Big Papi, Global Papa: How David Ortiz Became the Dominican Republic’s Most Portable Export

Big Papi, Global Papa: How David Ortiz Became the Dominican Republic’s Most Portable Export

By the time David Ortiz finally decided to stop swinging the lumber in 2016—roughly one retirement ceremony after every other living legend—he had already transcended the quaint provincial pastime Americans still quaintly call “baseball.” From Santo Domingo barrios to Tokyo yakitori stands, the man affectionately nicknamed “Big Papi” morphed into something far more fungible: a walking, grinning, 230-pound soft-power multiplier for a nation whose chief historical exports once included sugar, merengue, and the occasional coup d’état.

For the uninitiated, Ortiz was the designated hitter who turned the Boston Red Sox from a tragicomic opera into a late-capitalist dynasty. Three championships, 541 home runs, approximately 1,037 clutch RBIs (the official scorer lost count somewhere around the 19-inning postseason games that bleed into dawn and bar tabs). Yet his true legacy plays out on a larger map. In the Caribbean, Ortiz is less an athlete than a sovereign wealth fund in cleats: his image adorns everything from cologne bottles to the side of long-distance guaguas. Every time he flashes that gap-toothed smile on a billboard in Santiago, the Dominican brand equity rises a tick—no small feat for a country forever negotiating the twin hazards of hurricane season and IMF spreadsheets.

Across the Pacific, Japanese baseball otaku revere Ortiz as the exemplar of “guts pose”—a term they deploy for any foreigner who can both mash taters and emote unabashed joy. During Red Sox barnstorming tours, Tokyo Dome beer hawkers reported record sales every time Ortiz waddled to the on-deck circle. The economic spillover? Enough yen to finance another bullet train, or at least another Godzilla sequel set in Fenway Park.

Europe, bless its soccer-saturated heart, barely knows a bunt from a baguette. Still, Ortiz managed to penetrate the continental consciousness during the 2013 London Series, when he posed for selfies in front of Buckingham Palace wearing a crown emblazoned “Big Papi Is My King.” The tabloids, never ones to miss a monarchical metaphor, declared it the most successful royal engagement since Prince Harry discovered Vegas. Within 48 hours, British streetwear labels were slapping Ortiz silhouettes on hoodies—ironic, given that the average Brit still thinks DH stands for “Designated House of Commons.”

And then there is the darker ledger. In 2019, Ortiz survived a shooting in a Santo Domingo nightclub that looked suspiciously like a bad Netflix narco subplot. The incident briefly yanked the Dominican Republic back into the global headlines for something other than all-inclusive resorts and passport stamps. Cable-news anchors breathlessly speculated on cartel motives, while MLB executives fretted about the optics of their star ambassador dodging bullets between charity galas. Ortiz, ever the showman, rebounded with a wheelchair-bound first pitch that somehow felt both heroic and pre-memed. In doing so, he reminded the planet that even its idols are not bulletproof—just extremely well-insured.

What does it all mean in the grand geopolitical scheme? Simply this: in an era when nations export influencers, ransomware, and microplastics, David Ortiz remains an unusually wholesome commodity. He is soft power wrapped in a batting glove, a reminder that cultural capital can still travel without a blockchain or a customs form. Every time a Dominican kid in Madrid clips a YouTube highlight of Ortiz’s 2013 ALCS grand slam, the D.R. gains a sliver of mindshare no embassy could buy. And every time an American tourist books a Punta Cana weekend because “Papi’s from there, right?” the invisible hand of tourism pats the state’s foreign-exchange reserves on the back.

So raise a Presidente beer—or a lukewarm Budweiser if you insist on authenticity—to the man who proved you don’t need a seat at the U.N. Security Council to make the world listen. Just hit the ball really, really far, smile like tomorrow’s endorsement check is already direct-deposited, and let gravity—and global capitalism—do the rest. Big Papi may have retired from baseball, but the world keeps pitching to him. And, depressingly for the rest of us, he still hasn’t popped out.