El Toro.
That was the nickname fans bestowed upon Dodgers pitcher Fernando Valenzuela early in his career. Bulls are a symbol of virility and manhood in Hispanic culture, and the Bull — thick-built, hard-charging, yet graceful in his attack — manifested that fearsome animal through most of his career with the Blue Crew.
Many writers — including myself — have chronicled the southpaw’s importance to Latinos in Southern California and beyond. How, for one magnificent season in 1981, a Mexican immigrant electrified a city that had long treated its Mexican residents as little better than the help, winning the Cy Young and Rookie of the Year while propelling the team to its first World Series win in 16 years.
How he showed Major League Baseball that Latinos could be superstars instead of just fiery-tempered underachievers. How he inspired Latinos to root for a franchise whose original sin was building a ballpark on the site of barrios that the city had demolished in the name of progress.
That’s what the obits will rightfully lead with. But none of that was on my mind Tuesday night, when news of his death at age 63 flashed on my phone.
Instead, I thought about El Toro.
Our love for bulls is conditional. They are revered because they fight to an inevitable defeat. Bulls get flipped or lassoed or gored — sacrificed for public spectacle, then discarded when they can’t compete anymore. If they’re lucky, their heads get stuffed and mounted.
Sadly, that was the arc of Valenzuela’s career.
Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda played him until his once-powerful left arm hung like a torn rubber band — yet another overworked, underappreciated Mexican in Los Angeles. The team thanked El Toro for his sacrifice by releasing him before the start of the 1991 season. For the last seven years of his big league run, the hero was reduced to a journeyman who bounced around five teams, a sideshow signed mostly to pack the stands with still-adoring fans who happily shouted out his nickname — ¡Toro!
The Dodgers brought Valenzuela back in 2003 as a color commentator for its Spanish language broadcasts but never leaned on his baseball knowledge to coach the next generation of players. They brandished him like a trophy to prove how much they loved their Latino fan base, a reminder of what once was, even as many wondered what could have been.
His career numbers — 173 wins, 153 losses, a 3.54 earned run average and a wins above replacement (WAR) value of 37.4 — are good but not exactly Hall of Fame-worthy. The Dodgers didn’t even bother to retire his jersey number, 34, until last year.
Nevertheless, many Dodgers fans have argued that Valenzuela deserves a spot in the Hall because of his cultural impact.
I wasn’t one of them.
I thought that type of reasoning was too transactional, too focused on how much money Major League Baseball makes off Latino players and fans. Besides, the Hall of Fame is supposed to represent the best of the best, not players who excelled for a few seasons.
But as I witness the outpouring of love and grief since Valenzuela left us for the Great Ballpark in the Sky, I’ve changed my mind.
In a sport now reduced to algorithms and pitching clocks, Valenzuela represents more than a team or a career. He was the magic of baseball at its best.
Baseball, more than any other sport, sees players emerge every generation or so who fundamentally change not just the game, but the imagination. They personify intangibles that sabermetrics can never quantify and that fans yearn to encounter: Hope. Passion. Joy. Brilliance.
Babe Ruth was one such player. Jackie Robinson, of course. Ichiro Suzuki. Shohei Ohtani.
So was Fernando Valenzuela.
What comes to mind for people — even those who weren’t alive when Valenzuela retired for good in 1997 — isn’t the San Diego Padre or St. Louis Cardinal. They don’t even really think of the Dodger. They think about Fernandomania. Few can tell you a particular play he was involved in, or a game other than his 1990 no-hitter. They think of the mythic Valenzuela of 1981, the shy, portly pitcher with the unorthodox delivery who conquered all by giving his all.
The what-could’ve-been shrinks in the shadow of what was: an encounter with the divine. No matter how fleeting the moment, it changes everyone lucky enough to witness him, whether in real life or on TV or in online clips years later or even just a picture of him on the mound. His magical year made our lives better, and challenges us to be better.
He may be gone, but his spirit never will be.
I never met him, and I never needed to. They always say to never meet your heroes, after all. Besides, El Toro will forever live in my mind, his eyes looking up to the heavens as he mowed down opponents like a bull in the streets of Pamplona.
May Fernando Valenzuela join baseball’s other immortals in Cooperstown.
