It’s a few hours before first pitch at Progressive Field, a quiet afternoon in the Guardians clubhouse. That is, except for the All-Star third baseman, who’s yanking his middle-infield partner’s foot to drag him around the room in his leather chair, who’s wearing a blinding-yellow arm band just to stand out in the team photo and who every few minutes sprints over to the miniature basketball court in the corner of the clubhouse, where he demands the ball and promptly clanks a shot.
“Too long,” he shouts, before retreating to his locker, smacking the back of a bystander’s head along the way.
These energy bursts appear with regularity. Everyone in the room understands the deal. When his pregame energy is palpable, everyone simply marvels at the comedy routine that follows.
There’s a mystique about José Ramírez, perhaps the sport’s most unheralded headliner.
He’s not the loudest guy, but he ranks atop the roster in trash talk and laughs produced. He’s not the biggest guy, but he piles up home runs like a hulking slugger. He’s not the fastest guy, but he’s an elite base runner. He’s not the most nimble athlete, but he’s sure-handed at the hot corner. He’s far from the youngest player on the Guardians’ roster, but, at 30 years old, he supplies as much spirit as a newly promoted rookie.
Ramírez’s insistence on signing a long-term contract extension to remain in Cleveland provided the foundation for the club’s march to an AL Central title. It could result in him ultimately becoming one of the most decorated players in the history of a franchise that started in 1901.
But who, exactly, is José Ramírez?
Who is this guy who asks teammate Will Benson every day what time the game starts, who changes his phone number at least once a month, who chews an M&M cookie as he randomly offers a reporter his forthcoming playoff share?
Here is a collection of stories that shine a light on the traits that make Ramírez such a fascinating superstar.
José Ramírez, left, and Francisco Lindor in 2018, six years after they played together in Class A. (David Maxwell / Getty Images)
Robel Garcia and Francisco Lindor, Cleveland’s prized first-round draft pick the previous summer, formed the middle infield for Class-A Lake County in 2012. Ramírez was “not on the map,” according to one coach in the system at the time. Garcia struggled in the first half for the Captains, posting a .607 OPS, so the organization opted to swap him with Ramírez, who was playing at Low-A Mahoning Valley. Dave Wallace, the manager at Lake County, and Ted Kubiak, the manager at Mahoning Valley, had what would ordinarily be an in-depth conversation to offer assessments of each player.
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“I’m sending you the pennant,” Kubiak said. Then he hung up.
Ramírez joined the Captains and, sure enough, led their charge to the playoffs by batting .354 with 17 stolen bases in 70 games.
“Insanely fun to watch him and Lindor up the middle that summer,” Wallace said.
Ramírez, left, with Mike Aviles, debuted on Sept. 1, 2013. (Duane Burleson / Associated Press)
Cleveland summoned Ramírez from Double A in September 2013, manager Terry Francona’s first season with the franchise. They planned for him to provide a jolt of energy off the bench, as a fearless 20-year-old who could pinch run when the club needed late-game speed.
So, the kid whose primary task was running arrived at Comerica Park for his major-league debut… without his shoes. He had to borrow white cleats from the Tigers’ clubhouse staff, and those shoes were two sizes too big.
Naturally, he entered his first game on Sept. 1 in the ninth inning with the score tied. He replaced Carlos Santana at first base after Santana drew a leadoff walk. He later trotted home on Mike Aviles’ grand slam.
Ramírez’s hustle helped that team in its quest to secure a wild-card berth, so much so that Francona dubbed him “Little Shit” for the way he pestered the opposition on the basepaths.
As several teammates and coaches described, Ramírez has always acted as though he’s the most imposing guy on the field, even though he’s often the smallest.
“Nothing scares him,” said Ramon Peña, who signed Ramírez in 2009 as the organization’s director of international scouting.
The Mario Kart king defending his crown.
Ramírez is the undisputed Mario Kart king. He cruises along with the spike-shelled Bowser character, and he’ll play only one particular set of tracks, the Mushroom Cup (the grouping that includes Moo Moo Farm and Koopa Troopa Beach). Over the years, his chief competition has shifted from Shane Bieber to Adam Plutko to, now, Myles Straw, who contends he’s amassed a healthy record against his close friend in recent weeks.
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“He’s constantly chirping,” Straw said. “He’s always like, ‘I want to beat your ass.’”
In August 2019, he unveiled his Mario Kart power rankings, listing himself first, followed by Tyler Clippard, Adam Cimber, Bieber and Brad Hand. When Bieber took exception to the hierarchy, Ramírez replied: “OK, maybe third.” Ramírez defeated Clippard that day, then placed his finger to his lips as he looked around the clubhouse to shush all of his doubters, even though the room was empty.
