The Death of Jose Fernandez: Watching My Team Lose to a Team that Needs More than a Win

Miami Marlins leadoff batter Dee Gordon just hit his first homer of the season and obviously cried around every base and now everyone in the dugout is crying and the world is beautiful and sad.

Had it happened on Saturday, you know there would have been one guy celebrating bigger and louder than anyone else. You know it because you’ve seen it.

But that guy’s not here anymore.

Sadly this is real life; even the best writers couldn’t make up this narrative.

This narrative. Where sports are bigger than winning and losing. As a hypercompetitive asshole, I hate to admit it. As a Mets fan, I’m scared to admit it, teetering on the verge of a post-season, in the precariously nerve-wrecking way the Mets seem uniquely qualified to do. Even the Lovable Loser Cubbies have easily shored up their playoff berth.

But here we are at Marlins Park, watching grown men cry in public and point their finger at the sky as they light up our fat little hero, Bartolo Colón.

Tonight, every Marlins player wears the same jersey with the same number and the same last name stretched across its back. Fernandez, it says. Number 16. There is no at-bat music. No prize giveaways. No t-shirt cannons.

I can see empty seats in the stands. Behind home plate, in the lower bowl, in the outfield. Basically everywhere. It feels empty, and I can’t understand how, except that it’s Southern Florida where fans can at least blame it on fair weather.

But there should be asses in those seats. Fernandez, number 16, deserved that much.

Perhaps you already know the beginning of the Jose Fernandez story. At 15, he made it to the United States, on his fourth attempt defecting from Cuba. During his peligroso viaje en barco, he dove into the water to save a woman who was drowning. He didn’t know it before diving in, but that woman turned out to be his mother.

I already told you; you can’t just make this shit up.

The middle of his story is the reason we know the beginning. At 19, he was a star prospect pitcher signed by the Marlins. At 21 he was MLB Rookie of the Year. It wasn’t just what he did, but how he did it. Fernandez was the happiest, most energetic pup in the Big Leagues.

And maybe, reader, you never saw him play. Maybe you’re not much for baseball. But trust me, your omniscient narrator: You rooted for him. You wanted to protect him. You loved him. That’s how this story goes.

By now, you likely know or guessed the tragic ending of the Jose Fernandez story, which glowed as a push notification on my phone Sunday morning. Our lovably flawed protagonist, with the smile and the arm and the heart. Drowned after a boating accident.

Por supuesto.
Because life is ironic and cruel to the ones who deserve it the least.

After two innings and six hits, it’s 5-0. After three innings, it’s 7-0. After nine innings, my team loses 7-3. The Mets are still chasing a Wild Card spot and grown men are crying.

Seats are still empty.