Word passed around on Sunday that Jose Lima died of a massive heart attack. He was not yet 38 years old. They had a moment of silence for him at the stadium in Kansas City, before the Royals-Rockies game, though I’m not sure that in this case that was quite right. It probably should have been a moment of music — Lima never cared for silence. They could struck up a mambo band — maybe played one of his most popular lyrics as relayed by Sports Illustrated’s Kostya Kennedy: “Parate a batear que te voy a alimar.”

Step up to the plate. I’m going to strike you out.

And I thought about that image of Jose Lima, smoking his cigar, smiling happily, telling stories, all in the aftermath of his own loss and the Royals’ 15th straight loss. Over time, most of the people around baseball came to understand that Jose Lima was just having fun. That’s all. Baseball was fun. Life was fun. As he would say to friends and strangers and kids who wanted autographs: “What time is it?” The correct answer was “Lima Time.”

Even if you lost, it was still Lima Time.

“Man, if I see a guy with his head down, I know I’ve got him,” he told me that day in the clubhouse. “We can’t put our heads down. We can hurt, man. But we’ve got to hurt on the inside.”

In my memory, then, he took one more puff of his cigar and blew out the smoke and smiled. In show biz, they say, “The show must go on.” In the clubhouse, Lima said: “That’s what baseball is, man. You hurt on the inside. On the outside, we’ve got to win some games.”

– Joe Posnanski, JoePosnanski.com.

I was privately, snarkily wondering if Jose Lima’s obituaries would neglect to mention how Lima spent much of his career being one of the worst pitchers imaginable. All due respect and all, but I hated Lima when he came to the Mets. Lima Time in Flushing remains the only time I can ever remember being put off by a player’s on-field antics.

Lima, I was certain, hadn’t earned the right to dance in the dugout. He hadn’t even earned the right to be on the team. He came to the Mets with a 5.21 ERA and only managed to raise that in his four starts.

But Posnanski, as he often does, puts everything in perspective. Jose Lima’s badness felt closely tied to Jose Lima’s brief goodness, and Jose Lima’s apparent madness. And it seems somehow fitting, if still tragic, that a guy like Lima would die so young. Everything Jose Lima did was loud, obnoxious, extreme, and kind of awesome. Guys like that aren’t made to fade away.

So rest in peace, Jose Lima. Here’s hoping heaven has some poorly run franchises.