This summer, Ramírez challenged anyone in the clubhouse to a Mario Kart duel. He suggested a couple of teammates play him for $100. When no one took him up on his offer, he raised the stakes to $1 million and then $2 million. Of course, only five other players on the roster this season are earning an annual salary of at least $2 million.
He’s fiercely competitive and unforgiving with any game. He exhibits no mercy when playing cards or dominoes. He’s been known to invite minor leaguers over to his residence during spring training, solely to obliterate them in MLB The Show. He always plays as Cleveland and always sets the game to its most demanding settings.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” catcher Austin Hedges said. “He’s just a little guy, but he’s probably better than you at everything.”
Only once has he seemed mortal. He challenged reporters to ping-pong in the center of the clubhouse one afternoon this summer. After he hit a few volleys, a reporter spiked the ball back at him. “OK, you’re better than me,” he said as he gently laid down his racket and the ball beside the net.
One morning near the end of spring training in 2015, as Ramírez headed out to the team’s primary practice field, he noticed his shortstop position was occupied … by his white BMW SUV.
“I still laugh at that,” third-base coach Mike Sarbaugh said.
His teammates had grown tired of him constantly parking as close to the complex as possible — on the curb, in the fire lane, in the spots typically reserved for veteran players — any location that hastened his arrival, no matter how it inconvenienced anyone else. So, Aviles directed a mission to show Ramírez that he needed to leave his car in an actual spot. The primary culprit grabbed Ramírez’s keys out of his locker, received some help from the clubhouse staff in opening a gate to allow for easy access to the field, and then backed up the vehicle onto the infield dirt. Aviles and company had approval from the coaching staff and, perhaps most importantly, the grounds crew, which navigated their way around the BMW X6 as they prepped the field that morning.
“(That was) funny as heck,” Aviles recalled. “He wasn’t too happy, but he warmed up to it and was a good sport.”
Ramírez adjusts his shades during spring training last year. (Ross D. Franklin / Associated Press)
Ramírez sat down at his locker one afternoon and opened a box filled with about a dozen pairs of new shoes. “Only for me,” he said. “Mucho flow.”
Ramírez’s fashion sense tends to turn heads. Earlier in his career, he’d wear a hat that said, “Hi, haters” with a logo of a waving hand. He now has his own emblem, with his initials and his No. 11. His crown jewel, though, is the gold chain he wears that features a photo of himself wearing the same chain.
His jeweler asked if he had a photo he wanted to place in a medallion to hang from the chain. Ramírez, though, misinterpreted the question, thinking the jeweler asked for a picture of Ramírez wearing the chain. So, he submitted a photo, captured at the All-Star Game in Colorado last summer, of him holding said chain. That’s how you wind up with a chain that includes a picture of the chain-wearer wearing said chain. Chain-ception, if you will.
One summer, the organization welcomed its new international signees from Venezuela and the Dominican Republic to Progressive Field for orientation. The handful of teenagers were working out on the field. One of them, starstruck, approached Ramírez and asked for his autograph.
“You’re a player just like I am,” Ramírez told him in Spanish. “You shouldn’t want my autograph. You should want my job.”
Those who witnessed the interaction stress Ramírez wasn’t belittling the player. He was encouraging the youngster and saying he was on Ramírez’s level as a professional.
That sort of mentality has served Ramírez well in 2022, when he has blossomed as a leader in the Guardians clubhouse.
“He does a good job of not letting the clubhouse get too cliquey,” Triston McKenzie said. “There’s no group of guys who José thinks is off-limits. He’s just another one of the guys.”
Case in point: Ramírez regularly plays with Trevor Stephan’s hair, and has randomly joined the background of the reliever’s FaceTime calls. The third baseman and the late-inning reliever don’t cross paths often. Their lockers are on opposite ends of the clubhouse. They sit 400 feet apart during games and stand on opposite ends of the diamond during batting practice. But Ramírez makes it a point to have some sort of connection with every teammate. That’s why he took Oscar Gonzalez on a shopping spree on Michigan Ave. in Chicago last month. That’s why he constantly asks Benson for the first-pitch time, as if there’s a possibility everyone decided to arrive at the ballpark at 10 a.m. for a night game. Ramírez and Rosario are the kings of the “intercept the delivery of the baseball a teammate whacked to record a particular milestone, such as a first career hit, and pretend to throw it into the crowd” maneuver. Several teammates used the word “spontaneous” to describe Ramírez.
He learned that clubhouse technique from Mike Napoli in 2016. The two played cards in the center of the clubhouse each day, even though they didn’t speak the same primary language. Ramírez didn’t say much during his first couple of years in the majors. He’s still relatively quiet, but he picks his spots to deliver the perfect line to make everyone laugh.
