the next three men on the Yankees all-time list — Dave Righetti, Goose Gossage and Sparky Lyle — combined. He is a testament to durability; the only man to pitch in more than 1,000 games for just one team and the last man who will have the honor of wearing No. 42 in the majors.
He has never won a Cy Young or the MVP, but nobody has pitched better than him over the last 15 years and no one has been more valuable to his team winning. He has used steely self-belief, flawless mechanics and an imperturbable nature to dominate an era. Rivera has created an indomitable dichotomy: His pitches break late and viciously, yet obey his commands. So he has walked few, limited homers and dominated lefties — a three-part formula at the center of his brilliance.
It seems incredible to think that he was unsigned until 20, not even considered much of a prospect until 24. The path from where he started to where he is today feels as though implausible married impossible. But this is no fairy tale. This was earned with sweat, strength and savvy. The all-time save king is a champion of durability and dependability, of confidence and conditioning, of inner strength and utter conviction.
Mariano Rivera’s excursion to all-time save king began at less than zero.
And we still don’t know where it ends.
joel.sherman@nypost.com