The trophy case was never meant to hold this one.
David Ortiz, a three-time World Series champion and one of baseball’s most beloved figures, has been named to a major magazine’s list of America’s 50 most influential people in sports this year. It is an award without box scores, a selection that measures gravity rather than batting average, impact rather than RBIs.
For the face fans better know as Big Papi, the recognition feels both surprising and inevitable. His influence has always been louder than his numbers and his numbers were never quiet. Ortiz built a career in the furnace of October, authoring some of the most enduring moments in the history of the Boston Red Sox. He did not just end games. He changed the temperature of cities.
Yet the list celebrates a second act.
Ortiz has become a broadcast staple and cultural spokesperson, a connective thread between the game’s past and the audience’s present. In a media era where many former players retreat into comfortable invisibility, Ortiz leaned into visibility, bringing candor, humor and empathy to baseball’s biggest stages. His voice is now a bridge. It welcomes casual fans. It steadies diehards.
Perhaps the most indelible proof of his influence arrived years ago, on a day when baseball stepped aside and Boston looked to him for language. At Fenway Park, Ortiz delivered words that felt less like a speech than a community heartbeat. The city did not ask for a politician. It asked for Big Papi. And he answered.
That moment becomes clearer with time. Influence is not the ability to command attention; it is the permission to speak when silence would be easier. Ortiz’s willingness to shoulder that kind of responsibility continues to define his legacy. He stands at the hinge where sport opens into society.
Behind the charisma is an operator who understands the work. Ortiz’s business ventures and philanthropic efforts have expanded carefully, not noisily, circling back to communities that raised him and causes that move him. He favors visibility with a purpose. When he amplifies, he does so with weight.
Teammates often described Ortiz as the clubhouse thermostat. If he was warm, the room followed. That instinct has migrated into his post-playing life. His presence on television calibrates the mood. His social footprint tilts the conversation. In a crowded arena of loud voices, he still manages to land softly and travel far.
The Top 50 list recognizes that arc. It places Ortiz alongside commissioners, CEOs and icons from other sports who shape direction rather than merely reflect it. It suggests what fans already sense: that Ortiz is not finished with baseball simply because he retired from it. He remains a steward.
For Boston, the honor is personal. Sports cities are jealous places, protective of their heroes, quick to spot when another claims credit. With Ortiz, there is no dispute. The city knows how he earned it. In rain. In pressure. In October.
Influence may sound abstract. Ortiz makes it feel local.
And that is the trick of Big Papi. He can fill a stadium and still make you feel like he is talking to you.
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