A Manny among men

Sporting News, The, June 21, 1999 by Michael Weinreb

The people who know him best tell you this: Manny Ramirez is misunderstood. They say he is shy. They tell you he speaks English more readily than he might let on, that his heart is as pure as they come.

They tell you he was hurried to the major leagues less than two years after he was drafted, that he hadn't even graduated from high school, that he came from a neighborhood where he was sheltered in Dominican culture, where his father drove a cab and his mother was a seamstress.

They tell you he's maturing, becoming more responsible. They tell you no one on this team, the best team in baseball, works harder. They tell you his fundamentals are improving, that he could be a Gold Glove outfielder if not for his sullied reputation, and that his baserunning is no worse than many big-league players'.

But still, there are these moments. And they are so vivid, they cloud the vision of Ramirez's immense ability. Says his high school coach, Steve Mandl: "Manny just happens to pick the worst times to do the worst things."

New York, 1998. Game 6 of the A.L. Championship Series. The Yankees' Derek Jeter hits a line drive, and Ramirez leaps and climbs the wall of Yankee Stadium, ready to save a home run in his hometown. The ball lands six feet below--at the bottom of the wall.

Ramirez says he never saw the ball. He walks back to the dugout, shrugs, grins and says, "That ball almost hit me in my back."

Atlanta, 1995. Game 2 of the World Series. Ramirez, having strayed too far off first base, is picked off by Braves catcher Javy Lopez, destroying an Indians rally. Ramirez walks back to the dugout, shrugs, grins and says, "I thought I was Rickey Henderson for a minute."

Yet there is a blessed innocence to him. He is everyone's little brother.

"Anyone who knows him, knows he's a good kid," says Mel Zitter, his old summer-league coach in New York. "He's not malicious at all."

His teammates try. He talks to Vizquel, to Alomar, to the other Hispanic players. He idolizes them, and they tell him this team needs him now, more than ever. They're counting on him.

"I try to hang around with him, but I can't be baby-sitting him all the lime," Vizquel says. "I talk to him a lot. I think he's finally hearing."

Usually, his errors in judgment are harmless. Often, especially off the field, they are comical. The dropped fly balls and pickoffs are compensated healthily by his bat, by hit after hit after hit, by the extra practice and workouts. Even manager Mike Hargrove finds room to joke about the hair.

But there has to be a reason for these lapses, why the bulbs dim inside Ramirez's head.

"When he was in school, there was always some kind of problem. Nobody wanted to address it," Mandl says. "Then, I was watching an Indians game once with a kid who had Attention Deficit Disorder. And the kid said, `Coach, Manny's just like me.' And it struck me. That could be it"

The Indians won't talk much about it. Assistant general manager Mark Shapiro says any psychological evaluations of Ramirez have found nothing out of the ordinary.