“OH NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
These were the words that came to mind last Friday morning when a text message told me that Ron Santo had passed away. Though tears quickly filled my eyes as the news sunk in, my grief was nowhere close to the despair contained in Ronnie’s existential howl of these words on WGN Radio on September 27, 1998 as Cubs outfielder Brant Brown dropped an easy fly ball, threatening their chances for the playoffs.
Ronnie’s agony was real, for the Cubs were a life and death cause for him. It’s part of what endeared him to generation of Cubs fans, including me and my family. His sunny optimism, his unyielding belief that this was the year the Cubs would finally win the World Series filled many a summer afternoon, even in July and August when the rest of Chicago knew it was time to “wait ‘til next year.”
Ron’s optimism was a true thing of beauty because he had plenty of reasons to sing the blues. He made nine All-Star teams, won five Gold Gloves and hit 342 home runs, but he never played in the World Series and has been widely acknowledged as the best player in baseball history NOT elected to the Hall of Fame. More importantly, Ronnie is still the only person in history with Type I diabetes to be an everyday position player in the major leagues. The disease shortened his career, caused a variety of health problems over the years and eventually cost him both his legs. Even then, when it was difficult to move around and get up to the broadcast booth, Ron never lost faith.
One day after a game, a young colleague giving him a ride home saw Ron remove his prosthetic leg to ease his discomfort and said, “I’m so sorry.” Replied Ron, “We won the game, didn’t we?” Though his frustrated utterances of “unbelievable!” or “why does this always happen to us?” would make you think otherwise, Ronnie always said about coming to the ballpark: “This is what keeps me alive!”
Ron didn’t just fight diabetes’ effects on his body. He took dead aim on the disease itself by raising over $60 million dollars through his walk-a-thons and golf tournaments, and that doesn’t even count the side benefits of the attention he brought to the cause. Ronnie spent countless hours visiting with diabetes patients, and his eternal optimism was exactly the medicine they needed. In 2003, his son Jeff produced and directed the documentary This Old Cub, a touching and loving tribute to his dad’s struggle with diabetes. All those proceeds went to JDRF as well.
Most of all, though, Ron made the broadcasts fun. Whether the Cubs were winning or losing, in the pennant race or in the cellar, his banter with his patient play-by-play partner Pat Hughes always brightened my day. Known as the Pat ‘n’ Ron Show, they would frequently joke about Pat’s tacky wardrobe or Ronnie’s toupee. In fact, Harry Caray once asked him on-air if he wore the hairpiece to bed with his wife. “I wear a hat,” said Ron.
Though the game at hand was of utmost importance to him, Ronnie was easily distracted and frequently got into lengthy discussions of topics like flossing in public, Sylvester Stallone’s height or an animal actors hall of fame. He said Toto should get inducted first. Ron was always real and unpolished. He’d start sentences and not know how to finish them. He’d mispronounce names of long-time Cubs player, talk while eating a hot dog and sometimes give too much information about why he needed to take a break for a few minutes. His first words on his first broadcast had to be bleeped out because they arose when he spilled coffee on himself. Talking about Cubs games with my siblings or parents, we’d rarely discuss the team’s play on the field, it was always, laughing, “Did you hear what Ronnie said today?” For me, Ron will always represent the last link to when baseball was more than a business. His loyalty to one team and his idiosyncratic broadcast style simply cannot be found in baseball today.
Ron was a brilliant example of how to laugh at yourself and look at the bright side. When his number was retired in a Wrigley Field ceremony in 2003, he told cheering Cubs fans, “THIS is my Hall of Fame.” Teetering on two artificial legs when he bounced a ceremonial first pitch, Ronnie, the guy who made so many great plays at third base in his youth, simply said, “I did the best I could.”
The best he could do was awfully good. Ron never made it to the Hall of Fame or saw the Cubs win the World Series, but what a life he lived. As a player, broadcaster and number one Cub fan, he touched the hearts of millions. As a fund-raiser and standard-bearer in the fight against diabetes his gift will keep on giving until a cure is found. Few ballplayers are truly heroes, but Ron Santo was. We will miss you every summer afternoon—and the rest of the year, too. Thank you, Mr. Cub.
