José Ramírez: He gambled on himself and found stardom
Zack Meisel
Dec. 10, 2018
CLEVELAND — A yellow ball struck the window of the library, which startled José Ramírez. His eyes widened and the circle of students sitting before him, hanging on the All-Star’s every word and every twitch, erupted in laughter.
Little surprises Ramírez anymore. He’s typically a step ahead of pitchers, prepared to pounce on any feeble fastball foolishly fired his way. He’s typically a step ahead of his teammates, as he darts across the dugout after supplying one of his signature smacks to the back of Edwin Encarnacion’s dome. He’s typically a step ahead of his “Mario Kart” opponent, as he waits for the perfect moment to deploy the rogue turtle shell that disrupts their peaceful cruise along the sandy shores of Koopa Troopa Beach.
He hasn’t traveled a seamless journey to stardom, though. Ramírez opted to bet on himself around the time he became a teenager, when adults would wager wads of cash on the pint-sized shortstop’s performance in his native Baní in the Dominican Republic. He staked his future on baseball, and he granted himself no margin for error.
When Ramírez first sat down in the library, he commended a student for his similar haircut, with blond springs resting atop his head. He then stressed a simple message to the awestruck students: Don’t be like me.
Many players receive a hefty signing bonus or devise a secure fallback plan should their baseball pursuit fizzle. Ramírez played the lottery, and he won, and he is The Athletic Cleveland’s 2018 Person of the Year.
“One in a million,” he said to the students. “I was that (one).”
The Thomas Jefferson International Newcomers Academy houses students from pre-K to 12th grade during their transition to the U.S. Those new to the country attend the school for two years, learning the language and culture before shifting to the Cleveland Metropolitan School District.
Ramírez visited with a group of students on the final day of August. They hailed from Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Cuba, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Mexico and the Dominican. Each spoke fluent Spanish.
Ramírez, wearing a pewter shirt, black jeans and a sparkling watch, sat near the far corner of the room, a collection of Oxford and Merriam-Webster dictionaries resting on a shelf behind him. A few students sported Indians gear. One teacher donned a bright red “Yes Way, José” T-shirt.
Ramírez craves the limelight on the field. He wants to be the imposing figure hovering over home plate with the game hanging in the balance, a wad of tobacco tucked under his lower lip and a menacing glare aimed at the pitcher. He oozes personality and energy, strutting through the clubhouse on a Sunday morning, shouting random words and phrases and pitchy song lyrics in English and Spanish as his teammates wipe the crust from the corners of their eyes.
A school library is not his element. Neither is a speaking engagement with a room full of students, prepped to pepper him with inquiries about his background, his career and his experience in America.
Ramírez dropped out of school long before he reached high school age. When he arrived in the U.S. at 17, at the Indians’ complex in Goodyear, Arizona, he couldn’t have felt more lost, more out of place, the runt of the litter in a foreign setting, backed only by the faint dream of a major-league opportunity and a family-aiding salary.
“I consider that to be the worst thing that has happened to me in my life,” Ramírez said.
And that made the chance to connect with the students at Thomas Jefferson so appealing to a guy who, away from his teammates and the cameras and the baseball diamond, is soft-spoken and humble. When he returns to rural Baní each winter, he treks to the familiar dirt fields and plays baseball. The last few years, a pack of kids has followed him, like ducklings to their mother. (Ramírez noted that the kids waddle and swing their arms like he does.)
This was a chance to preach the value of education and communication, a chance to explain how fortunate he is, and how his journey isn’t one to model.
“Nobody knows the path that he took,” said Anna Bolton, the Indians’ education and language coordinator, “all the way back to his development before he signed. These international players, sometimes as young as 12, they leave home and start working out with trainers. Then they get signed at 16 and there are obstacles that come with that, including leaving school early, which results in limited literacy skills in Spanish, which makes it harder to learn English. They don’t fully understand their own language, so it’s going to be way harder to learn another language.”
Ramírez’s younger sister often teases him.
You’re a person — you have money. But I’m a professional. I’m a professional.
>Ramírez laughs. He understands her argument. She’s an architect. She stayed in school and sought out her career. Ramírez had no backup plan, no degree to serve as a safety net.
