CLEVELAND — On his way out of the home clubhouse at Progressive Field one afternoon last summer, pitcher Alex Cobb paused at the locker beside the double-door entrance.
Cobb, a recent trade acquisition, wanted to introduce himself to the face of the franchise. He initiated small talk with José Ramírez, who described the west side suburb in which he resides.
Cobb asked if he lived on or near Lake Erie, figuring the handsomely paid superstar boasted a sprawling backyard that overlooks the shoreline.
Ramírez shook his head and stressed that he keeps his distance.
“Too many crocodiles,” the perennial MVP candidate deadpanned to a teammate he barely knew, about a body of water that freezes each winter.
Cobb chuckled, but he was clearly puzzled. He’s joking, right? Is he testing me?
He was, in fact, joking — American crocodiles don’t range north of their Florida habitat — and Cobb would get used to that sense of humor, as have the rest of the Guardians. His first few years in the majors, Ramírez barely uttered a word. As he gained confidence and acclaim at the plate and on the bases, he blossomed into a leader in the clubhouse and dugout, too.
For a roster full of 20-somethings short on big-league experience, the 5-foot-8 Ramírez might seem like a larger-than-life presence. He could be bound for Cooperstown one day, and he’s inching toward the top of just about every franchise leaderboard for position players.
It’s his personality, though, that has guided the Guardians through a summer of adversity. He’s insistent on making teammates feel comfortable and capable, disarming them with impeccable comedic timing in his first or second language.
When things go right for the Guardians, Ramírez is usually at the center of the celebrations. (David Richard / Imagn Images)
Steven Kwan laughed as Ramírez yapped at C.J. Kayfus on the rookie’s first day in the big leagues in August. Teammates considered it Ramírez’s way of making Kayfus feel welcome.
“I’m sure it was,” Kayfus said, “but it was all in Spanish.”
He’ll connect with anyone, be it a 37-year-old pitcher in the twilight of his career or a first-day rookie drowning in jitters.
“When I first got called up,” said David Fry, “I’m like, ‘That’s José Ramírez. Don’t get in his way.’ Then you see him slapping Brayan Rocchio in the back of the head. It’s like, ‘Oh. He’s calm, chill.’”
The afternoon of July 30, Kwan approached his locker before batting practice. The All-Star left fielder was doing his best to block out trade chatter, but he was finding it difficult to escape.
Ramírez shouted to a couple of reporters standing nearby and asked if they wanted to interview Kwan on his “last day.” Kwan couldn’t help but smile and shake his head.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Ramírez told The Athletic. “This is who I am.”
Teammates know to steer clear of Ramírez the hour before first pitch as he snaps into game mode. But in the hours beforehand, whether the team’s riding a winning streak, or dealing with a skid, trade rumors or a pitching staff-rattling gambling investigation, he’s always there to ease the tension.
“That guy is going to be a Hall of Famer,” said reliever Erik Sabrowski. “But he’s as much a part of the team as anyone else. If you’re on your phone, he’ll whack you in the back of your head and yell, ‘Hang out!’”
“Everything,” said catcher Austin Hedges, “starts with José.”
When the Los Angeles Dodgers traveled to Cleveland in late May, a group of visiting writers chatted with Ramírez at his locker about Shohei Ohtani. A reporter noted Ramírez has slugged more home runs than the global icon, but Ramírez countered that adding Ohtani’s numbers in Japan derails his case. He wasn’t bothered by that conclusion, though.
“I’m more beautiful,” Ramírez quipped.
Ramírez arrived at his locker one afternoon this summer and peered across the room to a table, where a few teammates were playing cards. Lane Thomas was sitting in one chair, with a cast on his right foot.
Ramírez, naturally, challenged him to a fight.
Thomas laughed it off and suggested Ramírez brawl with Daniel Schneemann instead.
“No,” Ramírez objected, “Schnee is my brother.”
“He can act like a kid, but it’s funny because it’s José,” Kwan said. “He’s wild.”
It was at a round, wooden card table like that where Ramírez first found comfort in a big-league clubhouse. In 2016, Ramírez’s breakout season, he grew close to Juan Uribe and Carlos Santana. But it was Mike Napoli who spearheaded the change in Ramírez.