These were the words that came to mind last Friday morning when a text message told me that Ron Santo had passed away. Though tears quickly filled my eyes as the news sunk in, my grief was nowhere close to the despair contained in Ronnie’s existential howl of these words on WGN Radio on September 27, 1998 as Cubs outfielder Brant Brown dropped an easy fly ball, threatening their chances for the playoffs.Ronnie’s agony was real, for the Cubs were a life and death cause for him. It’s part of what endeared him to generation of Cubs fans, including me and my family. His sunny optimism, his unyielding belief that this was the year the Cubs would finally win the World Series filled many a summer afternoon, even in July and August when the rest of Chicago knew it was time to “wait ‘til next year.”
Ron’s optimism was a true thing of beauty because he had plenty of reasons to sing the blues. He made nine All-Star teams, won five Gold Gloves and hit 342 home runs, but he never played in the World Series and has been widely acknowledged as the best player in baseball history NOT elected to the Hall of Fame. More importantly, Ronnie is still the only person in history with Type I diabetes to be an everyday position player in the major leagues. The disease shortened his career, caused a variety of health problems over the years and eventually cost him both his legs. Even then, when it was difficult to move around and get up to the broadcast booth, Ron never lost faith.
One day after a game, a young colleague giving him a ride home saw Ron remove his prosthetic leg to ease his discomfort and said, “I’m so sorry.” Replied Ron, “We won the game, didn’t we?” Though his frustrated utterances of “unbelievable!” or “why does this always happen to us?” would make you think otherwise, Ronnie always said about coming to the ballpark: “This is what keeps me alive!”
Ron didn’t just fight diabetes’ effects on his body. He took dead aim on the disease itself by raising over $60 million dollars through his walk-a-thons and golf tournaments, and that doesn’t even count the side benefits of the attention he brought to the cause. Ronnie spent countless hours visiting with diabetes patients, and his eternal optimism was exactly the medicine they needed. In 2003, his son Jeff produced and directed the documentary This Old Cub, a touching and loving tribute to his dad’s struggle with diabetes. All those proceeds went to JDRF as well.Most of all, though, Ron made the broadcasts fun. Whether the Cubs were winning or losing, in the pennant race or in the cellar, his banter with his patient play-by-play partner Pat Hughes always brightened my day. Known as the Pat ‘n’ Ron Show, they would frequently joke about Pat’s tacky wardrobe or Ronnie’s toupee. In fact, Harry Caray once asked him on-air if he wore the hairpiece to bed with his wife. “I wear a hat,” said Ron.
Though the game at hand was of utmost importance to him, Ronnie was easily distracted and frequently got into lengthy discussions of topics like flossing in public, Sylvester Stallone’s height or an animal actors hall of fame. He said Toto should get inducted first. Ron was always real and unpolished. He’d start sentences and not know how to finish them. He’d mispronounce names of long-time Cubs player, talk while eating a hot dog and sometimes give too much information about why he needed to take a break for a few minutes. His first words on his first broadcast had to be bleeped out because they arose when he spilled coffee on himself. Talking about Cubs games with my siblings or parents, we’d rarely discuss the team’s play on the field, it was always, laughing, “Did you hear what Ronnie said today?” For me, Ron will always represent the last link to when baseball was more than a business. His loyalty to one team and his idiosyncratic broadcast style simply cannot be found in baseball today.
Ron was a brilliant example of how to laugh at yourself and look at the bright side. When his number was retired in a Wrigley Field ceremony in 2003, he told cheering Cubs fans, “THIS is my Hall of Fame.” Teetering on two artificial legs when he bounced a ceremonial first pitch, Ronnie, the guy who made so many great plays at third base in his youth, simply said, “I did the best I could.”The best he could do was awfully good. Ron never made it to the Hall of Fame or saw the Cubs win the World Series, but what a life he lived. As a player, broadcaster and number one Cub fan, he touched the hearts of millions. As a fund-raiser and standard-bearer in the fight against diabetes his gift will keep on giving until a cure is found. Few ballplayers are truly heroes, but Ron Santo was. We will miss you every summer afternoon—and the rest of the year, too. Thank you, Mr. Cub.
No comments:
Post a Comment