There are lists published every year as if they didn’t matter, yet they tell us more about us than any political, economic, or spiritual analysis. One of those lists is issued by the MLB: the season’s best-selling jerseys. And there’s Shohei Ohtani again. Number one. Third year in a row. Third different team. But the curious thing isn’t that he’s first. The truly disturbing thing… is why.
Think about it.
Ohtani isn’t the 2025 MVP. He hasn’t even been the most dominant player in this first half of the year. He’s injured. But his jersey is the best-selling jersey in Japan, Korea, the United States… and probably on Mars, if there’s baseball there. Are we witnessing a sporting phenomenon? Or a product that the algorithm has made sacred?
Before answering, look at the rest of the list:
Shohei Ohtani (LAD)
Aaron Judge (NYY)
Ronald Acuña Jr. (ATL)
Mookie Betts (LAD)
Elly De La Cruz (CIN)
Jasson Domínguez (NYY)
Bryce Harper (PHI)
Fernando Tatis Jr. (SDP)
Juan Soto (NYY)
Mike Trout (LAA)
Half of these players haven’t won anything significant this year. Some haven’t even played well. Yet they sell jerseys like they’ve founded a church. How do we explain this?
A quick hypothesis: we no longer buy jerseys for what players do, but for what they symbolize.
We don’t buy Ohtani. We buy the idea of Ohtani. The myth of the impossible. The Japanese unicorn. The one who pitches and bats. The one who smiles and responds in English, Japanese, or emojis. The one who looks human, but is a brand.
The case of Elly De La Cruz is even more brutal: not a title, not a batting lead, not a Gold Glove. But his jersey is in the top 5. Why?
Watch him run. Watch him smile. Watch him on TikTok.
In fact, try the test: find out how many times De La Cruz appears on Instagram vs. how many times he appears in Sports Illustrated. There’s your answer. Because in 2025, baseball isn’t defined by ESPN, but by the algorithm. And faith, oddly enough, is now bought in dry-fit format.
And the teams? Ah, the teams. Remember when you were a fan of a franchise, a logo, a city? That no longer exists.
Today we are devoted to players, not clubs. And that mutation in the soul of the fan is evident in every jersey that is printed. No one buys a Yankees jersey to honor their history. The purchase for Judge, for Soto, or for the romantic idea of the Bronx.
Mookie Betts, for example, has two World Series titles, a perfect swing, a photogenic smile. But what his jersey sells is that it represents the complete combination: performance, charisma, algorithms, and fashion.
And the pitchers?
Exactly.
Where are they?
There isn’t a single one in the top 10. Because the fan of 2025 doesn’t have the patience to watch a guy pitch every five days. Modern baseball demands immediacy. Virality. Continuous presence. And pitchers, no matter how valuable they are in October, aren’t good for TikTok.
But there’s something even more disturbing.
Jersey rankings don’t just measure popularity. They measure influence. They measure identity. They measure the market. And if we analyze it coldly, we are witnessing a transformation of sport into a kind of consumer religion.
Ohtani is the Messiah. Judge is the strong apostle. Acuña is the preacher of the South. Harper is the martyr. And De La Cruz is the young prophet of highlights.
And you… you buy the jersey like someone who hangs a cross, a mantra, or a holy card. Not because you believe, but because you want to belong.
Now, what would happen if next year, Ohtani’s performance declines, Elly gets injured, and Tatis is suspended again?
Nothing. Because it doesn’t matter what they do anymore. What matters is what they stand for. And that’s the true masterstroke of modern marketing.
But don’t worry. This article has no ending. Like faith.
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