The two played cards daily in the center of the clubhouse. Some days, there was conversation. Other days, they didn’t need to say a word.
The bond they formed proved to Ramírez that he could connect with any teammate, regardless of background, language or status. Napoli was Cleveland’s cleanup hitter, a free-agent addition seeking one final power-filled season. Ramírez was making one final effort to prove he deserved daily at-bats.
Ramírez wound up hitting behind Napoli in the lineup that season, as he emerged as one of Cleveland’s most reliable sources of offense. Finally, his patented strut — a confident waddle, with his arms swinging like giant pendulums — had merit. He could exhale. And now, he’s working on a decade of prolific, big-league performance.
By 2022, Ramírez was the unquestioned leader of the roster, and manager Terry Francona urged him to set the tone for a group that had undergone a youth movement. Ramírez was never going to be the type to demand a player meeting, but he’d challenge a teammate, point out a pitcher’s tells or tendencies from the dugout, support teammates (just ask Tim Anderson) and, more than anything, lead by example with his hustle.
Ramírez and Chicago White Sox shortstop Tim Anderson got into it in 2023, resulting in suspensions for both players. (Ken Blaze / USA TODAY)
“He wants to win so bad, you can smell it,” Hedges said. “He wants to win so bad. And when your best player wants to win as bad or more than everybody else, works as hard or harder than anybody else — talk about inspiring. That’s what true leaders do, they inspire, sometimes with their words, sometimes with their actions, sometimes with their presence. He does all of those.”
He has mentored Angel Martínez, Gabriel Arias, Brayan Rocchio, even Deyvison De los Santos, a Rule 5 pick who spent only a spring camp with the organization. He had long talks last year with Estevan Florial, who came and went. Since George Valera joined the big-league roster at the start of September, he has clung to Ramírez like a burr.
“He connects with anyone,” infielder Tyler Freeman said one afternoon at Yankee Stadium last October.
Right on cue, Ramírez approached Freeman in the visitors’ dugout.
“Bro, remember,” Ramírez told his teammate. “You need to pay me $200.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Freeman said. “You’re absolutely right.”
Freeman used to be Ramírez’s stiffest competition in Mario Kart. They’d wager $100 per match, though Ramírez — who signed a $141 million extension in 2022 — occasionally challenges teammates for a bit more, even if they’re earning the six-figure league minimum, like Freeman is.
“He’s challenged me for $1 million,” Freeman said.
And when Freeman declined, Ramírez upped the demand to $2 million.
Ramírez softened his stance and presented an idea befitting of his confidence in his Mario Kart ability — or his ability in anything, really.
“If he puts (up) $100,” Ramírez said, “I’ll put (up) $1 million.”
Ramirez isn’t just looking to make his teammates laugh. He’s also looking to keep them on edge, off-balance, and ready for anything.
“The shock value stuff is really good,” Kwan said. “He knows how to push people’s buttons, poke them. He knows what he’s doing.”
One coach described his brutally honest evaluation of teammates as “Zack Greinke-esque folklore,” as if Ramírez is reading others’ mean tweets. Since it’s in person and not behind their back, however, and because it’s Ramírez, they take it well — and seriously.
“He’s going through his routines, getting ready for the day and then the smallest thing will happen and he’ll go 100% yelling at this person, teasing them,” Kwan said. “His voice is really high-pitched and loud and he talks so freaking fast. Outside looking in, it’s like, ‘Wow, he’s pissed at this guy.’ But you know he’s just yelling because he wants to be a diva today.”
Ramírez has told teammates he would designate them for assignment if he were general manager. He has taken ground balls at others’ positions before games to tease them about how easy their spot is to defend.
It’s not as harsh as it may sound. Ramírez strikes a healthy balance between roastmaster and motivator, and he chooses the perfect moment to deliver the critique.
“I’m passionate about the younger guys,” Ramírez said. “I see some potential to be really good players that resembles what I went through early on. I had my struggles early in my career. I know this is a process. It takes time and you have to have confidence and patience.”
