In May 2025, Guerrero Jr. was riding high after a strong start to the season. Everything — career, fame, future — seemed secure. Then, at 2:17 a.m. on May 14, he received a call no parent ever wants: his daughter had stopped breathing. Diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia and septic shock, she had only a 30% chance of surviving the first 48 hours. Within hours, the Blue Jays arranged a private jet to fly him back from Detroit to Toronto, where he rushed to the ICU at SickKids Hospital.
For 78 long days, Guerrero Jr. rarely left the floor next to his daughter’s hospital bed. While the public assumed he was dealing with “personal issues,” teammates had no idea he was sleeping beside a chemo pump, alternating nights in the ICU with bus rides to ballgames. He skipped the All-Star Game, appeared in just 41 of the next 92 games, and often flew back and forth between series.
But the internal turmoil was even more painful: when doctors revealed the leukemia subtype had a genetic marker sometimes linked to parental lineage, Guerrero Jr. was overcome with guilt. “Did I do this to her because of my DNA?” he asked through tears, pounding his chest. “I’m out here hitting 50 homers, making millions — and my baby is fighting cancer because of something inside me?”
He admits that for weeks he couldn’t bring himself to swing the bat. In the on-deck circle, he would simply stare at it, whisper “I’m sorry, mija” before each at-bat. The result: a career-worst .187 average over June and July, with only four home runs.
Then came a miracle. On August 29 — day 107 of treatment — his daughter rang the victory bell at SickKids. After four grueling rounds of chemotherapy, two spinal taps, and a near-fatal infection that left her in a medically induced coma for nine days, tests finally showed no detectable cancer.
That night, back in Baltimore, Guerrero Jr. smashed three home runs — the first three-homer game of his career — pointing to the sky after each one. In a trembling voice, he said: “This one’s for my warrior princess.” Under his jersey now is a hidden tattoo: a small blue ribbon with “VLAI 08-29-25” and a crown — a permanent tribute to the day she beat cancer.
Today, Guerrero Jr. and the Blue Jays quietly launched the Guerrero Guerrero Foundation, dedicated to pediatric cancer research. For every home run this season, he donates $10,000. With every curtain call, he presses two fingers to the ribbon on his ribs. “Baseball gave me everything,” he said. “But Guerrero gave me my life back. Every swing now? It’s for her.”
Once defined by record-breaking home runs, contracts and spotlight moments, Guerrero Jr. now accepts a new label: devoted father, fighter — and a man who nearly lost everything, only to rediscover what matters most.
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