While at times it may seem that no words exist to encapsulate the powerful emotions attached to sporting events, most of the time that is simply not the case. There were words to describe the Immaculate Reception. Same for the Steve Bartman game, the MJ flu game, and the Jeter flip game. There are always words to describe what happens between the lines, but sometimes sports transcend the fields on which they are played, and words no longer suffice.
Such is the case with José Fernández’s untimely, unthinkable death. Genuine tragedy is the rarest of emotions in sports. Mariano Rivera’s blown save in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series doesn’t shake the soul to its core – but death does.
Fernández was 24 years old, an electric pitcher with an enrapturing personality, beloved by so many of those around him. His death struck such a cord throughout the sports world, setting off a wave of universally shared sorrow among those who knew him.
Forget that he was on his way to superstardom. Fernández was a special person, and given the reactions charged with such raw emotion from his friends and family in the wake of his death, the impact he made on his peers is clear, the magnitude of which perhaps no one fully realized until now.
Stories such as this one are the most important in all of sports. They represent why we care, why trivial games hold real weight. Athletes represent us in many ways, and Fernández was a prime example of such a concept.
Fernández was one of very few people who successfully escaped from Cuba to lead a life of prosperity in the United States. One can only imagine the impact he had on the Cuban community, representing the country for the Miami Marlins in South Florida, a region deeply entrenched in Havana culture.
As a human being, Fernández wasn’t perfect, but if Cubans could have their pick of athletes to represent them as a people and culture in their jubilant passion for life, Fernández would undoubtedly be at the top of the list.
ESPN personality Dan Le Batard, a Cuban-American and South Florida native, wrote powerfully on Fernández’s death this morning, speaking from a heart intimately familiar with the pitcher’s impact on baseball, on the Marlins, on Miami, and on Cuba.
“Fernández had so much joy and enthusiasm and gratitude and passion pouring from him -- for being in this country, for getting to do what he loved, for squeezing every ounce of fun out of the day -- that it could move even the repressed and the sour,” Le Batard said.
“His smile and laugh routinely thawed stoic statues like Giancarlo Stanton. Jesus, even hitting coach Barry Bonds was always kissing him in the damn dugout.”
The world loses people with personalities as grand as José’s every day, but few deaths are felt to such a degree. Professional athletes are placed on a public platform above nearly any other, and when tragedy strikes, its wake is wide. We mourn Fernández not because we all knew him personally, but because he resonated with us.
We all have that one friend with the electric smile, the warmth that dominates a room and brings people together through their unfiltered joy…and the thought of losing that person is unbearable. Such is why we grieve for José, for his family and his friends, because we know that one day we will walk in their shoes, and we all dread that day.