Egomaniacal superstar the anti-Jeter

T HIS is why they were always a perfect pairing, Derek and Alex, Alex and Derek, the two of them manning the left side of the Yankees infield for so many years. This is how we will remember them now, with one gone almost two years, the other preparing to say goodbye in five days.

See, Derek Jeter was what New York wants to see when it looks in the mirror: all style and grace and manners, doing the right thing, saying the right thing (if rarely the interesting thing), reserved and dignified, never doing anything to land on Page Six, let alone Page One.

And Alex Rodriguez, in so many ways, was what happens when New York takes to the street, takes to the road. He is what the rest of the country often sees as New York: a little too much swagger, a little too rich, a little too entitled, a little too arrogant, a little too needy.

That played itself out in their careers, where Jeter was probably over-celebrated for doing little things exceedingly well while Rodriguez was often over-criticized for not being Superman every game, every inning, every at-bat.

And it played itself out in how those careers came to their conclusions: Jeter announcing it on his schedule, enjoying a full season at the top of the batting order and a farewell tour in every visiting city; Rodriguez settling for one farewell game at Yankee Stadium next Friday and a gig in the organization so the $26.5 million he’ll collect through the end of next year will feel more a salary and less a selloff.

That was always the thing about Alex Rodriguez: he was polarizing as hell. If you liked him you probably loved him, and if you didn’t like him, there have been few athletes ever born who could infuriate as much. But you have to give him this: He made you pay attention.

You always knew he was in the room.

Sometimes, that wasn’t a room you — or he — necessarily wanted to be in, especially when he was talking about performance-enhancing drugs. Sometimes he denied it. Sometimes he admitted to it. Sometimes he talked about pink elephants, and there was a time he sent packs of attack-dog lawyers at the Yankees and at the commissioner and at the sport itself.

But then there were the moments on baseball fields that could take your breath away, too, lots of them. Look, most baseball fans the past quarter-century have been forced at some time to make a profound compromise, balancing what they see with what they know, figuring out how much they want steroids to stain a game they love unconditionally.

With A-Rod, if you could simply look at the baseball, look at the talent, look at the skill, look at the passion and, ultimately, look at the performance, you were treated to perhaps the greatest player you have ever seen, one who would have been a lock for Cooperstown on the first try, one who won a championship in 2009 to complement MVP plaques he won in 2003, 2005 and 2007.

Few athletes of his status enjoyed their sport as much as Rodriguez did his. He would play a game at night, go home, watch West Coast games on the satellite. He would talk baseball endlessly. It is why, if he truly embraces his new job with the Yankees, he will be very good at it.

He had a flair for the dramatic. How many times through the years did opposing managers say they started worrying about A-Rod’s spot in the order in the seventh inning, or the eighth? And he had a flair for drama — shirtless in Central Park, hand-in-hand with Madonna, fed popcorn by Cameron Diaz at the Super Bowl.

Page Six, Page One, the sports page. That was the package. That was A-Rod. That’s what we got in New York for 12 years and four months. That’s what goes away now. Maybe you loved him. Maybe you loathed him. This much is sure:

You’re going to miss him now that he’s left the room.