GUEST BLOG: Mr. Cub

by the Troutking

“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.

GUEST POST: The Baseball Diaries by John

The Baseball Project--"All Future And No Past" (mp3)

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
—Henry David Thoreau

The Woman: “You football or baseball?”
Biff: “Football.”
The Woman: “That’s me too.”
—Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman

A few weeks ago, Chris, the varsity baseball coach at our school, came to me during a faculty meeting. “Hey,” he told me. “I have to talk to you about something.” I like Chris, but we’re not particularly close, and the only time we ever have any conversations, it’s about swapping a dorm duty. So when he found me later that morning, the last thing I expected him to say was:

“I want you to throw out the opening pitch at the ballgame on Friday night. We’re celebrating the English department and since you’re the chairman, we want you to throw out the opening pitch.” Chris clearly thought this was an honor I’d relish. Chris clearly doesn’t know me.

Some context here. I have not thrown a baseball in over 30 years. That’s not hyperbole; I really haven’t. Tennis balls to dogs, check. Nerf footballs to my daughters, check. Ping pong balls after they’ve rolled off the table and onto the ground, check, although it’s usually not really throwing so much as batting.

Later that day, I found my friend, Hank, a colleague and former varsity baseball coach and asked him if he’d mind going down to the baseball field with me at some remote time of day or night when nobody was likely to be lurking about, and show me how to throw a pitch. Trooper that he is, he agreed. My father, a retired Episcopal priest of the first order was a man of many talents, but teaching his son the nuances of the athletic life was not among them. (He did teach me how to pour the perfect Chivas on the rocks, but that’s for another guest post, perhaps).

Preparing dinner that night for my daughters, I told Alex that this Friday she’d have to come with me to a school baseball game since I had something I had to do.

“You don’t have to play, do you,?” she asked.

“Well, not exactly. I have to throw out the first pitch.”

She cocked her head, raised an eyebrow and, fully the tween, replied, “But Dad, you don’t know how to play. Are you sure you want to do that?”

In truth I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that, but at that point it was a done deal and there was no backing away. “Sure. It’ll be fun.” She did not look convinced.

“I’m going to have to wear a hoodie and hide under it,” she told me.

“Well, I’m going to wear a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m Alex’s Dad!’”

I rarely make it through the night without waking up at some point between 3:12 and 4:42, but that night the usual suspects of anxiety—money, kids, the future—gave way to visions of me with a baseball. Ditto for the next three nights. Friends, including BoTG blogger, Bob, emailed my department with news that he’d be bringing a speed gun to clock my throw; another colleague announced that he was bringing an iFlip so he could post the moment on YouTube. Students in the hall began greeting me during the day, patting me on the back and telling me that they couldn’t wait to see me pitch. Bob introduced me to a young man I’ve seen around campus but have never taught: “This is Nolan, he’s one of the most important people in your life right now. He’s your catcher.”

Meanwhile, Hank gave me an early morning pitching lesson on Wednesday. My throws went all over the place, only a few times crossing the plate. Into both dugouts, hopping the dirt, occasionally reaching within Hank’s general proximity so that he didn’t have to sprint to catch the ball. But only occasionally. Throughout it, he assured me that I was doing just fine and I have never appreciated a lie more.

Friday afternoon. Alex and I are throwing the baseball in the empty lot behind the house. I notice that she has a really good throw—straight, hard, infinitely better than her Dad’s. She notices this, too.

“Gee, Dad, you’re not very good at this. I think you might get embarrassed out there. Do you want me to do it for you?” She’s being kind, I think, in offering to spare me the indignity, but she’s also trying to spare herself. When I tell her no, that I want to do this, she seems amazed. I try to explain to her that I know I’m bad at this but that I’m good at lots of other things—cooking, gardening, teaching, being a friend and a dad—and that I don’t need to be good at everything.

“Besides, some of my students are excited that I’m going to do this and if it makes them laugh, that’ll be fun.” She doesn’t seem to understand.

Later that evening, I throw out the pitch. It hops twice in front of home plate, but comes closer than in my dreams I’d imagined it would. Alex didn’t even have to hide under a hoodie. The next week, several people will tell me that at least it was better than Obama’s. One of them is the pitcher, but that’s because he hates the President and is happy to find reason to make a dig at him. The other is a colleague who, like me, likes the President, and sees her remarks as a way of offering solidarity and encouragement.

