PEORIA, Ariz. — The radar gun screams. The crowd rises. The ninth inning tightens into a fist. And when Andrés Muñoz takes the mound for the Seattle Mariners, hitters know what’s coming: triple-digit heat, a wipeout slider, and the kind of late-game intimidation that defines elite closers.

What they don’t see is what happens before the first pitch.

They don’t see Muñoz leaning in, listening — not talking — as veterans speak. They don’t see the questions, the texts, the quiet conversations behind the cage. They don’t see the humility that fuels one of baseball’s most electric arms.

Inside Mariners camp this spring, Muñoz has once again made something clear: dominance doesn’t eliminate doubt. It sharpens curiosity.

“He’s really calm,” Muñoz said of J.P. Crawford, the longest-tenured Mariner and one of his most trusted voices. “He transmits that to you. He gives me a lot of confidence. He just goes straight to the point. He’s like, ‘hey compa, relax.’ As soon as he talks, I listen.”

Crawford’s mound visits have become something of a ritual. When the inning teeters, when adrenaline spikes, it is often Crawford who jogs in, glove tucked under his arm, voice steady. No theatrics. No panic. Just clarity.

And Muñoz absorbs it.

“I respect a lot the time people have,” he said. “Being here for a long time is hard. They’ve earned that respect.”

It’s a striking mindset from a pitcher who has already built a résumé many veterans envy. Since first stepping into big-league camp in 2022 — fresh off two injury-ravaged seasons and barely 24 years old — Muñoz has appeared in 240 major league games, earned two All-Star selections, and delivered in October with ice in his veins, surrendering a run in just one of 11 postseason outings.

By service time standards, he belongs in the veteran tier now. By production standards, he belongs among the game’s elite closers.

Ask him if he feels like one.

“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “I feel more experience, yes. But the important thing is I keep asking questions.”

That’s the heartbeat of his evolution.

Muñoz doesn’t just rely on raw stuff. He studies. He dissects. He seeks. He talks frequently with Luis Castillo, another clubhouse pillar whose calm mirrors Crawford’s. When something feels off — release point drifting, slider backing up, adrenaline misfiring — Muñoz doesn’t internalize it. He hunts perspective.

“As soon as I feel something is not right, I go to him,” Muñoz said of Castillo. “He helps me a lot in the season.”

The education extends beyond Seattle. During batting practice, it’s common to see Muñoz slip behind home plate, chatting with opposing relievers. He treats rival bullpens less like enemies and more like professors.

“It’s the way to learn,” he said. “Some people think that’s bad. It’s not. They are open to teach. I’m open to learn.”

Among those he’s leaned on: Carlos Estévez, Josh Hader, and perhaps most meaningfully, Aroldis Chapman.

“Chapman, I’m still a fan,” Muñoz admitted. “One time I texted him. I didn’t feel right. We talked for a half hour. When experience talks, we have to listen.”

Think about that. One of the most feared relievers in the sport reaching out like a rookie, seeking guidance on off-day routines and ninth-inning adjustments. That’s not insecurity. That’s intention.

It has taken what Muñoz calls a “village” to shape him — family at home, veterans in the clubhouse, fraternity across the league. Add to that the Mariners’ pitching brain trust: director of pitching Trent Blank and coach Pete Woodworth, voices Muñoz credits for keeping his mind steady even when mechanics wander.

“They maintain me in the same mind,” he said. “When we go in a different direction, they get us back.”

Perhaps that’s why the ninth inning rarely overwhelms him now. It’s not just velocity. It’s awareness. It’s knowing what to do when something breaks mid-battle. It’s understanding your own patterns, your own breathing, your own fear — and having mentors to call when you need recalibration.

This spring, Muñoz lingered in Mariners camp longer than most World Baseball Classic participants. He preferred the routine. The familiarity. The daily dialogue. Only when it was time to join Team Mexico did he finally exchange fist bumps and depart.

Even then, the learning continued.

Because for Andrés Muñoz, the pursuit of mastery never ends.

In a sport that glorifies ego and isolation on the mound, he has chosen something different: humility as a weapon, mentorship as fuel, curiosity as armor.

And maybe that’s why, when the game is on the line and 40,000 fans hold their breath, the Mariners’ closer looks so unshakable.

He’s not alone out there. He carries every lesson with him.