Former Mariners All-Star Robinson Cano, at 41, finds joy — and hits — in the Mexican League
MEXICO CITY — One day in late July, Robinson Canó finished a workout and stepped out into a quiet hallway at Alfredo Harp Helú Stadium. He had two hours before his team, the Diablos Rojos del Mexico, would face the Conspiradores de Queretaro in an afternoon matinee, and he had a pregame routine to complete.
He needed to eat. He needed to stretch. And, at some point, he needed to finish an interview about why, at the age of 41, he was here in Mexico City, an eight-time MLB All-Star plying his trade in the Mexican League.
“Cinco minutos,” Canó said as he headed off to finish another task.
It was a Saturday, and it had been a long week. The day before, the Diablos had arrived home from Leon at close to 4 a.m. On Friday night, Canó had collected two hits in an 18-11 victory over Queretaro.
Canó made more than $260 million in his career, including $240 million in a deal signed with the Seattle Mariners a decade ago. Were it not for two performance-enhancing drug suspensions, he would likely be a lock for the Hall of Fame. The Mexican League has long been a refuge for minor league castoffs and former major leaguers with checkered pasts. But it’s rarely, if ever, been a place for a player like Canó.
So you might suspect that Canó spent the summer collecting a (relatively modest) check and serving as a (washed-up) draw for Mexican baseball fans. But that’s not what happened. Instead, Canó arrived in the spring and immediately became the best hitter in the league, leading the Diablos — Mexico’s most storied club — to the best regular season in franchise history.
Canó finished the regular season batting .431, winning the “Champion Bat” for the highest average in the league and setting a club record. Meanwhile, the Diablos finished the regular season with a 71-19 record, the highest winning percentage in league history. They beat the reigning champion Puebla, 4-1, in the best-of-seven first round of the playoffs, and are into the divisional round, beginning Tuesday.
Canó’s arrival coincided with a record number of former big leaguers joining the Mexican League, thanks to relaxed rules on foreign players and increasing investment from club owners. (The Diablos also employ Trevor Bauer, the former MLB pitcher who served what amounted to a 194-game suspension for violating the league’s domestic violence and sexual assault policy.)
But after months of watching Canó dominate helpless pitchers, the biggest question seemed to be: Why?
Why was Canó, at 41, grinding like he was back at second base for the New York Yankees — scouting pitchers who peaked at Class AA, helping teammates who just want to survive a few more years, pushing himself to play five or six times per week?
“For me, the joy that I have is being able to be on the field,” Canó said. “I love the game. I still have that in me. I want to keep playing. I get a chance here.”
At some point, as his skills faded, his major league career ended and he faced his own baseball mortality, Canó considered what he would like to do with all that free time.
He opted for more baseball.
Canó’s career stateside had been waning since 2020 when, as a member of the New York Mets, he had tested positive for the anabolic steroid Stanozolol. It was his second violation of MLB’s policy on performance-enhancing drugs, which triggered a yearlong suspension in 2021. When he returned to the Mets in 2022, he batted .195 in 12 games before being released.
Canó kicked around with the San Diego Padres and Atlanta Braves, toiling briefly at Class AAA El Paso, before he was released. Not ready to hang up his cleats, he continued to play winter ball in the Dominican Republic, and he invested in Baseball United, a coming startup league focused on growing the sport in the Middle East and South Asia.
But Miguel Ojeda, a former big league catcher and the Diablos’ sports director, wanted to offer a completely different pitch in February, while visiting Canó in Miami.
Ojeda emphasized to Canó that the Diablos’ home clubhouse was major league caliber — weight room, sauna, kitchen, chef — and that the team could offer security during his stay. (Most players live at a nearby hotel.) He mentioned the possibility of up to 20 import players, meaning the roster would be filled with players with big league experience. “It would be a big boom for baseball,” he told Canó.
Ojeda was also honest: The Diablos have more championships than any club in Mexican League history — 16 in total — but their last title was in 2014. Their fans were getting restless.
“We’ve been dominating it during the regular season,” Ojeda said. “We just haven’t been able to win.”
For Canó’s part, he remembered the days that his father spent in Mexico, when his six-game major league career was over. José Canó enjoyed brief stints with teams in Mexico City and Aguascalientes. He didn’t leave much of a legacy there, but he did let his young son swing a bat on the field in Aguascalientes when he came to visit.
Diablos officials declined to reveal how much they offered Robinson Canó to join their team but said that Canó and Bauer were “the best paid players in the history of this team.” The monthly salary cap for a Mexican League roster, for all 30 players, is roughly $475,000 — equating to an average salary of just less than $15,000 per month — though Ojeda said the team had exceeded the cap and was paying a luxury tax.
