How Félix Hernández shaped a generation

Reflections on the complex legacy of the King on the eve of his Mariners Hall of Fame induction

A few weeks ago, two of my good friends got married. During dinner there were lovely toasts from siblings, parents, etc., but far and away the standout (sorry Michael) was the mother of the groom’s speech. In it, she spoke about how everyone in attendance that night had played a role in shaping the newlywed couple, and highlighted a few whose presence had particularly impacted the groom.

We’re each a product of the unique alchemy of the people and spaces we surround ourselves with - family, friends, towns, cities - but also the entertainment we consume, and I think every Mariners fan would agree that being a fan of this team has impacted them in one way or another.

For as challenging as the franchise’s history has been, we’ve been fortunate to root for a number of truly transcendent talents over the years whose numbers now hang in a place of pride out in right centerfield. Ken Griffey Jr., whose name alone says it all; Edgar Martinez, with his loyalty and quiet excellence; Ichiro, who powered a passion for Mariners baseball that spanned the globe. Each of them had a hand in raising us, silly as it sounds. They kept us company on summer evenings and too-chilly April afternoons, teaching us bits of math, history, geography, language. Félix Hernández did all that too, but his legacy is more complex, the lessons more layered.

From the beginning, Félix chose us. And for this upper left pocket of the country, with the small chips on our shoulders and “east coast bias” quips at the ready, there is no higher compliment; no better way to engender instant goodwill.

A teenage phenom in Venezuela, Félix fielded many offers - some with more money - but he went with the Mariners because “The money was good, and Seattle treated me best.” He rocketed through the minors, garnering widespread attention and all sorts of Hall of Famer comps, but his manager in 2004, San Antonio Missions skipper Dave Brundage, put it best.

"He's going to be Félix Hernández, and he's going to be as good as he wants to be."

Just a year later, he made his major league debut at age 19 - the youngest player to to do so in 20+ years - and began scrawling his name in the record books. The Mariners teams of that era are best left forgotten, but every five days with the King on the mound there was the potential for greatness. He became an All-Star, a Cy Young Award winner, and in August of 2012 he was perfect.

That off-season, he had two years left on his contract and speculation about his future in Seattle reached a fever pitch. The Mariners had not been particularly good in those years and had, in fact, demonstrated an impressively apathetic approach to offensive production during his starts. Surely he would leave. It would hurt, but who could blame him.

Instead, Félix signed a seven-year contract extension with the Mariners, making him the highest-paid pitcher in history at the time. More than 100 employees greeted him when he exited the elevator that February afternoon, en route to the press conference, draped in the distinctive golden yellow of the King’s Court, filling the hallways with cheers. The King broke down at the reception - not the first time his emotions would overflow that day. Sometimes the people identified as fierce competitors are one dimensional in their ferocity, fearsome in their triumph but stoic through their struggles. Not so with the King, who reminded us time and again that there is, in fact, so much crying in baseball.

Moving is hard, the physical act of packing up and saying goodbye an arduous agony. But when you leave you’re taking action, looking towards something new and the openness begets possibility, and that makes it easier. Staying is hard. It’s a tacit acceptance to sit and live with your past, a superhuman hope in yourself that you can create your own change and opportunity.

More than the money, or trust in the front office’s claims to succeed, I think it was that belief in himself - a Félix Hernández hallmark if ever there was one - that kept him in Seattle

“This is it, man,” he told reporters at the press conference. “This is my place.”

We dreamt of years of excellence, of our ace in October, the mental image of the King on the mound for Game 1 of the World Series so frequently thought of that it almost could have been real. Instead, we had other lessons to learn from the King.

He taught us that “home” is expansive, but however and wherever you find it, you protect that house.

He taught us to find the silver linings, even if they only come once every five days.

He taught us how to cope with the unique heartbreak of leaving it all on the field, but falling short thanks to powers outside your control.

He showed us the double-edged sword of loyalty. You can choose to be loyal, but there is always a cost.

He showed us that sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands.

He reminded us that talent cannot live alone, but hard work won’t always be rewarded.

He showed us the power and the joy of coming together.

In the waning years of his career, my own dreams of a World Series waned too, replaced by an increasingly-desperate plea for an outcome well beyond my control. “Just one playoff game for Félix,” I remember hoping for in 2016. “He doesn’t even need to play,” I thought in 2018. “Just let him be on the team when they end the drought.” But baseball doesn’t care about your hopes, is immune to your bargaining, and woven through the frantic jubilation of last year’s playoff run was a tender melancholy that Félix wasn’t there in that clubhouse.

I greet this Félix Weekend with that same bittersweet edge, struggling still to countenance that it all ended as it did; how close he came, how avoidable the end was. But as time has passed, gratitude has flown more easily, softening the wounds of that heartbreak, letting it scar over smoothly. Through his flaws and his triumphs, his loyalty and stubbornness, the King shaped a generation.

“Félix is ours and you can’t have him.”