Fernando Valenzuela’s Magical Life and Tragic Death Reminds Us that Immigration Is Beautiful


In a revival of what was once the greatest rivalry in team sports, the New York Yankees will play the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 2024 World Series for the first time in 43 years. A rivalry that used to be a near annual occurrence in the days of Eisenhower and then revived itself in the 1970s is making its return to the Bronx and Chavez Ravine. As the recently departed James Earl Jones said in Field of Dreams, a hokey baseball flick that Jones elevated, “This field, this game—it’s a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.” (If this sounds Trumpian, and in another actor’s mouth it might, Jones makes about the peace and joy of youth, not a longing look at more reactionary times.)

Yet, there is no great drama without tragedy, even if its timing is something a screenwriter would reject. The symbol of that magical Dodgers 1981 season, which ended with the Dodgers smiting the hated Yankees, was a round-bodied rookie pitcher from the small town of Etchohuaquila, Mexico, named Fernando Valenzuela. Last night, the great Fernando died.

Young fans simply cannot comprehend what Fernandomania was like in 1981 when, as a 20-year-old, the unknown left-hander burst onto the scene. He was a true original, with a pitching windup that inspired poets. He twisted his thick body and stared up to heavens in a manner that was almost penitent, before releasing the ball. As Susan Sarandon’s character Annie Savoy said in the 1988 baseball flick Bull Durham, Fernando was breathing through his eyelids when he looked at the sky.

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