Miami Marlins starting pitcher JoséFernández was found dead early Sunday morning after a boat that he was on with two other friends capsized after hitting a jetty in Miami Beach, Fla. Fernández made his mark on the world, not just with his performances on the mound, but also by teaching us what it means to be human, what it means to be resilient and what it means to live each day with vigor and purpose. He was 24 years old.
Fernández was easily one the most dominant pitchers in baseball and, at his young age, was off to what could have been an all-time great career. What could have been — what should have been — is the true tragedy of this story.
Fernández as a person epitomized youthful exuberance. The photo and caption above, with Fernández sitting quietly, looking intently at the fireworks ahead, with tens of thousands of the opposing team’s fans directly behind him or in front of him, is one of the many examples of that very youthfulness — an eagerness that very evidently pervaded the Marlins’ dugout on a daily basis. Fernández was a true kid at heart — a man who was loved like a child, a child who reciprocated the love like a man.
“When I think about José, I see such a little boy,” Marlins Manager Don Mattingly said during the team’s press conference hours after the news broke. “The way he played, there was just joy with him.”
Mattingly shed a tear and choked up as he uttered those words. Marlins third baseman Martín Prado cried during that same press conference, as did team President David Samson. Boston Red Sox designated hitter David Ortiz was seen crying on the Jumbotron during Fernández's tribute in Tampa Bay, Fla., and asked the Tampa Bay Rays to cancel his retirement ceremony to pay homage to Fernández. Outfielder Yoenis Céspedes wept as he hugged a swath of Marlins players before his Mets played the Marlins in what was the latter’s first game since Fernández’s death.
Marlins infielder Dee Gordon wept as he circled the bases after hitting a leadoff home run that same game.
All of baseball, all of the sporting community and all of Miami shed a tear on Sunday, Sept. 26.
When beloved athletes die, it is often when they are done with their careers and remembered for their legacy rather than for what they could have been. Rarely is a death of an athlete so admired, so ill-timed. Seldom does the death of an athlete occur after his or her birth as a star, but before his or her progression into a full-blown supernova. When those types of athletes do perish — Roberto Clemente, Thurman Munson, Dražen Petrović and Sean Taylor come to mind — you know. You feel it in every fabric of society — that hurt, that communal loss.
Fernández was the pillar, the soul and the spirit of not only the Miami Marlins, the Miami area and the Cuban community, but also the cancer foundation community. Fernández was a board member at a Miami-based childhood cancer foundation — Live Like Bella — and successfully lobbied the Marlins' owner, Jeffrey Loria, into allowing the namesake of the foundation, Bella Rodriguez-Torres, throw out the first pitch of a game shortly before she died of cancer at the age of 10, according to SNY's Steve Gelbs.
On days that he pitched, Fernández, as USA Today’s Alan Gomez so aptly put, “made the [Cubans in Miami-Dade County] feel as if one of their own was on the mound.”
Fernández was a natural teammate — always upbeat, always unabashedly cheering on his teammates. And if he wasn’t, then he was on the mound, eyes locked in, pure ferocity seething out of his nostrils, ready at a whim to rear back and blow an electric 99 mph fastball by a hitter for strike three or to give the batter one of his patented, looping, virtually unhittable sliders. But even when Fernández was in his zone, he remained enthusiastic, unafraid to give one of the men behind him a thunderous glove-to-hand round of applause after an outstanding play. For a team that doesn’t draw many fans, he was the main catch every fifth day.
He was an athlete who played with emotion. Whether he was excited, entertained or frustrated, he always showed how much he cared. He superseded antiquated notions of “playing the game the right way” and other platitudes of baseball that have contributed to its slow demise. Fernández played the game his way — unapologetically and full of fervor.
We have been well-reminded of Fernández’s backstory — including his defection from Cuba — in the last few days, but it is worth restating: on one attempted journey to the U.S. in 2008, he saved a woman from drowning, only to find out that it was his mother. He risked his life in the open waters to save who he thought was a complete stranger.
That was his fourth attempt at defection. Fernández had tried three prior times — and was even jailed — but it was apparent that nothing could reduce his unwavering confidence in himself and his family. They had to keep trying. They knew they had a better life for themselves just on the horizon. They just had to keep trying.
In May 2014, Tommy John surgery ended his season in May, and also required him to miss part of the 2015 season. The surgery may not have actually been necessary had Fernández reported the initial discomfort in his elbow to the team immediately after he felt it, but higher callings beckoned — the Marlins were in first place. His response when asked whether he regretted playing through the injury?
“I don’t regret not saying anything,” Fernández told reporters in 2014, “I think that was my call … It probably wasn’t the smartest thing, but this is my team, and I give my life to my team. That was the right call.”
He pushed through and pitched for his team, even with a sprained ulnar collateral ligament. He had to push through. He just had to keep trying.
Fernández’s characteristics and choices have shown us so holistically — through the lens of his life — the essence of life. And for that, we thank him. Rest easy, Mr. Fernández.
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