CLEVELAND — Four hours before first pitch, José Ramírez, the face of the franchise and instigator to the stars, is singing Daft Punk’s earworm, “One More Time,” as strikingly off-key as possible. He intentionally butchers the simple hook as he leans back in the black leather chair at his corner locker.
Josh Naylor walks past the JBL PartyBox speaker in the center of the room and triggers the DJ sound effect, which prompts at least one teammate to fist pump like he’s raving on a sticky dance floor at a Jersey Shore nightclub.
Emmanuel Clase is FaceTiming family back home in rural Río San Juan, D.R., and the clucking of chickens would echo throughout the clubhouse if not for Ramírez’s disharmony.
One more time!
Tyler Freeman and David Fry are battling on a Mario Kart arcade machine, an undercard match before Ramírez — who possesses unparalleled skill at swerving Bowser’s stout frame around turtle shells and banana peels — begins challenging teammates for more money than they’ve earned in the big leagues.
One more time!
Austin Hedges strides into the room wearing a red, self-hemmed crop top that reveals his bellybutton and a tease of the shag carpet that covers his chest, and clutches a leather-bound notebook full of scouting reports and other secrets.
One more time!
And then silence — save for the speaker, now shuffling through a Bob Marley medley.
The bustling ceases. The bodies vanish. The room is empty.
Catchers, pitchers, coaches and analysts cram into a room across the hall to review the opposing club’s hitters. Hedges, Fry and Bo Naylor, the club’s catching triumvirate, share the intel they’ve scribbled in their notebooks. Then the pitchers trot out to the left-field grass for an afternoon catch session. Hitters head to the cages to pore over video and take their first hacks.
Manager Stephen Vogt, the new head of the operation, fulfills a slate of media obligations. He reveals just enough charm to remind reporters why he was a beloved player and he guards minor injury details like nuclear codes.
There’s nothing groundbreaking unfolding in Cleveland, where the Guardians have amassed one of baseball’s best records. There’s no secret formula, even for a team with a long-envied starting pitching factory. (Starting pitching has actually been the club’s Achilles’ heel during this wild joyride.)
Ramírez has spurred “Guards Ball,” as Fry calls it — the slashing-and-dashing style of offense that pressures pitchers and defenses until they cave. It propelled them to the playoffs two years ago. This season, aside from more meetings, they’ve added more muscle, more reliable relievers and more magic.
Night after night, it’s working. Chaos, then concentration, then conquering another opponent.
One more time!
The Guardians, implausibly, have been the story of the 2024 MLB season.
“There’s something special here,” Hedges says.
Three hours before first pitch, Guardians infielders join Kai Correa outside the dugout for work with a red machine that sounds like a swarm of scorned hornets as it revs up.
Correa, the club’s field coordinator, oversees everything from the daily bus schedule to infield shifting.
But now he’s sitting on a bucket and resting his red cleats on the black legs of The Heater Slider Lite 360. Thwoop. The apparatus spits out a one-hopper to a kneeling Brayan Rocchio, who’s wearing a white glove that doesn’t quite cover his left hand. Correa toggles a couple dials that alter the speed and angle of the grounder. If the expert level is cranked up during practice, any eighth-inning hop will be a breeze.
Evan Longoria swore by the gadget after partnering with Correa in San Francisco. The three-time Gold Glove Award winner pleaded to use it daily.
In Cleveland, the buy-in started before spring training, when almost the entire roster reported to Goodyear, Ariz., weeks before camp. That included Ramírez, the perennial All-Star. “That guy leads by example better than anybody I’ve ever been around,” Hedges says.
Ramírez is capricious before games, one day offering a reporter his Tesla Cybertruck for $100,000 cash and the next day sizing up Clase for snooping in his locker. But he quickly snaps into game mode and teammates strive to mimic his relentless work ethic, which has fueled a career path that could end in Cooperstown.
“He’s the accountability guy for everything,” Kwan says. “He’s always the lead dog.”
Ramírez swings by Correa’s station to stab at a few choppers from the machine. Later, he huddles with coach J.T. Maguire at a desk outside the clubhouse to study video of a potential tell from that night’s opposing pitcher. A decade into his career, Ramírez still craves every sliver of information that might give him an edge. He says he doesn’t care that he climbed into second place in franchise history in home runs; he just wants to break the club’s 76-year championship hex.
