A Hero. A Man. A Legend. We lost such a man this weekend. Ron Santo, legendary Chicago Cub finally succumbed to the disease he’d been fighting since he was boy. At age 70 Ronny had spent his entire career in professional baseball, but his life and legend were much bigger than that.
During his 15 year career he was a nine-time All Star and perennial Chicago favorite. If there was ever a Camelot age for Chicago Cubs baseball, it was during Ronnie’s playing days – including the mythic 1969 season.
After leaving the field, Ron went on to coach, and then to provide 21 years of color commentary, calling every Cub game – home or away. When Type 1 diabetes took both his legs, Santo would hobble in on crutches or roll in with a chair. Nothing was going to keep him from enjoying and sharing his life’s passion. No one held or communicated the spirit of Chicago Cubs baseball better than Ron Santo.
Jack Brickhouse, Harry Carey, and Ron Santo. Three legendary broadcasters. Each was ‘the voice of Cubs’ sometime during the past fifty-plus years. Jack has a statue at the Chicago River. Harry has his signature restaurant and numerous area icons. Ronnie has his immortal playing legend within the walls of Wrigley Field – and in the hearts of millions of Cub fans around the world.
Thanks Ronnie. Rest in peace. You will be missed.
In an odd footnote, Ron Santo is probably the most gifted player to ever NOT be inducted at Cooperstown. Now that he’s gone there will no doubt be an outpouring of emotion and nostalgia – but where were those emotions when the man was still here to revel in them? This is more a reflection on the jaded institution than on Ronnie’s career.
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I’ve gotten emails from several folks asking why I’ve not commented on the Cubs and the thrashing they received from the Dodgers. Short answer: I was in mourning.
I concede that it’s silly to get that invested in a baseball season. After all, there are real problems in the world. However, this year was special. For the first time since 1969 I really beleived that this was the year. Even in 2003 when hapless Steve Bartman was blamed for breaking the streak, I was holding back my enthusiasm. This year however, it as all out there. It had been 100 years – and this would be the big one.
In fact, I had already budgeted $1,500 and 25,000 air miles to fly home to Chicago, catch a game at Wrigley, party with friends, and fly back to San Diego. The Cubs were going to be in the World Series – and it was going to be in Chicago – and I was going to be there. So much for plans.
Is there a curse? It’s fun to talk about, especially when such talk is fueled by good friends and some cold beer. There is high entertainment value in it – and something to focus on while we look to the future.
Growing up in Chicago as a South Side Cubs Fan (a rare creature frequently subjected to Sox fan ridicule), there were three truths which anyone from that time and place can relate to:
- Vote early / vote often
- Never chew gum in church
- There’s always next year
So, here we are again. 100 years and counting. I keep remembering that 104 year old man throwing out the first pitch at the first playoff game. How old will I be when the Cubs finally pull it off?
To next year. Eamus Catuli.
– Carl Melville / Blogvious
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