His pitches were comets from distant and never imagined galaxies. They were rockets, they were bombs, they were terrifying, curving flourishes that made you think you were watching the astonishing dazzle of an alien technology. It was a new kind of physics, one that allowed him to perform stunning feats that lifted us from our lousy, mortal shells,.

He was a blazing fire, a goddamned Demi-God.

Fernandez died in a boating accident on Sunday at the age of 24.

( This is a photograph of Dee Gordon, Jose Fernandez’s teammate. Gordon is known for his speed, not his power, and he is so thin and little that he truly looks like a child out there amongst the gigantic professional athletes. On the first game back after his friend’s death, in his first at bat, he hit a home run, and as he circled the bases he wept like a boy. As he said later in an interview, “I ain’t never hit a ball that far, even in batting practice. I told the boys, ‘If you all don’t believe in God, you better start.’ For that to happen today, we had some help.”)

Three times, Jose attempted to defect from Cuba to the US unsuccessfully, and after each failed attempt he was put in prison where, still a boy, he shared space with hard and dangerous men. In 2007, at the age of 15, he made the crossing successfully, but not before somebody on his boat was washed overboard. Fernandez, operating on the pure instinct of a boy that age, when right and wrong seem clear, and your body, your entire life, is still radiant and unlimited, dove into the night waters to save the person. He had no idea who had been swept into the ocean, and with each stroke he took, an eight-foot wave grabbed him, lifting him up into the shifting darkness above, before splashing down and submerging him again. The person, somewhere before him, bobbing in and out of sight, was his mother. He got to her, told her to hold tight to his left shoulder, asked her not to push down, and slowly swam her back to the boat.

Imagine that.

Imagine doing something so great with your life.

His baseball career was short and beautiful and joyous. It was something to behold, each start an event I got excited for, anticipating it the same way some other people might anticipate a new Game of Thrones episode or a Bruce Springsteen concert.

He was, in a word, awesome, and his death was a tragedy for the communities he lived amongst, and even beyond, even to a 50 year-old white guy living in Toronto who found himself trying to explain to his wife why he’s crying about the death of some pitcher on his fantasy baseball team.

The boat Fernandez was on the night of his death was traveling around 55-60 mph. He was with two of his friends, both around his age, and it was late. It would have been dark, black even– nothing but the feel of water beneath and sky above. Everything beautiful, the wind and spray and stars in his face, infinity spreading out in all directions…And Jose Fernandez, soon to be a father, moving into the future with such velocity, confidence and hard earned momentum… And then the boat hit a rock jetty and all three of the men died on impact.

Just like that.

They would not have known what had happened.

Our lives are so brief.

We’re all speeding through the dark, the beautiful and the damned, alike, each one of us luckier and more vulnerable than we could ever imagine.

*********************************

Prince:

“ It was in 2004 and I was on a flight from London to Dubai. While flipping through the stations on my headset I started to listen to the Oldies station because they were playing a little known Beach Boys song that I just adore called “I Can Hear Music.” I just sort of fell into the station the way that you do, and then as if plucked from my nightmares, they played “Purple Rain.” I will never forget the cheesy announcer saying, “He may be a gracefully aging king now, but he’ll always be a Prince to us.” I wanted the plane to crash.”

Bryan Adams:

“I was at the fucking Home Hardware buying a couple of those big 5 gallon water pumps for my studio, okay?”

Michael Stipe of REM:

“I was paying for gas in Michigan. Funny, though, it didn’t make me feel old or irrelevant, it just made me feel beyond time. How long did it take for that to happen? 20 years? That’s really not very much time, but that’s all it took for us to become a part of musical history, to become the music that your parents loved. “

Sarah McLachlan:

“Oh Christ, I wish you hadn’t asked me that! I was in a Vancouver wine bar with a friend and the place was playing some generic radio station, and I don’t know why, but I was listening to the DJ just as she announced, “And here’s an oldie but a goodie by our own Sarah McLachlan—a classy woman.” And then my song “I Will Remember You “ came on and all I could think about was some woman in a retirement home singing along, broken and out of key, while thinking of her dead husband. Oh, it was just awful, I mean, it shouldn’t have been, but it was, it really, really was. And my friend Liz, who was sitting across from me, could see the obvious look of mortification on my face, and she just said, “Classy, classy woman, that Sarah McLachlan. “

Randy Travis:

“The God honest truth is I’m not positive that it was an Oldie’s station, but I was damn sure at the time that it was. I was in jail, that first night after my infamous DUI, and as I was getting processed one of the clerks was playing her radio and my song “Forever and Ever, Amen,” came on. I looked up, startled and ashamed, thinking about the words and what was actually happening to me, and I must have looked a fright because she turned it off immediately.”

The guy at the cash seemed kind of impressed, “ In jail, eh?”

This pleased the girl. She had a secret, and this secret gave her a kind of social power.

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad, “ and then she paused for dramatic effect,” first degree murder,” she added, her eyes now shining. She sounded so very proud. And then she and her friend, all tattoos and cleavage and youth, splashed out on the street, thrilled with their gangster lives and this small but bright moment of being somehow more than was expected.

On our way home the dog and I passed the renascent center at the end of the street. As usual there were about a half dozen men– all wearing their cleanest, most hated church clothes– smoking and looking deprived on the steps of the place. A young and beautiful woman then pulled her expensive car into the driveway of the center. She did this quickly, with a kind of indifference that suggested a lack of consideration, maybe even contempt, for the world around her. She waved her hands about, as if trying to dispel the smell of cheap cologne that hung over these men like a cloud of sorrow. Wearing yoga pants and designer sunglasses she cut wordlessly through them, in the process becoming the physical manifestation of the world beyond their grasp, and they went silent for this parting, their minds racing.