Fernando Valenzuela died and all I wanted to do was cry.
I don’t understand it. I didn’t know him, not really, not personally. The man is a legend to anyone who knows baseball. As a 20-year-old immigrant from Mexico pitching for the Los Angeles Dodgers, he became the only Major League Baseball player to ever win the Rookie of the Year award and the Cy Young award in the same year. But that was in 1981; I wasn’t even born yet. As I stared at a friend’s Día de los Muertos ofrenda, featuring a photo of Fernando among passed loved ones, I wondered: why am I so sad?
Fernando Valenzuela died and all I wanted to do was call my dad. But it was a late Wednesday night in Los Angeles when I saw the news alert that the legendary Dodgers pitcher, who had spent the past 20 years as the team’s Spanish-language broadcaster, had died at 63 years old. Fernando wasn’t just a baseball player; he was a phenomenon, a Mexican kid who broke into the big leagues and made millions of people feel as if they finally belonged. With his screwball pitch and unforgettable stare to the heavens, he dominated the mound, capturing hearts in Los Angeles and in communities all over the United States. After the Dodgers’ World Series victory this week, they’re holding a parade on Friday – his birthday.
The morning after he died, I was stuck in LA traffic with my nephew Angel, trying not to cry as a live mariachi band played a tribute to Fernando on my favorite radio show. My dad called me then, also stuck in traffic on his way to work at 74 years old. We exchanged a two-word sentence in Spanish, “ni modo,” which loosely translated means “oh well” but spiritually is translated best by Frank Sinatra’s rendition of That’s Life: “Each time I find myself flat on my face / I pick myself up and get back in the race!”
Ni modo is the kind of phrase whose utterance simultaneously makes you want to break down crying and gives you the will to defy that feeling and carry on. So with those two words my father and I continued our days. He works as a foreman in a warehouse that distributes much of the produce you find in southern California’s grocery stores. I work, mostly, from home as a writer. While my dad was working a 10-hour shift to provide fresh fruit to the nation’s most populous region, I was punching up jokes on a screenplay about two soccer moms who used to be best friends but now are trying to destroy each other over a meaningless trophy. Suffice to say, neither of us had much time to cry because we were both doing equally impactful, essential jobs.
My dad, Manuel Galindo, grew up in a little-known Mexican town obsessed with baseball. Culiacán, Sinaloa, known now for its narco culture, is still in love with the sport, especially the city’s team, Los Tomateros. Like everyone in Culiacán, my dad was a Tomateros fan as a kid. He also admired the United States, listening to Jimi Hendrix, watching The Godfather and rooting for the Yankees.
When he was a student, my father was shot in the throat by narcos who didn’t appreciate his smart-alec antics. The bullet missed any vital organs, and he miraculously recovered. After graduating, he migrated to Los Angeles in 1979, working odd jobs for little pay. He was still a Yankees fan until Fernando Valenzuela’s 1981 season. My dad caught Fernandomania. He and his older brother even went to a playoff game that season. After that, his loyalty was torn between the Yankees and the Dodgers.
When we were kids, our dad would take us to see the Dodgers regularly. We got to see Fernando play and my father would try his best to explain to us why he was so important. He would say things like “Fernando Valenzuela is the best at his job, I’m the best at my job, you could be the best too.” Or “No matter what you do in life, show them you’re the best.” I didn’t know what being “the best” meant until a few days ago.
For my dad’s 75th birthday this week, my brother, my nephew and I took him to his first-ever World Series game. The Dodgers were hosting the Yankees, a matchup for the ages with Japanese phenom Shohei Ohtani facing Yankee slugger Aaron Judge. My dad’s two teams were going head-to-head for the first time since 1981, when Valenzuela pitched a complete game to beat the Yankees and clinch the World Series. As we slogged through Dodger Stadium’s crowded entrance, my brother and nephew wondered who he was rooting for.
The night started with a tribute to Valenzuela, featuring his family, former teammates and a live mariachi band. The game began as a close pitching duel that would have made Fernando proud. Late in the game, the bats finally came alive: the Dodgers scored, then the Yankees took the lead. The Dodgers tied it in the eighth, sending it to extra innings. The Yankees took the lead in the 10th, and I tried not to look at my dad, it was so tense. Then it happened. With two outs and three men on base, Freddie Freeman, the son of a Canadian immigrant, hit a grand slam to win it for the Dodgers. The whole place erupted in cheers. My father started high-fiving and hugging strangers. I knew my dad could never root against Fernando, even against the Yankees, and I started to cry.
It took me a minute, but I finally figured out why Fernando Valenzuela meant so much to me and my family. My father went from being an undocumented immigrant working under the table to becoming a US citizen with a six-figure income and a home of his own. Fernando Valenzuela was an example of an idea my father understood the moment he arrived in America: “Just give me a chance, and I promise I can be great too.” Fernando was the epitome of that idea. His death felt like the end of that, but now I see it’s also giving me the strength to carry it forward.
