Fernando Valenzuela's magical life and tragic death remind us that immigration is beautiful

Three days before the Los Angeles Dodgers face the New York Yankees in the World Series, the star of the last Dodgers team to beat the Yankees in the Series, Fernando Valenzuela, has died at the age of 63.

In a revival of what was once the greatest rivalry in team sports, the New York Yankees will face the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 2024 World Series for the first time in 43 years. A rivalry that occurred almost every year during Eisenhower's time and was revived in the 1970s is returning to the Bronx and Chavez Ravine. As the late James Earl Jones said Field of dreamsa cheesy baseball movie that Jones emphasized: “This field, this game – it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of everything that was once good and that it could be that way again.” (If that sounds Trumpian, and from another actor's perspective it might be, then Jones is about the peace and joy of youth rather than a wistful look at more reactionary times.)

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

Young fans simply cannot understand what Fernandomania was like in 1981, when the unknown left-hander burst onto the scene as a 20-year-old. He was a true original, with a pitching windup that inspired poets. He turned his thick body and stared almost ruefully at the sky before releasing the ball. As Susan Sarandon's character Annie Savoy said in the 1988 baseball movie Bull DurhamFernando breathed through his eyelids as he looked up at the sky.

For this suddenly famous son of Mexico, most communication was in Spanish. While Valenzuela was a superstar in the United States, he became an icon in the baseball-loving Mexican and Mexican-American communities of Southern California. Valenzuela captured everyone's imagination because his charisma, unique style and the shock of his novelty made for the best rookie season in all of sports. He began his career with five shutouts and eight consecutive complete games. His ERA over that stretch was an incredible 0.50. Valenzuela even won the Silver Slugger award as the National League's best hitter in 1981. He was the rookie of the year, the Cy Young winner, and of course he ended the season with a win against the hated Yankees in the World Series.

It's completely impossible for young fans to understand the energy of Fernandomania because of baseball's central role in the culture. In 1981, baseball was at the forefront, closely followed by football, movies and even music (which had grown stale in those 1981 days before Michael Jackson, Madonna, Bruce and Prince took over the world). Now baseball is just another sport that has more regional rather than national impact. Today's biggest star is another Dodger who speaks English as a second language: Shohei Ohtani. Ohtani is perhaps the most talented player of all time. But Shohei is merely the king of the baseball world. Valenzuela was a rock star. Valenzuela was Elvis.

Valenzuela's rise was amplified in a city like Los Angeles, where she was always looking for the next big thing. But he meant so much more than a typical Star Factory product. Valenzuela made the Mexican and Mexican-American communities visible and proud. He spoke to the public in Spanish with the help of a translator, showing that this was not a barrier to acceptance in the United States.

Valenzuela played for 17 years, making the All-Star team in his first six seasons, until his assured Hall of Fame career was cut short by a shoulder injury. But while he remained solid for the rest of his time on the mound, he was never able to match the dominance of that first legendary season. Valenzuela may not be in the Hall of Fame, but he remained an icon, retaining the luster of his youth and always ready to greet an adoring fan. He has remained in the public eye over the past decade as one of the Dodgers' Spanish-speaking voices. Valenzuela's broadcast partner, Hall of Fame announcer Jaime Jarrin, said in 2023: “His charisma was incredible. … from the beginning he was just incredible. And people fell in love with him.”

1981 was special for the young Valenzuela for another reason. At that time he married a teacher from Mexico named Linda. They have been together ever since and Valenzuela is survived by Linda, his two daughters and seven grandchildren. But as we will see on opening night of the World Series, when Valenzuela will undoubtedly be remembered, he also leaves behind a community, a city and a set of indelible memories. A Spanish-speaking 20-year-old Mexican from a city that's hard to find on a map was once the king of Southern California. He gave hope and visibility to this marginalized population. He will never be forgotten.

There is a special level of pathos when thinking about Valenzuela in 2024. This election season, immigrants, particularly those from Mexico, are being vilified, demonized and dehumanized by Donald Trump. The Democrats' response was not to directly attack this racism, but rather to claim that they had a better plan to stop immigration. In such a toxic climate, it is an act of resistance to remember and celebrate a person whose very existence belies this endless defamation.

This is a land that Valenzuela worshiped 43 years ago. Had he emerged in 2024, the right-wing hordes on social media would likely be calling for his deportation to “make baseball great again.” Valenzuela would also be upset because of his lack of English skills. If this seems exaggerated, remember Stephen A. Smith, the voice of ESPN, who criticized Shohei Ohtani for using an interpreter. (Smith apologized after the ensuing uproar.) It's a fact of life at a time when Republicans talk casually about military action against Mexico, shooting people crossing the border and opening detention camps to house millions of undocumented people – and I do guarantee it, documented – immigrants. The plan calls for the “Red Police” to be granted full immunity, move into “sanctuary cities,” rip people from their homes and put them in camps. Almost half of the country agrees.

Fernando Valenzuela recalls that millions of people once did not shy away from the presence of a Mexican baseball player. Because of his skin color and his country of origin, he was not viewed as an enemy. Instead, he was generally treated like the shining shooting star that he was. Valenzuela was important in 1981. His memory will continue to be important to those who want to stand up against bigotry and oppression.

Fernandomania will never die because he will be enshrined in the hearts of those who are willing to imagine a different kind of society than the dystopian, gray world of hate that so many seem to realize. Valenzuela's bright colors streaked across the sky. The fanatics will never notice this kind of beauty because it's difficult to see the sky when you live in the sewers. Rest in peace, Fernando Valenzuela, and long live Fernandomania.