David Ortiz will be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

When a member of the Baseball Writers' Association of America (BBWAA) votes on the hall of fame ballot, he or she assesses a player on his record, ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character and general contributions to the team(s) on which the player played. This is a reasonable set of conditions to meet in order to gain entrance into one of America’s most storied hall of fame institutions in professional sports. A player’s record, ability and integrity rarely need investigation for de facto Hall of Fame entrants. However, the latter three conditions generally are accompanied by philosophical disunity, passionate dissent and uncompromising subjectivity. If we assume that Ortiz’s stats are worthy, how should the BBWAA voters estimate is character?

Analysts tend to disabuse the notion that a player is “clutch”. They believe it is an invention of sports-writers, grounded in the emotions of late inning heroics and not empiricism. But David Ortiz swings with as much faith as he does with sight, despite what the sabermetric arcana suggest. When a fan recollects on his or her favorite baseball memory he or she doesn't think in terms of numbers, they think in terms of moments.

It is impossible to declare a capstone moment in David Ortiz’s career, but let’s start with a memorable clutch one: 10/17/04, Game 4 of the ALCS vs. New York Yankees. Red Sox are losing the series 3-0 and if they lose they are eliminated, meaning the curse of the Bambino persists. So, what happens?

Right, predictable. The Sox then won the next three games and then swept the St. Louis Cardinals to win their first World Series Championship since 1918. To claim that Ortiz is exceedingly more clutch than his peers based on one instance is a hasty, untenable generalization. To obviate your doubts check out this, this and this.

Although Ortiz is known for his profusion of clutch performances, he is best known for his character.

While part of his character is flypaper for criticism, he has never surrendered to the requests of wolfish critics to abandon his flare and unabashed love for the sport. Bat-flips? Check. Leering at umpires? Check. The first to throw a fist when a teammate has been undercut? Check.

Ortiz wrote in the Player’s Tribune,

"Yeah, I’m gonna have fun. It’s who I am. I just hit a baseball 500 damn feet. I grew up in the gutter and now I’m out here in front of the world living my dream and you all want me to feel sad? I can’t do it. I’m here to bring joy to this game.”

Not everyone is amused by the bat flips, chain popping, and glacially paced home-run trots. But Ortiz grew up in the environs of Santo Domingo where he couldn’t play in the front yard because he may be shot. He didn't make it this far because he's lightly perturbed by a bad call - he's emboldened by errors and determined to correct them and he's clear about it. Now look where he is?

Ortiz has changed the game on the field. All-stars like Bryce Harper are now bringing the same flare and unapologetic intensity. Even Major League Baseball's Commissioner Rob Manfred believes that these actions are making baseball fun again, especially important following the polarizing declension of the steroid era. Ortiz's last season before retirement represents an era of baseball that has endured serious change. From drug policies to game-tempo regulations, Ortiz has seen it all as the best designated hitter in Major League Baseball.

We'll remember Ortiz for many things - his mercurial reception in Yankee Stadium, the scores of clutch hits, merrymaking with teammates after three Word Series Championships, his undeniable air of benignity towards others and his tireless dedication to charity. Most of all, though, we will remember that, in a sport that is tries relentlessly to make you something or lambast you with obtuse labels, he will always be Big Papi. Following the tragic Boston Marathon bombings, Ortiz said this:

Writing him indelibly into the weighty books of American baseball history.