Just as I was heading to the train tonight I happened to walk by Holy Name Cathedral, where the public viewing for longtime Cub Ron Santo was taking place. Although I had contemplated going to the viewing earlier in the week, I honestly had forgotten about it until I saw the barricades that were still standing. I still didn't even plan on going in, but curiosity, I suppose, got the better of me. And guilt. Here I am, a so-called diehard Cubs fan, grumbling and rambling about baseball's winter meetings and free agency signings, and I was still reluctant to pay respects to a man who lived for the Cubs and the Cubs through him. In many respects, I lived vicariously through the Cubs, especially while listening to Pat & Ron call the games on WGN, so much so that I feel like a chapter of my life has now closed with his death. Does that mean I've decided to move on from the Cubs? Of course not. It just means that I can look back at a certain period of time, perhaps from May 2000 until maybe the end of the baseball season in 2004 with a bit of nostalgia and wistfulness, even as I've grown through marriage, parenthood, education and employment.
I had to go in for the viewing, and my eyes did all the informing. The giant placards noting that no photography was allowed. The church's magnificent rafters. The smattering of Cubbie Blue throughout the pews. And the casket, at the end of the long aisle, with Santo's number "10" draped over it. On top of the casket, maybe over Ron's heart, was a golden mitt. On the ground to the left was an easel with a large picture from his playing days. There were also a couple of ushers--or security guards, I wasn't too sure--flanking the body, presumably to keep the real diehards from lingering too long. I waited my turn in the short line, watched the guy in front of me cross himself before leaving, and then I stepped forward.
At that point, I almost asked aloud, "Now, what do I do?" Everyone in the cathedral was watching me, or so I felt. I stood there, taking in the moment before hearing in my memory a cacophony of Santo's on-air reactions. "Aw...geez," "Wow!" "I can't believe it!" "Oh no!" and a host of other things he may or may not have uttered. It was always the emotion, not the words, listening to Ronnie. I had pictured him practically leaping out of his legs when Derrek Lee hit a pinch-hit grand slam a few years ago, and I chose to remember Santo for his exuberance rather than his exasperation. Feeling my moment was up, I nodded toward the altar and then to the ushers as I glided out. Even now, more memories keeping flooding back.
In the summer of 2003, it was clear the Cubs were competitive. It was the June series against the Yankees that proved the Cubs were serious. When Eric Karros launched a rocket out to left to give the Cubs the lead in the Saturday game (in which Kerry Wood earned his 50th win), pandemonium nearly rang out. Just a few innings earlier, one could have heard a pin drop at Wrigley when Cubs first baseman Hee Sop Choi lay unconscious on the field after colliding with Wood while corralling a pop up. Leading up to and during the next day's evening game, Ronnie described some of the reactions and emotions from the big roller-coaster win. I can't recall his exact words, but it was always fun to listen to him whether he was up or down.
He hated Alfonso Soriano's hop. You know, the one Sori does when he's catching (or sometimes dropping) a routine fly ball. He'd groan when a pitcher would airmail the throw past first base on a routine dribbler back to the mound. He'd burst with enthusiasm when a ball was driven to the gap or a perfect throw nailed a runner at the plate. And he would have these exchanges with his partner, Pat Hughes, that were, simply put, a riot.
Ronnie always made sure to plug his pet cause, too. When the Cubs drew their first walk of the game, he would note that, "for every walk drawn by a Cubs player today, Walgreens will make a Big, Big donation to my walk for the cure" of JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. I always meant to participate in the walk. Maybe next year.
I only met Santo once, while I was working for my previous employer, a urologist. I was covering the check-in desk during a lunch break when he arrived for his appointment. He was getting an opinion regarding treatment of his bladder cancer. This was back in the fall of 2003, two days after the Cubs won the division title and one day after that moving ceremony to retire his number. Of course, we had scheduled him at a time when no other patients would be around. Icons are people, too, and they deserve to go to the doctor's office without questions from autograph-seekers. I don't think he even said a word when he checked in--I told him to take a seat when I first saw him. "I'll let the nurse know you're here." As much as I wanted to talk baseball with him--and there are many who can attest that I'll talk with anyone on the subject--I kept it professional. I even remember waving his wife in a few minutes later when she arrived after parking the car.
Even now, after he eventually succumbed to the disease, I think about how challenging that must have been for Santo. After a whole career of playing for and then calling games for the Cubs, he wasn't able to be there for the playoff series against Atlanta, the one (and still only) playoff series the Cubs have won since 1908. He met his challenges head on, between the diabetes and cancer and heart disease, and the perennial disappointments on the field. During these past few years, as Ronnie began limiting his road trips with the team, I kept hoping they'd find a way to make it to the World Series while he was still alive. No one would have enjoyed it more than he. Shoot, the veterans committee will probably vote him in to the Hall of Fame the next time they meet. Too bad he didn't get in while he was alive, because he absolutely deserved it and would have relished every moment of it. He was a guy we all could love--he showed us how to wear our emotions on our sleeves (for better or worse), and he certainly helped me rekindle my love for baseball. Now, I hope he's clicking his heels, wherever he is.
