I woke up Sunday morning and, as on every Sunday morning during football season, my mind immediately jumped to who I was starting in fantasy football. It’s a common routine for many like-minded sports fanatics. I grabbed my phone before even brushing my teeth or washing my face.
After opening Twitter to check out the morning’s breaking news, I saw a few vague tweets about the loss of Jose Fernandez. At first, I thought the star pitcher had gotten injured, perhaps bad enough to be lost for the season. But then I read a tweet that cleared my confusion and sent my senses adrift:
Jose Fernandez, 24-years-old, had died in a boating accident.
The night before, while hanging out with friends and playing the new NBA2K17 until the wee pre-dawn hours, news broke that Fernandez was having his start moved up one day so he could face the division rival Mets on Monday. The Marlins were still mathematically alive for the Wild Card game, and clearly needed their best pitcher in a make-or-break series.
Sep 25, 2016; New York City, NY, USA; New York Mets manager Terry Collins (10) looks on as left fielder Yoenis Cespedes (52) hangs a jersey in the dugout to honor the memory of Miami Marlins pitcher Jose Fernandez (not pictured) before the game against the Philadelphia Phillies at Citi Field. Mandatory Credit: Anthony Gruppuso-USA TODAY Sports
As a Mets fan, the news worried me to no end. Fernandez held a 1.34 ERA against us in eight career starts. All I could think to myself, and say to my friends, was how much I didn’t want to see that guy again this season.
After hearing of his death Sunday morning, all the worry turned into something so much worse, so much heavier. Two-thousand sixteen had already met its quota of undue deaths that hit you like a ton of bricks, but the news about Jose felt inconceivable. Never in my lifetime — anyone’s lifetime, really — had such a promising young athlete been cut down in his prime. This wasn’t a “what if” like Len Bias; we all knew Fernandez was going to be one of the greatest ever.
Not surprisingly, there have already been myriad reflective words, and many outstanding tributes, honoring Fernandez and what he meant to the Marlins. Not to mention the city of Miami, the Cuban immigrant community, and baseball as a whole.
Despite the fear he invoked, despite always hoping we’d somehow miss his scheduled starts, even the most hardened of Mets fans couldn’t deny Jose’s passion for the game. We are a fan base that embraces the jovial player, the guy who breaks the archaic traditions of the game and wears his giddy emotions on his sleeve. I was no stranger to all the popular memes and video clips of Fernandez, which showed a man who loved what he did and knew why he loved it.
His life story — that of a Cuban refugee that found freedom in the U.S.A. after many failed attempts — is by now well-known, if you didn’t know it before Sunday. It’s an against-all odds story that’s been retold poignantly, here, there, and several times over, throughout the media.
The wake of Fernandez’s passing brought with it waves of emotions. I had lost a friend to a drowning accident five years ago to the day that Jose died. A similarly young and vibrant person, cut down in his prime.
By the time the Mets were to face the Marlins Monday night, in a game that had heavy playoff implications, I decided it was time to put my emotions aside. Sure, the game was going to be somber, but the Mets had business to take care of if they were going to make the postseason.
I couldn’t have known, looking forward, just how firmly that night would shake me from fandom’s throes.
The opening tribute to Jose prior to the game grabbed hold of everything inside that makes us human. The faces of every player on the field; the shimmering eyes of fans in the crowd — it became immediately clear this was not a game where the competitive balance of September baseball was paramount. This was something else entirely. Something deeper than even the primeval pull of competition. Something special, however borne of tragedy, to remember forever.
I held my own for most of the ceremony, but when a somber trumpet rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” began to play, I couldn’t hold in my emotions any longer. A tear rolled down my face while my brother and I sat in absolute silence for what felt like an eon. After that, it was time to play ball.
Being a sports fanatic, you often question yourself: Aren’t there more important things in life? Are people right to look at my behavior and lifestyle with pretentious cynicism? What, in the end, does the game — a child’s pastime transposed upon a world of men and money and outsized stakes — actually matter?
A player like Jose Fernandez — a story like Jose Fernandez, and a night like September 26, 2016 — makes it all feel worth it.
The past few days have reminded us there are life events that transcend the confines and boundaries of sports. That within the context of the game, there are bigger, more profound stakes than your team winning, however crucial that winning seems to their success.
The Mets may or may not go on to make the postseason, and that’s OK. The Marlins — the players, organization, and fans alike; allied in grief and hopefulness both — got a win that no box score could ever capture. A win to heal those that need healing, and one that, like the legacy of Fernandez himself, will forever in baseball lore.
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