It was one of those moments for which I'll always remember where I was. I was half-awake in bed Sunday morning
when my friend texted me that Marlins pitcher Jose Fernandez had died. I don't
know why he threw in the "Marlins pitcher" part, because I've never
known Fernandez to be anything else. Either way, I was reflexively skeptical. I
didn't have a "breaking news" notification on my phone for it. He
wasn't trending on Twitter when I searched his name. But when I did, the first
tweet I saw was Ken Rosenthal confirming multiple reports of Fernandez's death.
My heart fell to the depths of my stomach.
Fernandez was my favorite pitcher. The energy he brought to the
mound every fifth day was palpable, and it seemed to transfer into his pitches.
His fastball was a thing of beauty, and his slider was called "the
defector." And as great a pitcher as he was, he was only getting better.
2016 was his first full season in the big leagues, ever. He was on an innings
limit as a rookie in 2013, then needed Tommy John surgery halfway through 2014,
which kept him out for half of the following year. At 24, Fernandez was blowing
away the league in strikeouts per nine innings (12.49). But I loved his
energetic personality even more than all of that. He made baseball look fun, no
matter what. As someone who all too often got myself down when I wasn't in good
form, I looked at Fernandez wanted to carry myself like him.
So even though I never met the Marlins' ace, I was reeling from
the bad news. I tried to contemplate it at church, but mass moved too quick for
me to really reflect and pray. I scoured Twitter and read nearly any stories I
could, just to make sense of it all. I've dealt with death before: Family
members, priests, even other ballplayers. But the combination of Fernandez's
athletic prowess, sociocultural significance and closeness in age to myself was
beyond jarring. I've never felt anything like what I felt Sunday morning. I
spent the rest of the day mindlessly bouncing between televised football and
golf and my awful fantasy team and the homework I put off until this suddenly
gloomy day.
The golf tournament was wild. Rory McIlroy won the TOUR
Championship and, as a result, the FedEx Cup, making him season champion after
picking up his first win of the year just two events prior. It was a pivotal
moment for McIlroy's career: He'd never won the FedEx Cup, and in doing so he
reasserted himself as the most dominant force in the game, Dustin Johnson and
Jason Day be damned.
But even golf made me sad on Sunday, because Arnold Palmer died at
age 87. On the list of all-time greats, Palmer is somewhere outside the top
five but firmly in the top 15. On the list of the game's iconic figures,
though, he's behind only Tiger and (maybe) Jack Nicklaus. For the second time
in 12 hours, I scarfed up tweets and stories, and this time there were video
montages as well.
Somehow, however—and I don't even know if this is a good
thing—Palmer's death helped me understand Fernandez's. Palmer's death was
heartbreaking because he positively impacted the lives of so many others;
Fernandez's death was heartbreaking because he was on his way to doing the
same.
We've all heard stories for years about how great a person Palmer
was. He signed every autograph (legibly), he always made eye contact, and he
always made time. He was a friend to millions. Fernandez's exuberant, bubbly
personality may have been well known, but after his death came the stories of
how positive his own influence was. He often hung out with sick or
underprivileged kids before games, and smiled at them the same way he smiled at
his teammates. His love for his family and his wife and his unborn child was
clear as day. But because he died at 24, his reach couldn't extend nearly as
far as Palmer's, and the lives he can't impact anymore sting so much more than
the strikeouts he can't rack up or even the dollars he can't earn.
I've spent too much time thinking about Fernandez and Palmer since
Sunday morning. I think the next stage past mourning over their deaths is to
try and live my life the way they would have. Both loved what they did, and
loved inspiring people. I'll never be an All-Star pitcher or a Masters champ,
but maybe on some small scale, I can emulate these two legends.
I'll start with a smile and a thumbs-up.
