E:60 reporter Tom Rinaldi accompanies Rivera to the small fishing village in Panama where he grew up and gets the future Hall of Famer to open up about his final season, the injury that almost ended his career and his place in baseball history. (12:22)

Rachel Robinson watched Mariano Rivera from a distance, watched the last man to wear the number of the first man given a chance denied all African-American prospects before him. Robinson decided this son of Panama was a worthy ambassador of her husband's legacy, and of all the tributes to be paid Rivera from here to October, none will mean more than that.

"He carried himself with dignity and grace," the 90-year-old Robinson said Thursday by phone, "and that made carrying the number a tribute to Jack."

Rachel Robinson said Mariano Rivera's "dignity and grace" made his wearing of No. 42 -- which he's done alone since 2003 -- a tribute to her late husband. AP Photo/Bill Kostroun

As a rookie in 1995, handed jersey No. 42 by a clubhouse attendant, Rivera had no idea what the number represented, other than an official place on the New York Yankees' roster. It was fitting that two years later, the same year Rivera replaced John Wetteland as the full-time closer, baseball honored the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's big-league debut by retiring his jersey from coast to coast while grandfathering in the active 42s.

Over time Rivera would educate himself on the sacrifices Robinson made, on the abuse he endured in the name of segregating a whites-only game, and ever since Mo Vaughn quit playing in 2003, Mo has been the last 42 standing. He will retire at the end of this season as the greatest closer of all time, and as a fisherman's son the equal of Joe DiMaggio.

And even though he didn't share Robinson's heritage, or his struggle, Rivera was the right man to usher into retirement the most important number in a game of numbers. He beat the longest odds to make the majors. He never celebrated himself at the expense of vanquished opponents. He performed on the ballfield with a quiet, but fierce, determination.

On a certain level, Rivera's career was a here's-to-you, Mrs. Robinson.

"Mariano is a wonderful player," Rachel Robinson said, "and he's taken his place on the team in serious ways but also in graceful ways. I'm very pleased with what he's done, and I'm always a little sad when someone who's accomplished so much retires."

Robinson said she never got to know Rivera personally; they did meet on a couple occasions. But as the first lady of baseball, Rachel Robinson knows Mo the way millions of fans know him -- as a stately figure on the mound, a concert pianist who entered the arena to a heavy metal beat.

That he would one day make Yankee Stadium shake under the sound of Metallica's "Enter Sandman" was something nobody saw coming, not even Mo. He was a skinny kid out of Puerto Caimito, Panama, who used a milk carton for a glove, and later a teenage shortstop who didn't hit enough to interest the scouts. The Yankees eventually signed the converted pitcher for $3,000, and by the time Rivera was playing Single-A ball in Greensboro, N.C., he was a surgically repaired non-prospect whom the Yanks didn't bother protecting in the '92 expansion draft.