“It’s not when you’re at the lowest of low,” said Kai Correa, Cleveland’s field coordinator and director of defense, strategy and baserunning. “It’s when he feels like you’re on the way up and it’s time for the last kick in the ass.”
“In those times of silliness,” Kwan said, “if he goes straight-faced and tells you something, it’s like, ‘Oh, I’m gonna listen to him. He’s telling me something I need to hear.’ You can’t get mad at him.”
He’s calculated. And he’s always stirring the pot.
He likes to tell one coach that another coach is livid with them, just to create some friction before the coaches converse and realize Ramírez invented the whole thing. Last month, a few of Cleveland’s coaches caught up with Antoan Richardson, the Mets’ first base coach who crossed paths with Correa, Craig Albernaz and Stephen Vogt in San Francisco. Ramírez told them that if Richardson was on Cleveland’s staff, he would be on pace for 50 stolen bases, not 40.
“I know who I can mess around and joke with,” Ramírez said.
“Whenever he wants to talk,” said reliever Hunter Gaddis, “he says, ‘I have to say something.’ Every time, I know it’s gonna be something good.”
“His other catchphrase,” Sabrowski said, “is, ‘I swear to God, bro.’”
Ramírez occasionally likes to tell reporters, “No hablo inglés,” when they approach him. Once, when a reporter then offered to converse in Spanish, he countered, in perfect English, “I don’t speak Spanish.”
“I think it’s hilarious when he asks (teammates) if they have any change,” said pitcher Tanner Bibee, “and then he brings out the fattest stack of money possible and says, ‘Thank you, bro. I don’t need it.’”
When asked to sign a white jersey for Shaquille O’Neal last summer, Ramírez chirped that “DJ Diesel” would have to pay him before he scribbles his name on anything.
Ramírez, teammate Brayan Rocchio and coach J.T. Maguire took in the total solar eclipse before the 2024 home opener. (Mike Lawrie / Getty Images)
As a couple teammates debated where San Francisco ranks on their list of favorite/least favorite ballparks, they mentioned how difficult it is to hit well there. Ramírez, walking past, said he’d sign to play there without hesitating — provided the Giants handed him $1 billion. He regularly urges reporters to relay to team president Chris Antonetti that he should tack on some years and zeroes to his contract so he can chase down various franchise records.
He always has an offer of some sort ready for any stranger standing near his locker: a $100,000 price tag for his CyberTruck, a $10,000 reward if you sample his chewing tobacco, a free plate of ribs from the kitchen. It’s impossible not to wonder whether there’s a catch.
One morning this spring, Ramírez flaunted his new gold Rolex to teammates. When he showed it to a member of the team’s PR staff, he simply offered him the watch for free. His antics tend to leave everyone on the same wavelength: He’s joking … right?
One afternoon in Baltimore last June, Ramírez asked Fry what time first pitch was. This is one of Ramírez’s favorite bits. Even if they’ve congregated in the clubhouse at 9:30 a.m., he’ll pretend he doesn’t know whether the Guardians have a day game or a night game — or a game at all. One day in late May, while readying for batting practice, he shouted to a teammate: “Do we have a game today?”
On that day in Baltimore, Fry pointed to a screen that displayed the 6:35 p.m. first-pitch time.
To try to connect with his teammate, Fry offered the time in Spanish. “Seis treinta y cinco.”
“Shut up, dude,” Ramírez replied, in English.
When the Guardians recently held a small ceremony to recognize reliever Jakob Junis reaching eight years of MLB service time, Ramírez halted the proceedings to take credit for Junis’ achievement. Junis, he explained, has never struck out another hitter more than he has Ramírez.
The third baseman may deliver a speech in Cooperstown one day. Perhaps then, the world will get a glimpse into not only what makes Ramírez special on the diamond, but behind the scenes as well. In a season full of turmoil for the Guardians, their superstar’s light-hearted leadership style has paved a path forward.
“He’s the No. 1 most impressive at flipping a switch, to go from pure silliness to absolute killer,” Hedges said. “That part makes me laugh. Like, I just watched you be the silliest person of all time and then just put together the most incredible at-bat I’ve ever seen.”
(Top photo: Jason Miller / Getty Images)