“I’m an athlete,” Ramírez told the students. “Now, that’s a profession, because that’s what we’ve chosen. But she’s the real professional. That’s why I say, ‘Never stop studying.’ … You need to keep moving forward in whatever sport you’re in, but never drop out of school.”
And then came the forthright, to-the-point question from a curious, candid student.
Why did you drop out of school?
“Even I don’t understand it,” Ramírez answered. “Or, rather, that’s why I’m advising all of you not to leave school. … I only wanted to play ball, you know what I mean? That was an error that I committed. That was a mistake that I made. Listen, very few make it in this business. Very few. It’s very difficult, extremely difficult.”
Part of the challenge is adjusting to unfamiliar surroundings and a foreign language. When Ramírez first arrived in Arizona, he didn’t know what it meant when people said “Hi.”
“Everybody in the world knows how to say that word,” Ramírez said. “I didn’t.”
He would starve for stretches of 12 or 13 hours because he didn’t know how to order food. He waited until an English-speaking teammate was ready to eat and he’d tag along. Sometimes, he offered to treat just to persuade them to accompany him.
“I couldn’t even eat Chipotle,” he said, “because I didn’t know anything.”
He could fall out of bed and slap singles through the infield, but he struggled to survive off the field. His family kept him going. He strived to earn enough money to support them.
“Sometimes, one starts to lose hope,” Ramírez said. “I, myself, felt desperate a lot.”
This year, Bolton implemented a new education program for the organization’s international signees at its Dominican baseball academy. Teachers visit the academy once a week and offer lessons in the core subjects: math, language arts, science and social studies, all to guide players toward high school diplomas.
Bolton hopes to host a graduation ceremony next November. She has pegged Erik González — traded last month to the Pirates — as her ideal candidate to deliver the commencement speech.
When González attended the academy nearly a decade ago, before beginning the arduous climb through the farm system, he would drive a few hours to his hometown each Saturday, take high school classes Sunday and then drive back to the academy Sunday night.
“Long days,” González said, smiling. “But it’s really important.
“Imagine how tolling that is,” Bolton said. “His parents made him (do it). They really value education.”
Bolton is also planning to enhance the team’s English program with a baseball-specific curriculum. She scripted a proposal for these initiatives last year, and the front office signed off without hesitation.
It’s all to guide players like Ramírez along their path to the majors. Or, in the event that a long-lasting career in baseball doesn’t pan out — the end result for the majority of aspiring players — it’s an extra dose of preparation for the real world.
Bolton can picture Ramírez in her classes at the academy eight years ago. He was shy, always sitting in the back of the classroom, praying she wouldn’t call on him.
Now, he’s a back-to-back AL MVP finalist. That doesn’t mean he has cleared every last hurdle. Ramírez suffered through a miserable slump at the plate in August and September, which fed into a second consecutive October disappearing act in the ALDS.
If history tells us anything, it’s that he’ll unearth a way to conquer this latest obstacle. He did still finish third in the MVP balloting, with a .939 OPS, 38 doubles, 26 more walks than strikeouts and a career-high 39 home runs.
“There are people who spend a million years (playing the lottery) and they don’t win,” Ramírez said. “I had some luck, I played the lotto and I won. I dropped out of school to get into baseball, knowing how difficult baseball is. I would have ended up (in trouble).”
Earlier in the day, Ramírez had signed about 100 Indians-themed notebooks, intended to encourage the kids to practice their English writing. At the end of the session, he handed out each one and posed for a photo with each student and teacher.
A faculty member made an announcement in English. The students all nodded to confirm they understood.
“You all are good,” Ramírez said. “Now, you all have to help me with my English.”
Zack Meisel is a staff writer for The Athletic covering the Cleveland Guardians. Zack was named the 2021 Ohio Sportswriter of the Year by the National Sports Media Association and won first place for best sports coverage from the Society of Professional Journalists. He has been on the beat since 2011 and is the author of four books, including "Cleveland Rocked," the tale of the 1995 team. Follow Zack on Twitter @ZackMeisel
<
