by David Ortiz
In the final two months of the season, a few things were clear to me. One was that I was going to love watching the Red Sox once I retired. Porcello and Price are both aces, and Porcello was having the best season of his career. The young players who had been with the team since April had all become All-Stars. And when we got into August, the franchise called up its first-round pick from 2014, an outfielder named Andrew Benintendi. He’d risen quickly through the season, and it was easy to see why. For a young player, he had a strong understanding of the strike zone and hitting. I made sure his locker was right next to mine.
I was also humbled by the kind words and gifts from other teams. They gave me paintings, wine, barbecue sauce, cowboy boots, and even a gag gift—the Twins gave me peanut butter, a reminder of the time Corey Koskie pranked me with peanut butter in my underwear. I would have appreciated these gifts and tributes from other teams even if we hadn’t been winning, but being in the playoff mix after having no chance the previous two years made it sweeter.
Just after Labor Day, we took over first place in the division and held on to it for the rest of the season. I looked at our team, and the competition, and I didn’t see any reason why we couldn’t win the World Series. Honestly, I thought we were the best team in baseball.
I was surprised at how much I stayed balanced, maintaining my normal level of production at the plate, while every day, no matter where I went, someone wanted a piece of me. I’m not exaggerating. I was asked for something every day of the season. Even our neighbors, who we’re friendly with, noticed it and became very protective of us. They’d see a film crew outside and immediately wonder if it was authorized. They would call and ask us, “Is that paparazzi out there?” Another time we got an early morning phone call. “Hey, someone is climbing your fence.” The fence was broken, and it was simply a repairman coming to fix it. Another time, one of our neighbors was unaware that the police escort I’d had to Gillette Stadium in mid-September to be honored by the Patriots was a special occasion, and she became concerned that I’d have to travel like that at all times for the rest of the season.
Maybe my neighbors knew I was wearing down before I knew it myself. I could feel it a bit during our last road trip of the season, at Yankee Stadium. I loved New York and respected everything about the Yankees. But I desperately wanted to sweep them as part of my New York good-bye.
I’d made a lot of memories there, both the kind that most baseball fans had seen on TV and a few that happened on team buses and planes and were preserved on video. I might even be the only one who has those videos. Once, as part of hazing the rookies, we made them dress in women’s clothing. We had guys in fishnet stockings and wigs, players in cheerleading miniskirts and dresses. Once we got to New York and were on the team bus to the hotel, we made a detour to Broadway. We asked the rookies to get out and dance as yours truly hummed the melody to “New York, New York.”
Those are some of the things I will never forget . . . or delete. My last trip to New York was less joyful, more reflective, probably because of all I had on my mind. Despite clinching the division there, it was frustrating to be getting swept in the series. It was New York. It’s in my blood to want to beat the Yankees, and I was pissed that we didn’t. But I was blown away by what I felt was the most thoughtful farewell gift of them all.
It was such a contrast between Baltimore and New York. I had destroyed a Camden Yards phone with my bat after being ejected from a game in 2013. So, in a move that had Buck Showalter written all over it, the Orioles gave me a phone as a retirement present. A couple of my boys on the Orioles, Chris Davis and Adam Jones, apologized for it while we were on the field. I played along and smiled, but it took a lot of restraint not to just walk away and turn my back on their “humor.”
But New York, as usual, set the standard. The Yankees always seemed to find the most appropriate way to celebrate their own players and, in some cases, the competition. That organization was a big part of my story. I didn’t know how much harder I had to work until I got to Boston, and I didn’t know how much I craved winning until I’d lost to the Yankees in 2003. I had noticed that not only did they win, but they expected to win. It was an attitude that they had and we needed to develop, no matter what the history of the Red Sox had been.
It was a pleasure to be a part of baseball history and to compete against men like Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada, Andy Pettitte, Gary Sheffield, Tino Martinez, and even the managers, Joe Torre and Joe Girardi. There were so many memories that I couldn’t put into words, so I was speechless when the Yankees did exactly that. They presented me with a leather-bound album with handwritten letters from several players, describing what it was like for them to compete against me. It was overwhelming, and truly one of the best gifts, of any kind, that I’d ever received.
By the time I got back to Boston, I was worn out. I’m not going to lie about it. The last few days of the regular season, I was dragging. It was the accumulation of events, the schedule, and age. I felt every part of someone who was almost 41 years old and still playing baseball.
What distracted me from the fatigue was the generosity and thoughtfulness of the Red Sox. They know how to put on a celebration, and they came up with one of their best in the final weekend. My father, my sister, my wife, and my children were there. My former teammates were there. Danilo Medina, the president of the Dominican Republic, kept a promise he had made to me in February and was in attendance. The governor of Massachusetts, Charlie Baker, and the mayor of Boston, Marty Walsh, both made presentations.
I looked at it all and didn’t even think of myself. I was hopeful that the story, my story, could inspire someone who needed to believe in turnarounds and transformations.
