A sad surprise awaited Cubs fans this morning when we awoke. Our leader--probably the biggest, best Cub fan to ever live--had passed away. I was only a preschooler when Santo retired from baseball after 14 years with the Cubs and one final year with our South Side rivals, but you just need to look at his numbers to know he was one of the best third basemen to play the game--a player who should have been sent to the Hall of Fame during his lifetime but has been denied 19 times by the BBWAA and the Veterans Committee.
It was as a broadcaster, not a player, that Ron Santo became a familiar figure in our house through his WGN Cubs radio. Just listening to this guy, you knew he bled Cubbie Blue. He is truly the leader of all die-hard Cubs fans. You didn't need to know the score when you flipped on the radio. You could tell how the Cubs were doing that day by the tone of Ron's voice. Unfortunately, his style of announcing is pretty much an endangered species now, as broadcasters opt for universal voices of impartiality even among home announcers.
WGN Cubs broadcasts were king in my house when I was a kid. Growing up in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, you were either a Reds fan or a Cubs fan. Sure, there were some Cleveland fans in there somewhere but I don't think I've ever met any. We were a multi-generation Cubs family. I'm not sure I even knew the White Sox existed until I was older.
During spring and summer weekends, my dad always had the Cubs broadcasts going from his big radio in the garage. This wasn't just any transister radio--this thing was about 1 foot long, 1 foot tall, several inches deep and had a special weather button. And you could hear it over the power tools. The Cubs on the radio were as much a part of my childhood and coming of age as my bike and Barbie dolls. That radio kept dad company through the building and re-building of an upper deck, a lower deck, and his decorative decks. To this day, the smells of gasoline, fresh mowed grass and sawdust instantly take me back to Dad's garage and summers with the Cubs in the air.
Later, when Harry Caray was switching between WGN-TV and WGN radio, my dad, who really didn't like Harry, would reverse switch. Off the radio would go while Caray, who I really didn't mind, was on--and on the radio would go when Caray was off. Dad would use Caray on the radio as his excuse to run downstairs for a coffee break and watch those innings on TV.
It wasn't until after I had left for college, Santo became a Cubs commentator. Dad loved Santo's enthusiasm. So does my husband--and so do I. For another generation, I'm sure Santo was the voice coming from garages across Cubland in the summer.
When you heard his voice and genuine enthusiasm, you couldn't help but think "this is a good man." And indeed he was. He not only courageously battled debilitating effects of Juvenile Diabetes but gave freely of his time, name and money to help kids with Type-1 diabetes and help raise awareness and research money. From news accounts, his optimism inspired so many people. Even Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks, said today on ESPN radio:
"On the field, Ronnie was one of the greatest competitors I've ever seen. Off the field, he was as generous as anyone you would want to know. His work for diabetes research seemed unparalleled. Ronnie was always there for you, and through his struggles, he was always upbeat, positive and caring. I learned a lot about what it means to be a caring, decent human being from Ron Santo."
If all players were the role models that Santo was, I have no doubt that baseball would have a better reputation today than it does. More people would still care about the game and the boys of summer. Home run streaks wouldn't be looked at suspiciously, and kids could have worthy heroes again.
For Cubs fans, today was a sad, sad day. In addition to the loss of a truly wonderful person, with the passing of Santo, not much remains to tie today's Cubs to those non-corporate days of long ago, when players stayed with their teams more than long enough to bond with their fans, signed autographs for free, and broadcasters could cry, "Oh, no" or "Holy Cow" with abandon.
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