Cardinals' Aledmys Diaz hits emotional grand slam, honors Jose Fernandez

ST. LOUIS — St. Louis Cardinals shortstop Aledmys Diaz, grieving with his best friend’s family Monday in Miami, didn’t feel like getting back on that plane to St. Louis.

He was saying goodbye to Miami Marlins pitcher Jose Fernandez, who was killed Sunday in a boating accident. It was like his own brother was dead. They grew up together, and were inseparable, living just three houses apart on Eight Street in Santa Clara, Cuba.

Now, after visiting Fernandez’s mother and grandmother, and leaving the house for the final time, it felt as if he was leaving part of his soul behind.

Aledmys Diaz hit his first grand slam after returning from Jose Fernandez's memorial service

Still, he knew he had a job to do. He had another family counting on him. The Cardinals are in the National League wild-card race. He needed to be with his teammates.

Fernandez wouldn’t want it any other way.

Diaz arrived to Busch Stadium on Tuesday, brought along Fernandez’s jersey, hung the Fernandez jersey that teammate Yadier Molina provided, and put on wristbands wearing Fernandez’s number, 16.

“When he got that jersey, and put it in on the bench,’’ said Cardinals catcher Bryan Pena, who also defected from Cuba, “I had feeling that something special was going to happen. I told him, 'Dude, you’re going to hit a homer today.' "

Diaz, who made the All-Star team with Fernandez in July, walked out to shortstop in the first inning, and played what he called the most emotional game of his life.

He grounded out in his first at-bat, and Pena reminded him that he still had at least three at-bats to hit a homer. He stepped to the plate in the fourth inning. The Cardinals were trailing, 2-1 in the game. The bases loaded, he swung on a 2-1 fastball, sending the ball soaring 408 feet away into the left-center-field seats.

Grand slam.

The first of Diaz’s career.

“He just had a purpose,’’ Cardinals manager Mike Matheny said after their 12-5 victory over the Cincinnati Reds, “he was doing something with a purpose. His mind was somewhere else, but in a good place.’’

He rounded the bases, stepped on home plate, and raised the index finger of his two hands up in the sky, saluting Fernandez. He collapsed into the arms of Molina. And then Matheny. He slowly made his way to the dugout, getting warm embraces from his teammates.

“Watching him cross the plate,’’ Matheny said, “and watching his reaction as he went through the guys, really hit me how much it meant to him with some of the load he’s carrying now.

“There’s a large group of guys that continue to spend time with him during the game, and celebrating with him now, but also in mourning, because the game show goes on. But so does life. It’s a tough thing for a player, anybody, to go through.’’

The crowd called for a curtain call. Diaz, who had already walked down the tunnel stairs to wipe the tears from his face, walked back up, raised his helmet high above his head to the heavens.

Yes, somebody was looking out for him this night.

“It was emotional,’’ Diaz said. “It means a lot to me, and for his family. They’ve been though a lot of things the last couple of days, and hopefully this helps a little bit. Makes them feel a little bit better.

“He can’t be in a stadium anymore, so it’s tough.’’

Diaz’s eyes reddened, his ducts filled with tears, pausing to reflect on the greatest moment of his brief career.

“I’m not going to try to quote Dee Gordon,’’ Pena said, “but if you don’t believe in God, you better start believing. Because what happened today was something special.’’

It was Sunday morning at 9:30 CT in Chicago when he was awoken by the constant buzzing of his cell phone. So many people were texting him, he was confused. He called his mother.

She delivered the news that Fernandez was killed in an early morning boat accident. Diaz couldn’t talk. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. It couldn’t be true.

Diaz told Matheny he was too emotionally distraught to play Sunday. He needed time. He needed to see Fernadez's family. He flew to Miami on Monday, and spent the day with Fernandez’s mother and grandmother at their Miami home.

He tried to console the Fernandez family, but he realized it was useless. Fernandez’s grandmother kept telling him over and over that her 24-year-old grandson never should have died before her. Family and friends came in and out of the house, bringing flowers and food, but this will be a grieving process that will last for a long, long time.

The anguish and pain tortured his soul, knowing that when he left Miami that day, he’ll never again quite be the same.

“You can’t describe that,’’ Diaz said. “It was the least I could do, go share that moment with his family.

“But even now, I can’t believe it. It’s tough. I pray for his family. It’s devastating. We are so close. They look at me like a son. This is so tough for everybody.’’

Still, Diaz has a job to do. He has a game to play. And Tuesday night, he was going to play it as if it were the last game he ever played.

“I think the best way to honor him,’’ Diaz said, “is to play this game 100%. I would think that’s what he’d want. Every time I put on a uniform, just like I did today, I will think of him. I want to go out there the way he played baseball every day, and put my uniform on, I want to remind myself that this is a game.

“Sometimes, we forget this is a game. You have to have fun out there. That’s what he did. That’s the legacy he leaves us. He loved this game. He liked to compete. He would want us to enjoy the game like he did.

“Every time I get a chance to put on this uniform, I’m going to give everything I have.’’

Diaz watched highlights of the Marlins’ emotional first game Monday without Fernandez, the pregame tribute, Gordon’s leadoff home run, and the prayers on the mound afterward.

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He couldn’t bear to watch long, though, without his eyes filling with tears.

“It was great, the way that organization loved him,’’ Diaz said. “I think everybody loved him. The way he played the game, the way he behaved.

“But I couldn’t see the game. I didn’t want to do it. It’s pretty tough for me, and everybody that knew him.’’

Yet, no one in Major League Baseball knew Fernandez better than Diaz. It was as if they were brothers, not just friends. They didn’t have to call one another. They didn’t need to constantly text. There was that connection, knowing they were there for one other.

“He’s the perfect example for every Cuban-American,’’ Diaz said, “to live the American dream. He was very grateful to this country. Every Cuban that came here is grateful to this great country. We can live in freedom. We can play this game.’’

Fernandez defected from Cuba four years before Diaz, in 2008, and when he reached the big leagues, he thanked Diaz’s dad, Rigoberto Diaz. It was Rigoberto and his brother, Nelson Diaz, who taught Fernandez and the neighborhood boys the game of baseball in Cuba. They brought equipment to the boys, taking them on a two-mile hike to the nearest ballfield, and talking about their dreams one day of reaching the major leagues.

“He opened a lot of doors for us,’’ Diaz said. “He came up, and I think teams started looking at Cuban guys different. I give him thanks for that. I hope in the future, the Cubans that come to the United States look at him as an example.

“When you grow up in Cuba, you have nothing, and he was the American dream. He made it. Every time I put on a uniform, I will think of him.

“That’s the legacy he leaves.’’

Fernandez may be gone, but he’s changed Diaz’s life forever, and he’ll never be the same.

"I look at life different right now,’’ Diaz said. “Sometime, we just take things for granted. You never know when the last opportunity you’ll have to come here and play. So every time I put on a uniform, I’m going to enjoy, and play hard.’’

That will be the legacy, Fernandez leaves, too.

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GALLERY: MARLINS HONOR, REMEMBER FERNANDEZ