This morning started like every other morning at Seminary. Like a zombie I turned off my alarm clock at 6:30am and then groggily checked my email on my iPhone. This is the first time, however, that I let out a desperate cry of “NO!.” There the email sat in my inbox: “Report: Ron Santo dead at 70.”
The last few years I always made it a point to listen to a few more Cubs broadcasts than I normally would. We all knew that Pat and Ron wouldn’t be together for much longer. We knew Ronnie’s body was failing him again and again. With each road trip he missed, we started to catch a glimpse of what life without Ron on the radio would be like, and I’m certain that’s only making the grieving harder today.
There’s a lot of people who don’t understand our love for This Old Cub. They would poke fun at his on-air shennanigans, his forgetting a name, a team, or simply melting down along with the club. But it was those Oh No’s, the Oh Geeezzz’s, and the periods of extended silence that made us love Ron Santo. Ron Santo loved the Cubs, and we loved Ron Santo for it. Ronnie spared nothing in his love and devotion to the Cubs, and in doing so exemplified the hearts, hopes, wishes, pain, and disappointment of generations of Cubs fans. He was a voice of our joys and our miseries. But more than that, he felt the way we desperately want all of our athletes to feel. We want them to love the team the way we love the team. We want them to hate the other team when they beat us. Above all, we want our athletes to care. Ron did. And that’s why we care so much about his passing.
If this was all we lost, the mourning and grief would be great. But Santo was more than just the Cubs biggest fan. He was also a man who heroically endured overwhelming suffering. This made his love and passion even more poignant. Santo battled diabetes since the age of 18, and eventually lost both of his legs to the disease. A Major League Baseball season is long and grueling, even for the media who covers it. For the last 8 years of his life, Santo persevered through a 162 game schedule (plus a few more) on two prosthetic legs. That, in and of itself, is amazing. But he didn’t stop there. He also walked for a cure of diabetes, which we were reminded of every time a Cub walked too. (We thank Walgreens for that). As I write this I’m certain I’ll probably burst into tears after the first Cub gets walked next season.
Santo’s heroic spirit in the face of such suffering is why more than Cubs fans should be mourning today. Cubs fans lost his voice, and the rest of the world lost his soul. We can thank God, however, that Ronnie’s body, which always failed his incredible spirit, is finally at rest. May we all share a firm hope that Ronnie is clicking his heels once again. Goodbye number 10. Though you never got a plaque in Cooperstown, your memory will always be in our hearts. Isn’t that the best way to be immortalized anyway?