During the hour before first pitch, though? He doesn’t say a word to anyone. That’s Ramírez’s sacred hour of preparation, when he gets taped up, stretches and studies video.
“So many guys on our team are better players because they try to play like José,” Hedges said.
Ramírez waits for a pitch ... (Jay Biggerstaff / USA Today)
When Franmil Reyes was auditioning for scouts in the Dominican Republic more than a decade ago, he visited Cleveland’s complex in Santo Domingo on occasion.
“I saw a little guy walking to the bathroom with that strut,” Reyes said. “Like, ‘Who is this guy?’”
That strut is unmistakable. Ramírez swings his arms like giant pendulums and seemingly shifts his entire body weight from side to side with each step. Teammates regularly mimic it.
“Try to do it,” reliever Dan Otero once said. “It’s freaking hard work. Gets the obliques going.”
Ramírez had the same strut in 2009, when Peña first watched him in the Dominican. Peña arranged a series between a team from Baní, Ramírez’s hometown, and another squad of players he had signed. Peña coveted catcher Jorge Alfaro, but the trainer in charge of that team, Enrique Soto, drove a hard bargain.
Through the first three days of the weeklong series, a switch-hitting second baseman who measured 5-foot-8 and 140 pounds stood out most to Peña. Soto recommended Peña consider Martín Peguero, an infielder who never made it past A-ball. But Peña was enamored with the way Ramírez could slap line drives across the outfield, steal bases and play defense.
Soto pushed Peguero and other players on Peña, who told him: “Your payroll is as high as the Yankees.” Ultimately, the two settled on a $50,000 price tag for Ramírez, who had little choice but to agree. He was 17, had dropped out of school several years earlier and had no alternative career path in mind. During a visit to a local school in 2018, Ramírez encouraged a group of students not to follow his path, telling them he was “one in a million” who convert such a risk into glory.
His entire career, Ramírez has proven wrong those who have doubted his potential because of his size. Even those in the organization projected him to wind up as a skilled super-sub, not a perennial All-Star. Since he broke into the majors, teammates have called him “Mini.”
Now, though, he’s the owner of a $141 million guaranteed contract, the most lucrative deal in the history of the Cleveland franchise, a charter member of the American League. He’s a four-time All-Star, a three-time MVP finalist and one of the sport’s most well-rounded performers.
He’s never cared about landing massive endorsement deals or record-setting salaries, despite teammates insisting he erred when he signed a team-friendly extension following a breakout season in 2016. He’s said he has everything he could need: security for his family, comfort in his surroundings and a chance to spend his entire career in one place. Plus, he has a vacation home in the Dominican that has an in-ground pool, a baseball field, a basketball court and a batting cage.
“I’ve seen pictures,” Bieber said, smiling. “No excuse for not getting your work in.”
Ramírez flies around the bases and slides in safely to score a run, helmet-less, of course. (David Richard / USA Today)
Ramírez’s helmet flew off his head 95 times this season, a personal record (for anyone keeping track at home). The airborne equipment is a product of two things: His dreadlocks don’t exactly create a simple resting spot for the helmet, and he’s always hustling around the bases.
Ramírez has ranked anywhere between the 58th and 81st percentile in the major leagues in sprint speed during his career, but he consistently scores high in FanGraphs’ base-running metric. This season, he joined Grady Sizemore as the only players in team history with four 20/20 seasons (home runs and stolen bases).
“We’ve talked since day one how we want to play,” Francona said. “If your best player doesn’t do it, my message would be hollow. And I know that. And José knows that. He’s pretty special.”
In August 2018, when he was leading the league in steals, he wore cheetah-print shoes after a game.
“They look fast,” a reporter said.
“Expensive, too,” Ramírez replied.
One time, Ramírez slid head-first into third base, where Sarbaugh watched the helmet become dislodged and heard it rattle his teeth.
In June 2021, Ramírez lined a single to right field against Baltimore. The Orioles caught him attempting to advance to second. He escaped the pickle and dove into second base, his helmet bouncing toward the outfield grass. When he stood up, he realized no one was covering third. Though he nearly lost his balance on the way, he beat several Orioles players in a footrace and plunged into the bag in a not-so-graceful bellyflop.
“There’s nothing better than a ball down the line, watching him run the bases,” Bieber said.
“It’s so infectious,” catcher Luke Maile said.
The base-running prowess stems from his sky-high baseball IQ, a trait his coaches suggest doesn’t command enough attention. Former Cleveland utility infielder Mike Freeman told the club’s hitting coaches Ramírez is the smartest teammate he ever had. Freeman spent 12 years in professional baseball.