The Guardians have laid the groundwork for that quest with preparation. They hold more pregame meetings than ever before. Players embrace extra defensive work and time in the cage.
A new coaching staff isn’t taking that investment for granted. The Guardians might be the most surprising team in the league, but Hedges says it stems from treating every day like a playoff game. To do that, bench coach Craig Albernaz says, the Guardians must maximize every nanosecond before first pitch.
“We don’t have the experience like Terry Francona does or Bob Melvin does,” Albernaz says, “so we have to err on the side of being over-prepared.”
Two and a half hours before first pitch, coaches file into the manager’s office, one by one. Albernaz has already claimed a seat, with a laptop resting on his thighs. Bullpen coach Brad Goldberg enters, then assistant pitching coach Joe Torres, then a couple of pitching analysts and, finally, pitching coach Carl Willis, who has worked in the organization for much of the last quarter-century.
Other teams pluck pitching gurus from Cleveland’s directory on an annual basis — Matt Blake, Ruben Niebla and Brian Sweeney became pitching coaches for the Yankees, Padres and Royals in recent years — but Willis, a figurehead with decades of experience and an appetite for forward thinking, remains. Fellow coaches refer to him as a “Walking TrackMan,” the device that supplies instant data on a pitcher’s mechanics.
Pitching coach Carl Willis, here in a mound visit with starter Ben Lively, has been a fixture in Cleveland for years. (Jason Miller / Getty Images)
The Guardians’ rotation has uncharacteristically struggled, a result of losing ace Shane Bieber a week into the schedule, missing Gavin Williams for three months and receiving rocky efforts from Triston McKenzie and Logan Allen.
The club’s bullpen, however, has masked many of the team’s shortcomings. Cleveland’s relievers lead the league in ERA by a massive margin. Cade Smith learned he made the Opening Day roster while playing cards with his siblings in a hotel room eight hours before the first pitch of the season. Now, he fills the role of stopper anytime an opponent mounts a rally, whether in the fourth inning or the eighth.
Hunter Gaddis has evolved, without warning, from a scuffling spot starter to a prolific setup man. Tim Herrin, teased by teammates for his baby face and calm demeanor, has worked to improve the quality of his primal shouts as he walks off the mound following an inning-ending strikeout. There have been plenty; he boasts a 2.25 ERA in his first full season.
No reliever presents a more daunting task for hitters than Clase. With magenta-tinted locks dangling beneath his navy cap, he pumps 101-mph cutters past anyone who occupies the batter’s box.
“Clase is the best pitcher in baseball,” Hedges says.
Two hours before first pitch, teammates surround Hedges on a dugout bench as he waxes poetic about the twisted beauty of baseball, a sport that revolves around failure.
It took Hedges years to develop into a leader. In San Diego, he’d scan the lineup while praying his name was absent. He was burdened by the pressure of 162 games, of 150 nightly decisions hinging on how many fingers he flashed his pitcher. During an injured list stint for a balky elbow in 2018, he questioned whether he even wanted to return to the roster.
“So much anxiety of wanting to perform,” he says, “wanting to win, and also being like, ‘I don’t know what’s happening to my brain. I can’t freaking think.’ Luckily, eventually, in time and experience, all you can have is awareness that this is happening. So, it’s, ‘This is normal. Am I going to be a gangster, or am I going to give in?’”
Austin Hedges, who has become a key part of the Guardians on and off the field, congratulates Emmanuel Clase earlier this season. (Nick Cammett / Getty Images)
Hedges needed to come to Cleveland, to win in Cleveland, to leave Cleveland and to win a World Series last fall with Texas to understand what the Guardians were lacking and how he could provide it. He’s Vogt’s lieutenant in the clubhouse. When the two connected for a 10-minute call over the winter as the Guardians recruited Hedges back to the organization, Vogt hung up and said to himself, “This is the guy.”
The notebook Hedges constantly grips in his left hand was a wedding gift from ex-teammate Clayton Richard, who taught him how to make a difference on days he wasn’t in the lineup. This season, Hedges has been as much a mental coach, guidance counselor and senior motivation coordinator as catcher, but he cherishes the role. It’s a position Vogt held for 15 years in the minors and the majors, a catcher with a coach’s brain.
“He’s my voice,” Vogt says.
