LOS ANGELES — The text came early. Before the rumor mill could spin, before social media could stampede, Clayton Kershaw hit send. A simple message to the clubhouse, a final bit of control in a career defined by it. “He sent a text to everyone this morning just wanted to get ahead of it before the media found out,” Max Muncy told us in the clubhouse prior to Thursday’s game, adding that “most of the guys found out this morning.” Some had suspected; most felt it land the same way—heavy, inevitable, and still hard to believe.
Muncy didn’t want to share the thread—“that’s for us”—but he had plenty to say about the man behind it. When teammates try to define Kershaw, they usually start with the obvious: the awards, the numbers, the Cooperstown runway. Muncy went somewhere more human. “He’s always been the guy that sets the example,” he said. “There’s no one in this clubhouse that’s ever worked harder than he has. There’s no one in this clubhouse that’s had more fun than he has.” For Muncy, that’s the two-part heartbeat of Kershaw’s influence: a relentless standard and a locker room looseness that kept the game joyful. “He shows up, he gets his work in… he’s going to work as hard as he possibly can. And then when that’s over, he’s going to have some fun. He’s going to joke around. He’s going to keep guys live, but he’s also going to keep guys focused on the game.”
That balance—serious about the work, generous with the joy—became the culture. “In reality, it starts with him,” Muncy said of the clubhouse tone that predates many of the current faces. “He’s been the unspoken leader of, you’re going to show up and you’re going to work as hard as you can. Nothing’s going to hold you back. And on top of that, you’re going to celebrate all the good moments with your teammates.” When your first-ballot Hall of Famer is also the first guy in and the one laughing the loudest after the job is done, it’s “hard not to follow that.”
There’s a temptation to turn the rest of this season into a farewell tour—with choreographed moments and carefully staged tributes. Muncy doesn’t see that flying. Asked what Friday might look like at Dodger Stadium, he grinned at the very idea of the dugout lingering while Kershaw jogs out alone. “When it comes to Clayton, I think nothing would piss him off more if you did something like that,” he said. The team’s plan? Keep the main thing the main thing. “We’re going to take the field as normal. We’re going to play as hard as we can and we’re going to get him a W.”
That doesn’t mean there isn’t a little extra purpose humming through the room. Motivation has never been a Dodgers shortage, but Muncy admitted the obvious. “I don’t think we needed any more inspiration,” he said, “but… yeah, it obviously would be really nice to get him another one on his way out.” The phrasing is telling—no grand speeches, no sweeping proclamations. Just a nudge from reality: one of the best pitchers of all time is running out of tomorrows, and he’s earned one more October remembered for the right reasons.
Muncy drew a line under what separates Kershaw, beyond the trophy case. “The longevity of it… the numbers speak for themselves,” he began, but quickly steered toward the thing teammates never forget. “For me I think just the unselfish ability he’s had in the past where when the postseason came he would take the ball when it was his turn and then he would also take the ball when it wasn’t his turn.” The memory of Kershaw volunteering—on short rest, out of the bullpen, in the breach—still resonates. “He never said no. He never said my arm hurts. He never said I need a little bit more time. It was whatever this team needs to get over the hump. I’m going to do it.” For Muncy, that’s the legacy inside the legacy: a superstar who kept choosing team over comfort.
If you’re looking for doubt about the retirement itself, you won’t find it in the clubhouse. Respect, yes. A little disbelief, sure. But doubt? No. “I don’t think there’s anyone talking him out of this decision,” Muncy said. “I think he’s been wrestling with it for a couple of years and… his family’s growing again and so I think he’s at peace with his decision.” That peace exists alongside the competitor who still tore through lineups this year. Muncy nodded to both truths: “He’s been very successful this year… you can never take that competitiveness and fire out of that guy and he’s going to find a way to get it done.”
His favorite on-field memory? Muncy flipped it on its head with a story that reveals who Kershaw is behind the curtain. He missed the 3,000th strikeout celebration—“by what was it? One pitch or two pitches”—stuck in the X-ray room. “Hearing the crowd roar from down in the X-ray room… I’m not going to forget that one,” he told us. But the punchline is pure Kershaw. “For him to be in that moment come up and find me and give me a hug and make sure that I was doing okay despite his accomplishment just speaks to the person that he was.”
There’s the pitcher we’ll talk about for decades, and then there’s the teammate the Dodgers will miss tomorrow. The first is immortal; the second is irreplaceable. The rest of the season will walk that line. Kershaw won’t want pageantry. He’ll want innings, zeroes, and a handshake line after a win. The Dodgers, following his example, will try to give him exactly that.
No speeches necessary, no scripts required. Just the same standard he’s set for 18 years: show up, outwork everyone, have each other’s backs, and make sure there’s still joy in the doing. Or, as Muncy put it, “when you have a guy of his caliber that puts in that kind of work, it really just sets the tone for the whole team.” The tone hasn’t changed. The clock has. And the best way to honor it is to keep playing like him—until there are no more games left to play.
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