“He’s like a miniature David Ortiz,” assistant hitting coach Victor Rodriguez said.
It’s not often Ramírez is outwitted by a pitcher. Aviles said even when Ramírez first broke into the majors, despite profound struggles at the plate, the reputation of the opposing pitcher never daunted him. In fact, early in his career, when a wretched stretch of hitting cost him playing time, Ramírez actually requested to be optioned to Triple-A Columbus so he could play every day and repair his swing.
“I love that crazy kid,” Aviles said.
Ramírez has a strong handle on how every pitcher is going to attack him, which explains how, even though everyone in the universe knows he prefers to yank fastballs, pitchers often wind up caving to his demands and throwing him a fastball to smack.
After a rare non-competitive at-bat that resulted in a strikeout earlier this summer, there was a loud thwack in the dugout. Players peered toward the end of the bench, where Ramírez had slammed his helmet against a wall. That’s an atypical sight, which led to a shocked, silent dugout. So, to break the awkward tension, Ramírez waved at his teammates and said, softly: “Hi.”
“When you talk about confidence,” Peña said, “that’s José Ramírez.”
During a winter ball game with Toros del Este early in his professional career, Ramírez was playing shortstop. The wind was gusting so strong that with two outs and the winning run on third base, when the batter hit a popup toward the clouds, none of his fellow fielders wanted any part in hauling in the baseball with the unpredictable descent. Ramírez didn’t mind chasing it down.
“There are a lot of kids with tools and ability,” Peña said, “but they don’t have it inside them. I said to myself that day, ‘This guy is going to play in the major leagues.’”
Ramírez, right, with Steven Kwan, center, and Myles Straw in April. (Ken Blaze / USA Today)
Ramírez has his spot on the very end of the dugout bench. His teammates know that’s his perch, where he sits, observes and wears out the opposing third baseman.
Hedges: “He’s always talking.”
Rodriguez: “Every time he opens his mouth, it’s to say something funny.”
Chris Valaika, hitting coach: “He always has those one-liners or the look he gives people.”
When he was mic’d up during a game in Los Angeles earlier this year, Ramírez told Dodgers first baseman Freddie Freeman: “You’re one of the best hitters … after me.” Some of Ramírez’s favorite targets include Detroit’s Jeimer Candelario, Boston’s Rafael Devers and Arizona’s Josh Rojas.
During the ninth inning of a game at Fenway Park last summer, Ramírez was relentless in badgering Devers. A crowd of teammates had huddled around Ramírez in the dugout. Reyes smacked a game-tying home run over the Green Monster, and Ramírez sprinted up and down the dugout.
“He’s the heart and soul,” Bieber said. “Guys naturally gravitate toward him.”
Ramírez knows precisely what to say to get under a player’s skin, and he even uses verbiage from other dialects to add an extra dimension to the trash talk.
He has impeccable comedic timing in both Spanish and English, too. Well, and other languages.
At the end of the 2019 season, as Ramírez walked to his locker in the visitors clubhouse in Washington, D.C., he yelled to reporters: “Too many questions!”
A reporter replied: “Do you have any answers?”
“No hablo Inglés,” Ramírez said.
“Hablamos Español,” the reporter countered.
“I speak Chinese,” Ramírez said, before exiting the room.
When he strolls into the batting cage before a game, for no reason other than to be goofy, Ramírez will tell his hitting coach that another coach was talking behind his back.
Victor, Sandy is over there talking about you.
Sandy, Victor is over there talking about you.
Ty Van Burkleo, Cleveland’s hitting coach from 2013 to 2021, was a regular target of Ramírez’s nonsense. In 2018, before he became bullpen coach, Brian Sweeney would spend the first inning in the dugout and then migrate to the video room to sit beside replay coordinator Mike Barnett. As Sweeney exited the dugout each game, Ramírez would stare him down and say, “Keep an eye on Barney.”
“It’s just to stir it up,” Rodriguez said, “but it’s harmless.”
Earlier this season, Ramírez asked a reporter what his name was. The reporter, named Paul, replied, “Pablo.”
“Escobar or Sandoval?” Ramírez asked.
“Escobar,” the reporter said, laughing.
“Wow,” Ramírez replied, “mucho money.”
A few days later, with no explanation, Ramírez took a full-length portrait of the reporter and said, “Someone needs to see you.”
Ramírez turned 30 on Sept. 17, and all afternoon, teammates approached him at his locker to wish him a happy birthday. Zach Plesac instead handed him a fancy bottle of liquor.
“You’re my bro,” Ramírez told him. “You don’t say happy birthday. You bring me a gift.”