In the end, money wasn’t a sticking point. “He doesn’t need the money,” Diablos manager Lorenzo Bundy said. So when Canó agreed to sign, the Diablos’ front office and coaching staff emphasized one thing: The team wanted to ensure that Canó was fresh and healthy for the postseason, so they would limit his playing time to three or four games per week.
But then Canó showed up in the spring and met with Bundy.
“I came to win,” Canó said.
Pretty soon, he was batting over .400. So Bundy put him in the lineup each day.
Canó is a little thicker in the midsection these days, and his hands are slower. But the lefty swing, for the most part, is the same one he possessed during nine seasons with the Yankees.
Canó debuted with the Yankees in 2005, in the twilight of a dynasty, and grew into one of the best second baseman in the league. He helped New York win the World Series in 2009, and for a moment seemed like a Yankee lifer. But then came two moments that defined the rest of his career: In 2013, he fired agent Scott Boras, joined Jay-Z’s Roc Nation agency and departed New York for Seattle. And then, five years later, he tested positive for the diuretic furosemide, a banned substance that landed him an 80-game suspension.
Canó would finish his career with 335 home runs and 68.1 wins above replacement, better than Roberto Alomar or Ryne Sandberg, two second basemen who reached the Hall of Fame this century. But that positive test — coupled with the second in 2020 — is likely to mar Canó in the eye of Hall of Fame voters. Canó maintains that he has not given much thought to his own case.
“I never paid too much attention or looked deep into what it takes — what type of numbers or whatever,” he said. “If things happen, great. If not, I’m always going to be thankful for the years that I played. I accomplished a lot of things.”
If Canó’s teammates on the Diablos are curious about his past, it has little to do with controversy. One day this summer, Jimmy Yacabonis, a former big league lefty, was working out in the weight room with Canó when a song by the rapper 50 Cent came on the stereo.
“Hey, Robbie,” Yacabonis said, “did you ever meet 50 Cent?”
Canó whipped out his phone and pulled up a photo of him and 50 Cent from his time in New York.
“He’s very down to earth,” Yacabonis said. “For a guy that’s that high profile to be that cool and that laid back around everybody, he’s an awesome teammate, honestly.”
What really caught his teammates’ eye was his everyday diligence. He studies opposing hitters and doles out tips. He is a presence in the clubhouse. If he makes a mistake in the field, he will corner the pitcher for a quick debrief. He maintains a routine just as if he were still playing for the Yankees.
“He’s seen a million games and been part of a million games,” said Diablos pitcher Ryan Meisinger, who last appeared in the majors with the Chicago Cubs in 2021. “If he sees something, he lets us know.”
There is a joke inside the Diablos clubhouse that Canó, at age 41, is the greatest hitter in the world.
He is Ichiro Suzuki. He is Rod Carew. He is the Mexican League’s Ted Williams, batting .400 and leaving his teammates in awe. When Canó heard the Williams comparison this summer, he laughed.
“Come on,” he said. “Not even close!”
So how does one make sense of what Canó is doing?
The competition level can be inconsistent. Some clubs — like Mexico City or Monterrey — can claim Triple-A quality. But much of the league is probably closer to Class AA. It is also a hitter’s paradise.
Mexico City plays its home games at an altitude of 7,350 feet — more than 2,000 feet higher than Coors Field in Denver — while more than a third of the league plays above 5,000 feet. Another long-term factor has been the league’s reputation for loosely enforcing performance-enhancing drugs, though it does test its players.
Bundy, who has managed at Class AA and AAA, compared Canó’s .431 average to an average of .370 in the Pacific Coast League.
“I feel like in this league, a lot of the guys try to pitch to his holes,” Yacabonis said. “But some of the guys aren’t able to do that. And when they leave stuff over the plate, he’s ready to hit it.”
The simplest way to describe Canó’s summer in Mexico?
“Fun,” he said.
The Diablos have been a juggernaut. He has played at a high level. The cheers from the Mexican fans have been rejuvenating.
The Diablos led the league in attendance, averaging 11,761 fans per game. They are a heavy favorite to win their first championship in a decade.
Canó is not one to look back — or forward, for that matter. He might consider a return to Mexico next year. At some point, he said, he would love to work in a major league front office. He also wants to focus on being a father to his two children.
His career was not perfect. But when he considers it in total, he thinks of the World Series title, the successes on the field and the experiences he had.
“I think that everyone has their time,” he said. “So, I think that I had my time.”
He again mentioned the memory of his father playing in Mexico.
“This is something I talked to a lot of friends and people about,” he said. “You can go and just play and have fun.”