As teammates flock to him in the dugout, Hedges recommends a book about daily stoicism, a tenet this team has adopted. Vogt says he loves managing a team of clichés, players who not only rely on trite mantras to autopilot their way through interviews, but also actually adhere to them. One day at a time. Caring for each other. Turning the page after a win or loss. Banal, sure. But rooted in truth, Vogt says.
The players appreciate that Vogt shows no panic — not when they lost Bieber to elbow surgery, nor when they dropped three straight to the historically inept White Sox in May, nor when their once-massive AL Central lead dwindled last week after a seven-game skid. An early-season closed-door meeting was really just a chance to commend Hedges on eight years of service time, which alleviated some tension after a couple of defeats.
GO DEEPER
The wild highs and lows that prepared Stephen Vogt to be the Cleveland Guardians’ manager
Vogt has geared up for this opportunity since he was a middling A-baller eyeing a coaching future, when blossoming into a two-time All-Star seemed delusional. He has made a seamless transition to his new seat, one previously occupied by Francona, a future Hall of Famer. Hedges marvels at the way Vogt delivers the right message to the right person at the right time.
Of course, Vogt downplays his influence, insisting he’s “just a pretty face” who lets players be themselves, even if that means Scott Barlow standing in his “fish flip flops” while creating chainsaw noises into a semi-crushed Red Bull can or a group of players barking like dogs in the dugout. Fry and Hedges welcomed trade acquisition Alex Cobb to his new team in early August and Fry figured Cobb was thinking, “These weirdos, these guys are a bunch of losers.”
Really, though, it’s a tight-knit group. One day, Canadian-born Bo Naylor is teaching a card game to Jhonkensy Noel, a native of the Dominican Republic, in fluent Spanish. Another day, Fry and Ben Lively shout at the clubhouse TV until Tommy Fleetwood’s drive settles in the thickest cut of rough. Every day, in the first inning, the relievers engage in a cutthroat round of trivia, centering on anything from Venezuelan athletes to Olympic history to how many triangles can be found in a particular picture.
After a Noel missile to the outfield seats fueled a win in late June, Tanner Bibee and three relievers waited at the clubhouse entrance to supply the linebacker-sized slugger with high-fives while urging him to give a speech. House music blared as Hedges and Gaddis argued over whether the catcher’s recent stolen base should have been deemed defensive indifference. Kwan walked past Noel, hopped and punched the air, mimicking the team’s Super Mario-themed home run celebration. Ramírez stepped onto the edge of his locker in his brown Louis Vuitton loafers to answer reporters’ questions and meet Clase’s gaze.
“You can tell when people genuinely, actually want to be around each other,” Vogt says.
Manager Stephen Vogt (left) and bench coach Craig Albernaz don’t often vary their pregame routine. (Jason Miller / Getty Images)
One hour before first pitch, Vogt and Albernaz reunite in the manager’s office, down the hall from the clubhouse nuttiness and last-minute plotting. They say goodnight to their kids over FaceTime. They review Albernaz’s notes on the running game, the pitching matchups, pinch-hit scenarios and bullpen deployment. They toast to the night ahead and take a swig of Arctic Vibe-flavored Celsius. The routine can’t change — and neither can the drink flavor — unless they lost the night before.
“We’re a little ‘stitious,” Albernaz says.
Fifteen minutes before the national anthem, Vogt darts to the dugout. He has arrived at the calmest part of his day. The empty dugout is his oasis.
His days are filled with organizational meetings and media interviews and office visits and strategizing sessions. His late nights are spent stirring in bed, sometimes until 3 a.m. as he mentally replays decisions or contemplates advice to supply a struggling player. It takes an episode or two of “Banshee” to hush the inner monologue.
As the game inches closer, though, he finds clarity. He leans against the dugout railing and, for 15 minutes or so, he can exhale.
He watches fans find their seats. He initiates off-topic banter with players as they pass by on their way to stretch. He cycles through his memories from whichever ballpark he’s calling home for a few days. He can’t patrol the visitors dugout in Kansas City without reflecting on the 2014 Wild Card Game with Oakland.
He calls this “the calm before the storm,” a therapeutic reset before the real thing, far away from Ramírez’s toneless melody, Hedges’ ceaseless banter and any other noise.
By this point, the hard work is complete. It’s time for first pitch.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic. Photos: Jason Miller, Rich Storry / Getty)
