Tom Hanks has never been more wrong.
More precisely, Jimmy Dugan -- the character Hanks played in A League of Their Own -- has never been more wrong than the past two days, particularly in Miami.
Since the bitterly shocking news of the death of José Fernández in a boating accident near South Beach early Sunday morning, his team, the Miami Marlins, has become an unwitting portrait in collective grief. And surprisingly, for a team that hasn't always had a good reputation for its ownership or management, the franchise has (so far) been up to the task.
Fernández was not the only athlete to die on Sunday; in fact he was far from the most famous, with Arnold Palmer's passing later on Sunday. For all the surprise at his death (Jack Nicklaus reported Palmer sounding "great" in a phone conversation just a few days before Palmer's death), the world knows how to cope with the passing of a legend, more or less. (And earlier deaths in the sports world this year -- Muhammad Ali and Pat Summit in particular -- came with a back story of long-standing disease that almost made their deaths equal part sadness and relief.) The encomiums for Palmer's spectacular achievements and particular stature in his sport and the larger culture came about as easily as anything in a time of grief.
Or, to put it another way, the New York Times probably had a draft of Palmer's obituary ready for finishing at the time of his death. It's pretty unlikely that was the case for the 24-year-old Fernández.
It's not as if baseball hasn't had its share of dying-too-young (and the death of any active player falls into that category). Only two years ago the St. Louis Cardinals were jolted by the death of outfielder Oscar Taveras, a player even younger than Fernández, shortly after their elimination from the playoffs. Seven years ago Nick Adenhart, a pitcher for the Angels who had made all of four major-league appearances, was killed in a car accident in early April. I could go on quite a while but it's probably easier to refer you to this list, of baseball players who died while still playing ball (and as is the way of Wikipedia, Fernández is already on the list).
Each such case is unique, and Fernández's is not an exception. Many media outlets have made reference to the deaths of Roberto Clemente and Thurman Munson, which speaks highly of Fernández's stature in the game, but Clemente and Munson were established veterans or even in the later stages of their career. Fernández was only 24, completing his fourth season in MLB (two of which were shortened by injury). A Rookie of the Year season in 2013 and an award-worthy season this year, along with an effusive and typically joyful personality, elevated Fernández and the impact of his passing beyond those of many of the players noted earlier.
Ken Hubbs, a young second baseman for the Chicago Cubs who had been named Rookie of the Year in 1962, died in a plane crash before the 1964 season. His story offers both similarities and differences; he had known success early in his career, but not on the level of Fernández. Further, Hubbs was a completely different personality, quiet and restrained. Fernández was a one-man celebration of baseball, with a dramatic backstory of escape from Cuba to boot.
In short, the Marlins were confronted with a particular and unique case; a dynamic young player, a huge part of not only their present but especially their future, and a charismatic personality in the clubhouse and even a kind of hero in a city that really had never seen such a player on their MLB team, dead in a horrible accident, at the climax of their season, while the team was technically if not practically still in the hunt for a playoff berth, with achievement that already suggested a potential Hall of Fame career ahead.
Sunday's game, not surprisingly, was cancelled. If the Marlins were only on the fringe of playoff contention, that day's opponent, the Atlanta Braves, was thoroughly eliminated. However, the New York Mets came to town on Monday, and they were (and are) still in the heat of the wild-card race. A game had to be played by then.
On Sunday, the team gathered for a press conference at what would have been game time. The team's president, director of baseball operations, and manager were joined by third baseman Martín Prado in speaking for the team. In the realm of sports being tough is paramount, but not a one of these representatives veered anywhere near that posture. Their grief was real and unabashed. Tears flowed. President of Baseball Operations Michael Hill broke down and was unable to continue.
Jimmy Dugan would have lost his mind, I'm sure. And if Sunday hadn't driven him crazy, Monday would certainly have done so.
The game was played, with less of the usual boisterous atmosphere of a major-league sporting event. It was part ballgame, part catharsis, part memorial service, part wake. Markers throughout the park reminded of Fernández, including his number (16) painted onto the back of the pitcher's mound and every player in the Marlins' lineup wearing Fernández's name and number. Dee Gordon, the team's slap-hitting second baseman, came to the plate with his own tribute; a natural lefty, he took his first pitch from the right-hand batter's box, wearing a helmet with Fernández's name on it. After that pitch, Gordon took his usual place in the left-hand batter's box ... and drove a long home run to right field. You have never seen so many tears after a home run.
Both team president David Samson and manager Don Mattingly even acknowledged something that had gone unspoken until then, and allowed that it was on their minds. Fernández had originally been scheduled to pitch on Sunday, but the team decided to bring back injured starter Adam Conley for his first start after rehab on Sunday against the weaker Braves and reserve Fernández for Monday night against the stronger Mets. If Fernández had been scheduled to start Sunday, would he have taken that boat trip late Saturday night? Both Samson and Mattingly were frank about their own wonderings about that very fact.
Perhaps the most striking aspect of the two days has been a slight insight into the counseling being received by players and staff. One key statement, paraphrased here: if you're in shock, be in shock. If you're in denial, be in denial. If you need to cry, cry. Don't hide. Don't mask. Don't pretend to be something you're not.
That, from a pastor's point of view, is spectacular.
And yet it's very often the opposite message that is sent in time of grief.
And sometimes the church is the worst messenger in the time of grief.
Have you ever heard any of the following?
This happened for a reason.
You have to be strong.
All things work together for good ... (a poor translation of the Apostle Paul).
They needed another angel in heaven/singer in the heavenly choir (just horrible theology).
Buck up, sissy.
You have to be an example for your family/friends/church/teammates (in this case).
I'm guessing you have. And if you're like me you cringed. Or worse.
The Marlins' season ends Sunday. That might begin the hardest part of this grieving process. They no longer will have each other to lean on.
But so far, credit the team with both being up front with their grief and still doing their jobs. After all, they beat the Mets on Monday night, 7-3.
After the game, the Marlins gathered again at the mound, and left their caps there -- one last final tribute for the evening.
No comments:
Post a Comment