Ron Santo

I wish life wasn't quite so busy. If it wasn't I would have time to write more, but I felt the need to take a break from my semester paper to share my Ron Santo story.

About ten years ago my father, brother and I went to Chicago in the dead of winter to attend the Cubs Convention. For those of you who have not been to this event, it is all things Cubs, all the time. We listened to panel discussions, we stood in line to meet former and current Cubs, and we ducked out to catch a Bulls game in the post-MJ era; a decision I think we all regretted as soon as the opening tip happened. The Cubs convention held two iconic moments in my mind. The first was standing next to Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub himself, with my father and brother and getting our picture taken. Mr. Banks was kind enough to call us up even though his time was up and we had been told that he had to go. He asked if we wanted autographs; we replied uniformly that it was more meaningful to have the opportunity to shake his hand.

If you ask my brother and father what their iconic memory of that trip was I am sure they'd say meeting Ernie Banks, mixed in with the morons who let us pass them in line because they weren't there to see Mr. Banks ... they were there to see Kyle Farnsworth. But while this memory shines for me, I have a different moment that meant the world to me. As we were sitting in the room waiting for a panel discussion to start, an event that included a great number of Cubs greats, I saw Ron Santo walk in. You have to understand, this was a group that included Ryne Sandburg and other Cubs greats, but Santo stole the show. I noticed him immediately; he as the voice of the Cubs, the man who had taught me more than any other the joy and pain that came with rooting for the Northsiders. I quickly grabbed the calendar that was a door giveaway, and asked my father for a pen. He handed over his fine-ink banker pen, and off I went (all of ten or twelve at the time), dodging through people so that I could get to Ron before he made it to the stage.

I made it to him and said "Mr. Santo, could I have your autograph please?" Ron smiled at me, said "sure kid" and took the pen and calendar out of my hands. I felt like a million bucks as he took the cap off the pen, went to sign it ... and the pen wouldn't write on the calendar. The material wasn't made for a banker pen. My heart sank, as I realized I had just blown my opportunity to get Ron Santo's autograph, and made myself look like a young fool in the process. As I tried to work up the fortitude to turn and walk away (entirely ready to forget the calendar and the pen) I heard Ron say "hey, does anybody have a sharpie so I can sign this calendar for this young man?" I turned in time to see someone pass a sharpie over (lesson learned: sharpies are the best autograph hunting tools to carry), and Ron signed the calendar, handed it to me with a smile, then headed up to the stage. I, in turn, left with much more than an autograph of a player who was retired long before I came around; I left with a lesson on class and kindness.

I think I know where that calendar is right now, but I can't be sure. Life gets in the way, and things come and go. Ron Santo will not fade, however, in my mind, or in the hearts of millions of other Cubs fans around the world. Santo is a rare entity in the sports world: a legend who is revered by many, but largely under-appreciated. That he is not in the Hall of Fame goes a long way towards making that institution a sham. I also have little doubt that the powers that be will put him in the hall shortly; it has long been thought that they'd wait him out, and give him that acknowledgment only after he passed. If and when that happens, I hope that whoever gives his induction speech sends the simplest of messages, one that Ron sent time and again: you guys missed your chance. Ron Santo, through all of his trials, became bigger than most players in one crucial way: he defined a franchise, a passion for the game, and an entire nation of Cubs fans. When his number was retired at Wrigley he reached his absolution; the rest is just peanuts. And now, just like that, he's gone. Quietly, without complaint, which was Ronnie's style. I can't begin to fathom tuning into 720 this spring, summer and fall, and not hearing Ron Santo's ecstatic "yes!" or depressing "Jeez!" Ron taught me all I needed to know about being a sports fan: you stick by your team through thick and thin. You always believe, and never forget that you are blessed each time you walk into the hallowed grounds of Wrigley. Ronnie, I wish I could say this season was for you, that we were gonna win it all in your name. Maybe we will, but I doubt it. What I do know is that Eddie Vedder spoke what you lived: "when the day comes with that last winning run, and I'm crying and covered in beer, I look to the sky and know I was right to think 'someday we'll go all the way.'"

Mr. Santo, thanks for the memories. You will be missed.