How can I best describe a closer's feeling as he goes to the mound in the ninth inning, knowing he's the last line of defense for his team? Imagine yourself on the way to the dentist for a root canal. Now multiply that feeling by 100.

In the dentist's chair, once you're shot up with Novocain to numb the pain, you slip into a calmer place. On the mound, the adrenaline coursing through your veins works in a similar fashion; concentration and natural rhythm completely take over.

None of the best closers will ever admit to anyone (including themselves) how afraid they truly are to fail.

But that first step is the hardest -- and waiting for your name to be called by the bullpen coach can be pretty intense. You know you have to get the job done and it'll be worth it when it's over, but the anticipation is agony.

"Mr. Dibble, the doctor will see you now." Aggghhhh!

The analogy, of course, is given in retrospect. None of the best closers will ever admit to anyone (including themselves) how afraid they truly are to fail. That would be a defeatist attitude, and there's no room for that when the pressure is on.

So pushing those fears aside, the closer slips into a Pavlov's dog, conditioned-response state. The bell rings, and he switches on automatic pilot to answer the call. Coach calls your name, you do your job. No thinking. No changing your mind. Just get out there and do what you're trained to do.

Actually, one of the reasons I gave the game up was because, in my own mind (warped as it may be), I felt I could no longer answer the call.

Imagine for a moment what it would be like to repeat the same routine, day in and day out, for eight straight months in front of thousands of fans -- hoping you'll be the hero, fearing you'll be the goat. You continue to prepare yourself, mentally and physically, for a challenge that may amount to only 15 pitches or less. All the while, you know it takes just one hit to fly 400 feet and into the bleachers to blow a save. It takes only one miscue to ruin the efforts of 24 teammates.

How do you think you'd handle that?

My philosophy was to let the fans and opposing players believe I was completely crazy.

When I was in the big leagues, my philosophy was to let the fans and opposing players believe I was completely crazy, a la Mike Tyson in the ring. If you can make your opponent fear you more than you fear failure, you've got the mental edge.

Once I was on the mound, I became that no-fear, bring-it-on persona.

As a closer, you develop a need for that rush -- it's completely addictive. Nothing gets your blood flowing like striking out the side in the ninth inning to preserve the win. Nothing compares to getting a ground-ball double play to escape a bases-loaded jam to end the game. I had my share of it all: the good, the bad and the blahs. The "blahs" were the days when I'd warm up in the bullpen but never get in the game. Getting all pumped up just to take a seat -- blah!

If a pitcher tells you his arm doesn't hurt, he's a liar. If he tells you he'd rather be lucky then good, he's a liar. If I didn't pitch until my hand was numb, shaking or both, I knew I wasn't trying hard enough. Whether I had a good outing was not the indicator; if I felt fine afterward, I was not throwing to my own expectations.

Which brings me to the next telltale sign that it was time for me to hang it up: I came to realize that my recovery time was completely shot. I knew I couldn't bounce back the next day and jam it down batters' throats. I lost the high of knowing that if I blew it on any given day, the next day I'd be back and better than ever.

I don't get mad, I get even. So, for me, it was never the money or even the winning that fed my psyche. It was the revenge that got me fired up. A closer's job is to stick it to the competition. He's the final nail in the coffin. He's the fat lady singing.

I feel confident saying that there's no better feeling for closers like Mariano Rivera, Robb Nen and Trevor Hoffman than shutting down the opposing team in the ninth. Making them look awful going down just adds to the fun.

A closer is the final nail in the coffin. He's the fat lady singing.

I would be remiss not to mention that short relievers and set-up men should be included in this discussion. In their approach and mind-set, they are closers.

In fact, coming into the game in the seventh or eighth inning may be even more difficult than the rally-stopping job in the ninth, but with far less fortune and glory.

For pitchers, success creates you but defeat defines you. Rivera or Byung-Hyun Kim will likely never get over their World Series woes of 2001. Their failures will likely haunt their memories for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, it's easier to remember the failures than the glory. Hopefully, from time to time they'll think about the awesome moments they had making the best hitters in the world look foolish on a cutter, a forkball or a 100-mph fastball.

Since retiring, I often think about pitches I wish I could take back. But ultimately, I wouldn't change a thing. I thrived on the pressure and loved being the go-to guy. I loved getting out there and facing that challenge day after day.