#CardCorner: 1973 Topps Ramon Hernandez

Hernandez died in 2009 at the age of 68, his cause of death never publicly announced. Though his career was relatively obscure, he was important because of the small but vital role he played in helping the Pirates win the 1971 World Series. That team became the subject of a book that I wrote, The Team That Changed Baseball.

Hernandez was also a very good pitcher for most of his big league career, far better than most historians remember. How good was he? In 1972, he was just about the best relief pitcher in the National League, that’s how good. In 1973 and ’74, he was arguably the best left-handed reliever in the league. Beyond that, he was an unusual character. For all of those reasons, Ramon Hernandez deserves to be remembered.

Originally signed by legendary Pirates scout Howie Haak out of his native Puerto Rico in the late 1950s, the 5-foot-9 left-hander bounced around from franchise to franchise before eventually making his way back to Pittsburgh. During the way, Hernandez made stops in the Los Angeles Angels and St. Louis Cardinals farm systems, and consumed cups of coffee with the Atlanta Braves and Chicago Cubs.

By the end of the 1960s, Hernandez had developed a controversial reputation around the baseball world. Most scouts scoffed at him because they believed him to be older than his listed age. The Cardinals gave up on him because they felt he didn’t put out enough effort in running drills. Some of his opponents felt he put out too much of an effort. As a baserunner in a 1969 minor league game, Hernandez spiked the other team’s third baseman, precipitating a bench-clearing brawl. During the fight, Hernandez pulled the base out of its moorings and began swinging it at other players.

As Hernandez became an effective reliever with the Pirates, he also garnered a reputation as the silent man in the clubhouse. He rarely conversed with players and reporters. His fellow relievers good-naturedly kidded him in the Pirates’ bullpen, but Hernandez said little in response, perhaps in part because of his severe limitations with the English language. Or maybe he just wanted to be left in his own little corner of the world.

Although he remained quiet, Pirate players did not resent Hernandez at all. According to his countryman Roberto Clemente – who also happened to be fellow native of Carolina, a small town in Puerto Rico – Hernandez achieved a level of acceptance in the Pirates’ clubhouse. “The big thing about Hernandez is that he knows he is welcome here,” Clemente told Charley Feeney of the Sporting News. “He doesn’t speak English real good, but the players on this club let him know they like him, just by an occasional smile, or a jab in the ribs.”

Whereas Hernandez had struggled to fit in with other teams, he had found his niche in Pittsburgh. Joe Brown believed that the Pirates had just the right support system for Hernandez. “He’s a quiet person,” Brown told the Pittsburgh Press. “Most clubs don’t have as many Latin American ballplayers as we do. He feels at home here. He had two people in whom he has great confidence, Pagan and Clemente. He respects them and listens to them.”

In 1973 and ’74, Hernandez’ level of pitching fell from brilliant to merely outstanding. Still, among National League left-handers, no one pitched better.

Hernandez did not start to show real slippage until 1975 and ’76, convincing the Pirates to sell him to the Cubs. The move left the Pirates without a left-handed reliever for the final weeks of the ‘76 season.

Hernandez finished out the ’76 season at Wrigley Field, but he lasted less than two months into the ’77 season before the Cubs traded him to the Boston Red Sox for veteran outfielder Bobby Darwin. After initially balking at reporting to Beantown, Hernandez decided to report to his new team. He struggled in most of his 12 appearances with the Sox, thereby ending his major league career. He then went back to Puerto Rico, where he pitched winter ball for several seasons.

And just as quietly as Hernandez had emerged on the Pirates’ scene in 1971, he faded silently into baseball oblivion. He never went to work for a major league organization, didn’t become a pitching coach or a scout, remaining completely anonymous and out of the public spotlight for 32 years.