Meet Agustin Rivero, the Guardians translator who wears many hats (and baseball pants)

As Cleveland’s players filtered onto the field for pregame work at T-Mobile Park one afternoon in April 2019, an unassuming man in a gray sweater and slacks grabbed a glove and stood on the grass outside of the visitors dugout.

Coaches socked groundballs to the infielders. Hitters sprayed batting practice tosses across the outfield. And there was Agustin Rivero, taking it all in while dressed for the elements on a chilly, spring afternoon in Seattle.

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Second baseman Jason Kipnis huddled with the team’s hitting coaches and trainers behind the cage at home plate. He asked if someone could snag Rivero an Indians hoodie to replace his “Express outfit.”

“He looks like he just came from substitute teaching,” Kipnis said.

That was, unofficially, Rivero’s introduction to his new team. He had traveled a long, twisting, intercontinental path to the big leagues to ultimately land the role of Cleveland’s major-league interpreter. Since childhood, he had dreamed of emerging from the dugout to warm up his arm and participate in batting practice before fans settled into their seats at the ballpark. Here he was, doing just that.

Only, he thought he’d be wearing baseball pants, not dress pants.

Rivero was raised in San Cristóbal, Venezuela, where he admired the defensive wizardry of Omar Vizquel, a native of his nation’s capital, and the catching prowess of Sandy Alomar Jr., who’s now a coworker. Rivero played competitively through high school and eventually signed with the Yankees; he had aspirations of donning pinstripes while roaming the outfield in the Bronx.

Instead, he assumed a position that extends beyond translating Spanish-speaking players’ answers to English-speaking reporters’ questions. You’ll catch him on the field assisting with batting practice, in the coaches’ room as players start to trickle into the clubhouse hours before first pitch, or on your TV, standing beside José Ramírez during a postgame interview to convert the third baseman’s non-“home run pitch” responses to English.

Andrés Giménez loves swinging the bat in Baltimore, but he's ready to bring his eight-game hitting streak home to @CleGuardians fans.#ForTheLand | @DreKnott

— Bally Sports Cleveland (@BallySportsCLE) June 5, 2022

Rivero remembers the date of his first practice with an organized team: Nov. 11, 1993. As a kid, he dug a tire out of a storage unit in the basement of his family’s apartment complex and stuffed the bottom of it with bricks so the tire would remain in place and serve as his strike zone as he flung baseballs toward it. If Rivero misbehaved, his parents knew the most effective means of punishment: no baseball. That kept him motivated in class, paving the way for him to graduate high school at 16.

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Rivero played catch mostly with his mom, Cristina, who played softball in college. His dad, who’s also named Agustin, grew up on a farm, attended a military high school and, in his first exposure to sports, caught a basketball and started running, dribbling be damned. The blatant traveling violation earned him admonishment from his commander.

His dad, however, appreciated Rivero’s passion for baseball and treated him to his first major-league experience. Rivero can still visualize his seat on the bus he rode eight hours each way to attend an exhibition game between Cleveland and the Astros in Valencia, Venezuela, in March 2001, a couple of weeks before his 13th birthday. He watched Vizquel and company tie Houston, 8-8, thanks to a ninth-inning home run from Astros infielder Adam Everett. Fans weren’t exactly enthused about the indecisive result.

A few years later, Rivero broke into the tryout circuit. He spent a month at the Mariners’ facility before they sent him home without an offer. The Dodgers later extended him an opportunity. The Yankees, too. After he signed with New York, he heard from the Reds and, for a second time, the Dodgers. Once it was too late, he discovered he’d had offers from several other teams that had contacted a con man posing as his representative.

When Rivero joined the Yankees, Francisco Cervelli, who spent 13 seasons in the major leagues as a catcher, mentored him and encouraged him to learn English. Rivero’s playing career quickly fizzled, though. Humberto Trejo, a Yankees official who had helped guide him through his early days at the team’s Dominican Republic complex, died in a car accident. Rivero didn’t get much playing time, just 10 games in the Dominican Summer League. His confidence cratered and he wasn’t invited to the club’s instructional league.

He aimed to latch on with another organization and, after sleeping at the Nationals’ complex, he convinced one of their scouts to allow him to audition. But the Yankees wouldn’t release him from his contract.

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“I was so disappointed with baseball,” Rivero said. “You fail at your biggest thing and you’re like, ‘What do I do now?’”

Well, he ventured to Spain, where he attended school and worked at a cheese company.

“Those are the happiest 20 pounds I’ve gained in my life,” he quipped.

Rivero proceeded to Columbia University, an Ivy League school in New York City, where he was accepted into a program in the school of public and international affairs. He worked as a teaching assistant every semester, dabbled in financial trading during the day and bartended six nights a week at a high-end restaurant in Chelsea. He’d spend his nights whipping up his well-regarded old-fashioneds and dirty martinis while dreading a patron would order a hot toddy, an oft-messy concoction that required hot water and honey and far too much patience.

When the restaurant closed at 2 a.m., he cleaned the bar and traveled 30 minutes back to Brooklyn to the cramped apartment he shared with one of the chefs. An early night meant burying his face in his pillow by 4 a.m. His alarm would sound at 8 a.m., when he would complete his schoolwork and then head to class on the Upper West Side. When he found time, he ate restaurant leftovers so he could save his tips from the bar.

“It was either that or go back to Venezuela,” he said.

He worked on the organizing committees for the World Cup in 2014 and the Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro in 2016, as those groups leaned on his ability to speak Spanish, English and Portuguese. By 2018, he said he was applying to 120 jobs per week. Finally, Cleveland’s front office showed interest.

Rivero flew to Arizona one night during spring training in 2019. His interviews the next morning started at 6:30 a.m. When he walked into the complex, he realized he was meeting first with Alomar, the man whose catching stance he modeled as a kid.

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“Sandy became one of my big mentors,” Rivero said. “He embodies, ‘I want to teach you. I want you to learn.’ I think that comes from somebody who is satisfied with what they’ve done in life. I don’t see any ego with Sandy. He’s always working to help.”

Alomar and Carlos Baerga sat at high tables in the team’s food room and pretended to be active players who were holding court with the media. Rivero served as their translator. He met with 13 people that day, from coaches to trainers to the clubhouse staff to various members of the front office — a new interview every half hour.

He had watched plenty of Cleveland games during his childhood. In his hometown, it was common to find a game on TV featuring a Venezuelan big leaguer, often Vizquel, Carlos Guillen or Andres Galarraga.

Now, he was working for the team.

Rivero acts as a comforting presence for the club’s Latin players when reporters pepper them with questions. Many of those players can converse in English, but voice recorders and cameras can add an extra layer of pressure for someone speaking a second language. Rivero also helps communicate messages coaches or executives want to share with players, such as scouting reports or logistics following a promotion or demotion. Before games, he’ll warm up the batting practice pitchers and serve as an extra target during pregame infield drills, receiving throws at either first or second base.

Teams use the major-league translator position in different ways. In some organizations, the person works in the communications department. In other organizations, they contribute on the broadcasting side.

Rivero’s priority is to ensure players understand what’s being asked of them. Sometimes that means advising them on housing options or knowledge of simple amenities like Uber Eats. Other times, he helps them digest advanced data or mechanical instructions being relayed to them.

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He wears many hats in his role with the Guardians. And, at last, a hoodie and baseball pants.

(Top photo of Agustin Rivero, first on left, in the dugout in 2021: William Purnell / Icon Sportswire / Associated Press)