Unfortunately, the story didn’t end the way I was sure that it would. The retirement tour had been so much about my past, so it was fitting that two names from my past blocked us in the playoffs. We played the Cleveland Indians, who had Tito Francona as their manager and Andrew Miller as their key pitching weapon. My mentality the whole year had been to win the World Series. I never thought for a second that the Indians could beat us.
I also hadn’t given Tito enough credit. He probably would never admit it, but our team was better than his. But I saw him do something the entire series that blew my mind. As soon as he got a lead, he started thinking about bringing Miller into the game. He got a lead three times, and he went with that formula three times.
Tito was more aggressive than I’d ever seen him. That’s what the playoffs are all about, aggression in a short series, and he tipped the series with Miller. We had a lot, but we didn’t have him. Miller was just filthy. He’s the kind of pitcher who can play games with lefties and righties. He can make right-handed hitters look like shit. And when a left-handed pitcher can make a righty look bad, that means lefties have no chance. The guy is six-seven and he throws it 99 miles per hour. He also has a huge, devastating slider. His release point totally fucks you up. You don’t see where the ball is coming from. What do I see when I face him? I don’t see anything.
When we left Cleveland down 0–2, a lot of people asked me if I’d given any thought to the final game of my career. I hadn’t. I was convinced that we were going to come back and win the series. We’d done it before.
Their starting pitcher for Game 3 was Josh Tomlin. I had faced him many times. I had hit the ball hard against him, homered off him, seen the ball well with no problems against him. But that night he was the best I had ever seen him. I kept waiting for his mistakes and he didn’t make them. That’s baseball. Sometimes the pitchers get you, and sometimes you get them.
It’s life too, and I was emotional for the first time in a long time. It was time to start my life after baseball. I hadn’t given it the thought it deserved, because I was convinced that I would give my farewell speech as I held another World Series trophy.
Instead, I went back to the small and painfully quiet clubhouse with my teammates. John Farrell spoke first. He told us that
we’d had an incredible year. He should have said the same for himself. He’d beaten cancer and taken a team from last place to first. Managing in Boston, in this division, is a bitch. My boy Kevin Cash had dark hair when he became manager in Tampa and the job turned his whole head gray. This is not a PlayStation game. It’s a hard job.
I spoke next and thanked everyone for the year, and the support. I let them know that I was their brother, and I was here for them if they needed me. Hanley Ramírez choked me up a bit when he told me that it had been an honor to play with me.
The tears flowed down my cheeks as I walked those stairs from the dugout to the field, one last time. I went to the mound and raised my cap to all the fans who remained. They were my brothers and sisters too. For 14 years, they had encouraged me more than they ever knew with their passion, their cheers, and even their tears.
After I woke up the next morning, I sat in my family room, where a thick book rested on the coffee table. It was the album from the Yankees, and I paged through it. Joe Torre joked that he wished I’d retired in 2003. Jorge Posada, in perfect handwritten Spanish, said that I was a friend and brother. Joe Girardi talked about baseball, but said he was more impressed with the way I stood up for the city of Boston in 2013. They were all beautiful sentiments, including the one from Derek Jeter, who spoke to the new chapter in my life. Jeter wrote that I’d had a great career, with awards, championships, and hard work. But now, he wrote, “it’s time for you to relax.”
Acknowledgments
Fourteen years ago, I never imagined I’d be able to write a book like this.
I was new to the Red Sox and New England in 2003, and I’d be exaggerating if I claimed that thousands of people were watching my every move. They weren’t. No one knew what a Big Papi was, because that nickname hadn’t even been born yet. I was simply “David Ortiz,” or “the new guy who used to play for the Twins.” Outside of my relatives, along with Pedro Martínez and Manny Ramírez, there weren’t many who thought I could help deliver a long-awaited World Series title to Boston. But to be a part of three? Not even Pedro or Manny predicted that. Neither did I.
From the moment I decided that 2016 would be my final season, I knew I wanted to make sure I was able to tell my story. For my entire career, much has been written about me. Some of the stories were glowing pieces about my relationship with Boston and baseball. Others called for me to retire long before the final season, including a media suggestion from early 2010: “Stick a fork in him.” I knew as I entered retirement I’d have an opportunity to talk directly to you and tell you the most accurate account of my career. I’m truly blessed to have had such a gratifying life in baseball, and I’m hopeful that you all enjoyed coming along for the ride. It’s been a tremendous journey and it wouldn’t have been possible without the help of hundreds of people, some of whom I’ll name here (and many others who helped in ways, large and small, over the course of 20 big-league seasons).
