Growing up as the son of a Hall of Famer, I was raised with a deep respect for the game of baseball -- not just the numbers on the back of the card, but the soul behind the uniform. My father, Hall of Famer Tony Pérez, showed me that greatness is not just measured in stats. It is found in the character, heart and the unrelenting love for the game in any player. I was lucky -- not only did I learn that lesson early, I lived it alongside three men now being inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame: Billy Wagner, CC Sabathia and Ichiro Suzuki.

In 1996, long before the lights of Cooperstown were even a thought for Billy Wagner, we played together in winter ball for the Cangrejeros de Santurce in my native Puerto Rico. That league is not just a proving ground -- it was and still is a crucible. Billy showed up as a young fireballer -- at the time, a starter with a left arm that snapped like a whip and a heart full of quiet intensity. What struck me was not just his velocity. It was his humility. He did not come to dominate. He came to learn, to grow, to honor the game. And he did it all with a work ethic that made him feel more like a native than a visitor.

A decade later, in 2006, I joined CC Sabathia in Cleveland. At that point, he was already a force. Towering presence, electric stuff, and the kind of leadership you can't teach. But what stood out most to me was how deeply he cared: about the clubhouse, about the guys grinding beside him, and about the responsibility of carrying a franchise. CC pitched like he was protecting something sacred. He reminded me of my father in that way. He knew it wasn't just about how you play the game, but how you carry yourself in the spaces in between.

That was embodied in something personal, something small but unforgettable. Every game that I was not in the starting lineup and he was not pitching -- which, let's face it, was often -- I would jump on the stationary bike in the fifth inning. Without fail, CC would join me. That became our time. Sometimes for 10 minutes; if the inning went long, sometimes for 30 minutes (which we were never happy about). Just two teammates, side by side, pedaling through the middle innings, talking life and baseball. That was CC. Present, supportive and always a teammate first.

That same year, I was traded to Seattle and found myself sharing a dugout with Ichiro Suzuki. If Billy brought heat and CC brought heart, Ichiro brought harmony. A perfect blend of precision, preparation and pride. Every move he made was intentional. Every at-bat felt like performance art. But Ichiro was not aloof. He was engaged, thoughtful and deeply respectful of the game's history. His discipline was on another level. He stretched long before most guys were even dressed. He closely studied the craft of right field. And behind the scenes, he lived by the clock; everything he did was to minute. The work never stopped.

There was one moment I will never forget. We were playing the Tampa Bay Rays, and I had been struggling at the plate. I figured I needed a little luck and a change. Ichiro never kept his bats in the rack. He always sat in the same exact spot in the dugout, and his bats were always lined up neatly right next to him. So, midgame, I made a bold move. I quietly took one of Ichiro's bats from beside his seat and walked to the on-deck circle. As I stepped into the batter's box, I could feel it. Ichiro, the entire team, everyone realized what I had done. I was using his bat. I ended up getting a hit up the middle, and when I came back to the dugout, Ichiro retrieved the bat. During the game, he wrote something on the knob and reluctantly gave it back to me. To be clear, he was not happy -- that was the kind of competitor he was. His bats were not just tools, they were extensions of his craft. But even in that quiet frustration, there was a layer of respect. That was Ichiro -- wrapped in a bat that, thankfully, worked for one swing that day.

These three men, Billy, CC and Ichiro, are now forever etched in baseball immortality. But the reason I am proudest to have played beside them has nothing to do with Cooperstown. It is because they showed up with authenticity. They gave the game everything they had. They respected the journey and the people around them. They played not for glory, but because they loved it.

And for me, someone who grew up in the clubhouse of the Big Red Machine and whose father taught him to honor this game with every swing and every breath, that is the highest tribute there is.

To Billy, CC and Ichiro, thank you for letting me share a small piece of your remarkable journey. Baseball is better because of you. And I am better for having played beside you.