LOS ANGELES — Longtime Dodgers star Fernando Valenzuela had been sick for quite a while, but refused to talk about it, even to his closest friends and associates, wanting to preserve his privacy.
You marveled watching him pitch with his unique style, his eyes rolling to the heavens. You enjoyed his company long after retirement, laughing at his delightful sense of humor, feeling good just watching him walk into the room.
It was only this summer that things dramatically changed.
You saw him, you talked to him, you spent time with him, and that beautiful, engaging spirit was gone, replaced by a vacant look in his eyes.
I last saw him in Phoenix six weeks ago, when the Dodgers came into town to play the Arizona Diamondbacks. You looked at him and were concerned. You talked to him and were alarmed.
It might have been the first time Valenzuela didn’t address me by calling me “Matt.’’ He called me “Matt’’ for decades, insisting I resembled former All-Star infielder Matt Williams. He giggled every time he said it. I’m still not sure he ever knew my real name.
This time, he didn’t call me by any name. He acknowledged me only when I stopped by his table, but was awfully quiet. No jokes. No laughter. No stories. He just sat quietly and ate his dinner while everyone else talked.
You asked about his health to those closest to him, and they would just grimace, saying that although everyone knew he was sick, Valenzuela refused to talk about it.
He was diagnosed with cancer, liver cancer to be specific, but suffered in silence, not wanting anyone to feel sorry for him. He died Tuesday at the age of 63.
Valenzuela wanted to cherish and preserve that same unadulterated joy he created when he burst onto the scene as a rookie in 1981.
He arrived from Etchohuaquila, Mexico, became an overnight star in Los Angeles, and had the Latino community bursting with pride to be Dodgers fans, with the Anglo fans scrambling to learn Spanish — or at least a few popular phrases.
Valenzuela, the only pitcher in baseball history to win the Cy Young and Rookie of the Year awards in the same season in ‘81, was easily the greatest ballplayer to ever come out of Mexico.
Now, 43 years later, he still is the greatest.
He was such a legend that there was no need for a last name.
He simply was called “Fernando.’’
He remained revered in Mexico, considered royalty wherever he traveled.
He didn’t need a license plate while driving in Mexico. He didn’t even need a driver’s license. Everyone knew him.
Fernando.
Why complicate it with more?
Now, just three days before the World Series — with the Dodgers playing the New York Yankees starting Friday for the first time in the Fall Classic since Valenzuela’s rookie year — he is gone.
But “Fernandomania” will live forever.
“He is one of the most influential Dodgers ever and belongs on the Mount Rushmore of franchise heroes,” said Stan Kasten, Dodgers CEO and president, in a statement. “He galvanized the fan base with the Fernandomania season of 1981 and has remained close to our hearts ever since, not only as a player but also as a broadcaster. He has left us all too soon.’’
Valenzuela never did make it to the Baseball Hall of Fame. No matter. He is as legendary in Dodgers history as Sandy Koufax.
You walk into Dodger Stadium today, and there are more Valenzuela No. 34 jerseys than Koufax jerseys. They would show him on the videoboard working Dodgers games as part of their Spanish-language broadcast team, and raucous cheers would break out, with fans chanting his name over and over.
The man made the Dodgers who they are today, and his influence can be seen throughout Dodger Stadium with their diverse crowd, and large Latino population.
There was never any braggadocio with Valenzuela. He only talked about himself when asked. He didn’t need anyone to validate his greatness.
He was just Fernando, and Fernando never stopped being Fernando.
It has been 43 years since Valenzuela pitched the Dodgers to the ’81 World Series, and the Dodgers will carry his legacy throughout this series. They will dedicate this World Series to him. They’ll wear honorary patches on their uniforms. They’ll have an emotional moment of silence Friday. Memories will be passed on to future generations.
Fernando would be embarrassed by all of the attention, just as he never talked about his disease, refusing to be the center of attention.
He came to this country known only as Fernando, left this world being Fernando, and the memories of his beautiful innocence will be forever cherished in Los Angeles folklore.
Everyone who saw him pitch understands it was a privilege.
Well, it was a greater honor to know him.
What a legend.
What a beautiful human being.
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