Joker, Ace of Hearts Is Released

Very funny. Go ahead and pull our other leg now. Monday is April Fools’ Day, not today. The Dodgers released Fernando Valenzuela. Ha, ha. Sure they did. That is a hot one.

And they traded Eddie Murray for Eddie Murphy. And they replaced Vin Scully with Vic the Brick. And they dumped Tom Lasorda and gave his job to Pete Rose. And they burned their blue caps because Peter O’Malley prefers pink. And O’Malley is moving the team to Brooklyn. No, Bakersfield. No, Tokyo.

Drop Fernando. Yeah. Get real.

What???

Oh, come on. You made the whole thing up.

Chavez Ravine without Fernando Valenzuela is like a deck of cards with no ace of hearts.

Freddie is everything you ever wanted from a Dodger. He is El Dodger. He belongs on that mound of dirt, tugging on that cap, tucking in that gut, rolling those eyeballs, hurling those screwballs. What more artful Dodger has ever there been?

Chalk up another loss for Los Angeles. First, Bo Jackson. Then, Mickey Hatcher. Now, ‘nando. Is this spring cleaning or what? Like hey, don’t take away our favorite athletes or anything. Next thing you’ll be telling us, the Lakers will unload Michael Cooper and he’ll have to go off to Italy or someplace.

Wasn’t it only yesterday that Fernando’s face was on a box of corn flakes? Didn’t we see him on billboards from Echo Park to MacArthur Park? Wouldn’t we hear about him in Johnny Carson or Bob Hope monologues? Weren’t we just discussing last season’s no-hitter or this spring’s triumphant return to the land of his birth?

When was the last time any Mexican or Mexican-American in this country had been so immortalized, so respected, so adored? Who among his people--not Cuban, not Dominican, not Puerto Rican but Mexican--had ever represented an entire nation in American baseball more nobly?

Valenzuela was better known to the Spanish-speaking public than Venezuela. He was bigger than big. He was big in every way, from his paunches to his pitches. Those chubby cheeks gave him one of the most famous faces in the game, a one-of-a-kind mug, as readily identifiable as the angular jaw of Sandy Koufax or the handlebarred lip of Rollie Fingers.

Fernando wasn’t some superhuman physical specimen. He was overweight and wore eyeglasses. He wasn’t built like Bo Jackson. He was built like Keith Jackson. But he was as popular as Michael Jackson. And he meant as much to baseball as Reggie or Shoeless Joe. His body didn’t make him what he was. His heart did. His soul did.

We don’t mean to speak about him as though he died. But a little life did just ooze from the Dodgers.

It doesn’t take a doctor of philosophy to understand the reasons behind the rise and fall of Fernando Valenzuela. This is nothing more than a management-labor thing, same way it was back when Fernando had the leverage, back when he was in control. He is an employee, not a dependent. He supports himself.

There was a time when he toured this country like a carnival. They called it Fernandomania and mobbed him like a Beatle. Thousands more bought tickets whenever he performed. News conferences were organized for a man whose every response at the time began: “Bueno.” Little League lefties wondered how to throw the pitch that broke backward.

He never shot off his mouth in any language. He became a clubhouse comic, roping the calves of teammates with a little lasso. One day, when he wasn’t looking, somebody handcuffed Fernando in the dugout. He sat there inning after inning, twisting his wrists, trying to wriggle free. It was about the only jam he couldn’t get out of.

Valenzuela was valiant in victory and gallant in defeat. He contributed to his own causes by swinging a sweet bat, to the point that Lasorda often let him pinch-hit. If Roy Hobbs of “The Natural” could return to baseball as a hitter once his pitching days were over, why not Fernando? He can outhit half the Atlanta Braves as it is.

It seemed practically an umbilical cord that connected Valenzuela to the Dodgers. He seemed to have grown up with them. Corny old Lasorda couldn’t help roasting him with one-liners like: “I knew Fernando when his alarm clock was a rooster.” Lasorda loved this guy, loved conversing with him on the hilltop in Spanish, loved bumping bellies with him during we-win bearhugs. Letting him go like this, well, you can bet Tommy took it harder than Fernando did. A man got cut Thursday, but it was another man who bled.

So here comes the ultimate left-handed compliment.

Fernando Valenzuela, a Dodger forever.

Somebody handcuff him so he can’t get away.