I want to especially thank everyone in Boston and all of New England. Boston has inspired me in so many ways, and I hope I offered it a fraction of what it gave my family and me. To the entire Red Sox organization, specifically team owners John Henry and Tom Werner, thank you for reviving and establishing my career in this legendary organization. You were thoughtful each day of my final season; it will be a year of my life that I’ll never forget. To my teammates, past and present, you guys are the ones who made it easy to go to work every day. The moments we’ve shared together, from pranks to profound conversations, give us a brotherly bond that will always be a part of me. I wouldn’t be in Boston without Pedro, and I wouldn’t have known so much about hitting without Manny. My deepest gratitude to them, and others, for a variety of reasons: Mariano Rivera, Hanley Ramírez, Robinson Cano, Adam Jones, Torii Hunter, Dustin Pedroia, Mike Trout, Mookie Betts, Jonny Gomes, Jon Lester, David Price, Brad Radke, Corey Koskie, Doug Mientkiewicz, Sean Casey, Kevin Millar, Xander Bogaerts, Jackie Bradley Jr. To all the baseball fans around the country, thank you for the love you showed on the road for the majority of my Red Sox career, and in an incredibly generous way in 2016. Who would have ever thought that Big Papi chants would break out nationally, even in Yankee Stadium!
To everyone in my home country, the beautiful Dominican Republic, I’m so proud to represent our people. One of the most flattering, and humbling, moments was seeing the largest Dominican flag ever displayed outside of the country at Fenway during my final game. I never imagined that I’d have a life like this, but now that I have it, my intention is not to just accumulate things for myself. I consider it part of my mission to do everything in my power to use God’s blessings to better the lives of as many people as I can in the Dominican, through the David Ortiz Children’s Fund.
It would likely take a few hundred more pages to properly credit my family. Let me try to say it this way to my wife, Tiffany, and my kids, Jessica, Alex, and D’Angelo: Thank you for always being there for me, no matter what the circumstance. I lived the unusual and demanding baseball life for two decades, and you all made supporting me look so easy. I know it wasn’t, and I’m grateful for your love and understanding (I’ll be able to make more games, school concerts, and impromptu weekend trips now).
My father, Leo, has been my biggest role model and supporter. Thank you, Pop, for making me into the man that I am today. My mother, Angela, is my guardian angel. I know she’s been watching over me since she physically left the world in 2002. Mom, I hope your baby boy made you smile with every heavenward point as I crossed home plate.
I have a smart and diligent management team behind me, and it’s their planning and foresight that allowed me to relax and focus on playing the game. From my first days in Boston, my marketing agent Alex Radetsky has been right by my side. This project wouldn’t be possible without him and his entire group at Radegen Sports Management, including Angelo Solomita, Michael Lecce, Jennifer Cronin, and Alexis Walberg. I’m also grateful for my longtime agents, Fernando Cuza and Diego Bentz; my financial adviser, Mark Walker; and my good friend Jose Luis, who has been like a second father to my kids and a brother to me. I can’t thank you enough for how you’ve looked out for my family.
I’m indebted to several people at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. The staff there clearly has a commitment to telling good stories, and I’m happy that mine is now a part of the impressive list. Thanks to editor Susan Canavan for her intelligence and skill, making sure that the stories that readers most wanted to hear made it to these pages in a compelling way. Megan Wilson, Hannah Harlow, Jenny Xu, and Beth Burleigh Fuller were also instrumental in putting things together. My coauthor, Michael Holley, was the perfect person to help tell this story. We had hours upon hours of meaningful conversations, which led to this book, the most honest representation of who I am. Thanks also to the Red Sox for providing photos of some of the most memorable moments in my career.
Appendix
CAREER STATISTICS
David Ortiz
BORN: November 18, 1975, in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic
HEIGHT: 6'4"
WEIGHT: 240 lbs.
BATS: Left
SIGNED: Seattle Mariners, 1992
MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL DEBUT: Minnesota Twins, 1997
SIGNED AS FREE AGENT: Boston Red Sox, December 2002
10-TIME ALL-STAR, 7-TIME SILVER SLUGGER, 3-TIME WORLD SERIES CHAMPION, WORLD SERIES MVP, 541 HR (17th in MLB history)
MAJOR LEAGUE STATISTICS
KEY
G = Games
RBI = Runs Batted In
AB = At Bats
BB = Walks
R = Runs
AVG = Batting Average
H = Hits
OBP = On Base
Percentage
2B = Doubles
3B = Triples
SLG = Slugging
Percentage
HR = Home Run
YEAR
TEAM
G
AB
R
H
2B
3B
HR
RBI
BB
AVG
OBP
SLG
1997
MIN
15
49
10
16
3
0
1
6
2
.327
.353
.449
1998
MIN
86
278
47
77
20
0
9
46
39
.277
.371
.446
1999
MIN
10
20
1
0
0
0
0
0
5
.000
.200
.000
2000
MIN
130
415
59
117
36
1
10
63
57
.282
.364
.446
2001
MIN
89
303
46
71
17
1
18
48
40
.234
.324
.475
2002
MIN
125
412
52
112
32
1
20
75
43
.272
.339
.500
2003
BOS
128
448
79
129
39
2
31
101
58