When you’re ten, one of your main goals in life is to not look foolish in front of your peers, to avoid being caught being bad at something. Working with teenagers for the past 24 years, I think it’s true of them, as well. They’re not really children, they’re not really adults and in that paradoxical space in between, they are at once, self-conscious and guarded, self-forgetful and open. Alex’s words reminded me that this was the first time in the longest time that I could recall trying something that I wasn’t fairly certain I would succeed at. It surprised me a little and disappointed me more than that. Maybe it’s true of adults as well. That’s not how I want to spend the next thirty years of my life on Planet Earth and, thanks to Chris’ invitation, there’s the chance that I won’t.

I don’t know if that’s what Thoreau means by “quiet desperation” but it’s in the ballpark.

The Baseball Project is Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate, Steve Wynn and the Miracle 3) and Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows, Minus 5, and R.E.M), along with drummer Linda Pitmon and R.E.M guitarist Peter Buck. They will release a song each month of the baseball season.

Pitching Music (or Song Pitchers)

I'm not much of a baseball fan, but damn if it's not a sport ripe for great analogy. It's managed to hold the top spot for Most Used Sexual Metaphor among pre-teens and teens for decades. Even if it lost out to football as America's Greatest Pasttime, it remains strong for English geeks looking for the easy comparative. It also will help ensure the immortality of Jim Steinman and Meatloaf for all eternity.

Anyway, a few days ago, I was listening to a song by The Go! Team when I stumbled on the story about Smoltz going to the Red Sox, and I thought to myself, Y'know, music artists are a lot like pitchers.

Here's what I mean. Artists tend to fall into one of the three pitching categories in most any music fan's line-up: Starters, relievers, and closers. Much like actual pitchers, being in one category isn't particularly better or worse. We all need a pitching staff that has plenty of all of these. And it's possible one team's starter might end up as a reliever or closer for someone else. It's your damn team; pitch who you want and where, know what I'm sayin'?

But here are the categories:

STARTERS are the artists you long to hear their entire albums. Radiohead immediately comes to mind as a Hall of Fame starting pitcher. Anyone who likes Radiohead likes their albums, not their songs. Plenty of others are up there for me in the starting rotation, people I can rely on to give me a complete game, or at least get me into the eighth or ninth inning with a lead. Patty Griffin is my Greg Maddux. If I play a song by her, I want to keep letting her pitch. It takes a lot for me to want to pull her from the game. She's not a power pitcher; she's just got exquisite aim. She can paint a corner like nobody's business, and her off-speed stuff has opponents whiffing air and walking back to the dugout. Rush and U2 are definitely starting pitchers on my team. They're, like, old veteran Eddie Harris from Major League, whose arms aren't what they used to be, but they can still throw a mean Vaseline ball and squeeze out six strong innings. The Hold Steady is totally like Roger Clemens (pre-steroid scandal).

Five of my all-time top musical starting pitchers: Rush, Patty Griffin, Indigo Girls, The Hold Steady, Stereophonics

Opening Pitch: Just Looking - Stereophonics (mp3)

MIDDLE RELIEVERS are the artists whose albums are modestly appealing, but you don't need to hear them very often. And usually, while their albums are good, you're OK to stop The Weepies are stellar middle relievers. I thorougly enjoy listening to their albums all the way through, but I really gotta be in a particular mood. Fountains of Wayne is another act that ranks high on this one. Most of my favorite contemporary music acts are middle relievers for me. Blame it on the iPod, maybe, but they're a dime a dozen, really. It's just a matter of which ones you want on your team.

Five of my best musical middle relievers: The Weepies, Better Than Ezra, Foo Fighters, Matt Nathanson, The Replacements

6th inning, bases loaded, tie ballgame: Still - Matt Nathanson (mp3)

Then there's THE CLOSERS. They're the bands you love because they make kick-ass songs. They're good for one, maybe two innings of overpowering heat or nasty junk, and that's all you need from them. These aren't "one hit wonders." True closers require a couple of strong pitches and consistency to survive in the bigs. They always show up on your mix CDs even though you hardly ever listen to whole albums of their stuff. You might not even buy whole albums of their stuff anymore. Like I said, The Go! Team is one of my favorite closers.. Those dudes show up on my mix CDs all the time, but I don't think I've ever listened to an entire album non-stop.

Five of my best musical closers: The Go! Team, Cheap Trick, Dishwalla, Goldfrapp, Otis Redding, Queen

Bottom of the 9th, up a run, man on second: Fly Me Away - Goldfrapp (mp3)

Bruce would be the John Smoltz or maybe even the Sultan of Swat. That dude can be a starter or a reliever. Bruce is a Hall of Famer who can pitch whenever he wants, and he'll change the game, guaranteed. Not many musical pitchers out there who can do that.

Who would you start in Game 7 of your musical world series? Who's your money closer? Whose musical arm gets you through the tough middle innings of a regular season game? Have fun thinking of your own team.