If there’s one thing to glean from Jose Fernandez’s time on earth, it’s that there is absolutely, positively nothing that Jose couldn’t be.
He could’ve been a career Marlin, leading the city of Miami into a new generation, a bilingual hero to the suddenly-ignited local baseball community. Schoolchildren riding on his back, children whose tickets he’d paid for, doling out hi-fives on a four hundred million-dollar lifetime contract.
He could’ve been the ace of the next generation of Yankees. He could’ve arrived in 2017 for a bevy of prospects, or in 2019 with a hefty dollar amount, ready to take on the pressure of the Pinstripes with a series of hearty laughs. Baseball wasn’t pressure to Jose; he’d already won. He’d already overcome being locked alone in a prison of words, trapped in a massive world he didn’t understand, repeatedly escaping to the woods to sob all through high school. From that, to a major league mound. He could’ve won a World Series in New York, sure.
He could’ve been the next Pedro Martinez. David Ortiz might’ve been the world’s biggest Jose Fernandez fan, and he would’ve spent the first offseason of his retirement recruiting Fernandez to Fenway. And it would have worked. It was a perfect match. Exuberance, fiery attitude, upsettingly good fastball. He could’ve and would’ve been surreal in Boston. Anyone across the globe would have let down their Red Sox-hating shield for a while and simply appreciated Fernandez’s brilliance. He could’ve done that.
But we can’t focus on what he could’ve been. Because it’s impossible to visualize any outcome without getting incredibly frustrated, without wanting to scream to the heavens and demand an extension.
Jose Fernandez escaped Cuba at age 15. He survived prison. He carried his drowning mother on his back during the voyage, after leaping out of a boat in the pitch-dark water and, without ever seeing her face, simply knowing he had someone to save.
For it all to end with another boat. Christ, for it all to end with another boat.
Every sentence I type makes my fingers burn and shiver.
People will tell you Jose Fernandez wasn’t a perfect person, but it’s hard to find a more perfect person. What’s more perfect for a legacy than what Jose brought to the table? I’m sure everyone who struggled with Jose’s enthusiasm and found it cocky is swiftly reevaluating their vision.
Jose Fernandez could’ve been anything. But he was life. And he was pure light.
Jose Fernandez could’ve been an amazing father. Fernandez announced his girlfriend’s pregnancy last week. Last week.
Jose spent years in Tampa apart from his beloved grandmother, left back in Cuba, after chasing his dream. She was the light of his life, and he hers. At the toughest juncture of Jose’s life, he felt like a child missing a parent; numb, unable to communicate, and fighting back with a piece of his soul removed. I weep for that boy. I weep for the child that shall be. I weep for the worst possible news.
Jose Fernandez could’ve been anything to anyone. But what he already showed us was a life overflowing from his very veins.
I never got to see Jose Fernandez pitch. And I never will. I could’ve, and didn’t. And what I could’ve done will eat at me every time I reflect on what could’ve been.
