Following Michael Brown’s death in Ferguson, Missouri, St. Louis Rams players were motivated to be heard. As they were announced before kickoff one game, some came out of the tunnel with their hands raised in the “Hands up, don’t shoot!” gesture. Athletes should be able to use their platform like this. They were making a real point about an event and a tragic outcome.
By contrast, riots following the murder of George Floyd in June 2020 were not a form of protected political speech. It isn’t “protest” when you’re throwing a cinder block through the window of a Nike store and walking out with a pair of Air Jordans. Politics doesn’t demand that any of us rob a Cheesecake Factory or burn houses of worship. This wasn’t the politics of reformers; it was the thuggery of a permanent criminal element. It wasn’t appreciated by George Floyd’s brother, either.
I believe God worked through Philonise Floyd. I told him that during a hearing of the House Judiciary Committee. He had rejected calls to defund the police, condemned destructive riots, and shared deep, sincere empathy with the victims, citing the words of Martin Luther King. We had a productive discussion about policing reform during the formal and informal hearing moments. Perhaps it helped that his attorney was none other than Ben Crump.
I’m listening, Ben.
The late José Fernández will always be my favorite major league pitcher. A fire fastball with movement. A slider that left hitters with gumby knees. A changeup that dove down and in on righties and fell off the table for lefties. He could hit, too. The Marlins, without payroll for a competitive starting lineup much less quality reserves, would even use him to pinch-hit—almost unheard of for an ace pitcher. Tragically, he died in a boating accident that killed three people, possibly a result of his cocaine use. I’ll remember him for how he lived.
Fernández was jailed as a teenager for trying to escape Communist Cuba. He finally got out, went to high school in Florida, and got drafted by the Marlins, my favorite team. The vitality and joy he brought to baseball cannot be adequately addressed in this book. He was electric in every way. His pitching performances sold out stadiums even when the team around him was otherwise hard to watch.
I fell in love with Jose Fernández when I saw a documentary chronicling his U.S. citizenship ceremony. He said that being an all-star MLB pitcher wasn’t his proudest achievement—being an American was. I often saw the experience of José Fernández through the lens of my own son.
Well, I say son. It’s complicated.
Nestor arrived in Tallahassee from Cuba when he was twelve. He didn’t speak a word of English. He had waited eight years to come to America legally. Finally, the approval for him and his mother had been granted, but she didn’t make the flight. She would die ten days later in Cuba. Her trip to the consulate to pick up the visas would be her last heroic foray from her deathbed following a long, terminal battle with breast cancer. She had gotten him on the plane, to a new life in America.
I had been dating Nestor’s sister May for six months. We fell in love quickly. She and I even conspired to smuggle some life-extending drugs onto the Communist island where people die who shouldn’t. I’d thank the Cuban-born doctor who helped us by name, but I’m not certain the Board of Medicine has a statute of limitations for conspiracy to smuggle drugs into Cuba. Most of the drugs are heading the other direction.
May was the successful events director at a capitol city restaurant. I ended up holding lots of events there. My dear friend and fellow State Representative Brad Drake told me, “She must be one of the ten best-looking women in Florida—and this is one good-looking state.”
My Spanish was rusty—it would get better—but sports is an international language. When I first met Nestor I brought two gloves and a baseball. He brought an outsized hug. After playing in the park, he asked May and me, “Somos una familia?” We were family, I assured him with tears welling in my eyes. That was seven years ago.
May and I didn’t work out for reasons more my doing than hers. She has continued her career and we remain close friends. Nestor lives with me and has just graduated high school. Though we share no blood, and no legal paperwork defines our family relationship, he is my son in every sense of the word. I could not imagine loving him more. He will enroll in university to pursue a nursing degree in the fall. His achievements are my own proudest moments on earth.
During a heated debate on police reform in the House Judiciary Committee, Rep. Cedric Richmond essentially argued that white legislators should stop offering amendments and vote “no” if we so chose because this was about people of color—not us. He talked about his experience with his black son as something we could never understand.
I asked how he could be so sure none of us had raised nonwhite children. He replied that if I had a nonwhite son he was fighting for my family harder than I was. Understandably, this set me off. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I loudly exclaimed.
This exchange led to the world knowing about Nestor. Until then, we had chosen to spare him from the hate of politics. Now a nineteen-year-old rising university freshman, he is publicly as much a part of my life as he has been privately for years. Seeing how well he has taken to his newfound notoriety reinforces my belief that he will be ready for whatever life, or even university, might throw his way.
I saw the news that José Fernández died on ESPN from a D.C. hotel room. Nestor and I were texting. I wasn’t a congressman yet but soon would be after my noncompetitive general
