I have not the words to properly honor Ron Santo; I’m sure there are many out there who will do the job far better than I ever could. I was too young to remember him as a player, but for years and years I knew him as one of the guys in the Cub’s radio booth. More, I know that no one ever bled Cubbie blue like Santo did.
I recall a runoff off game for a playoff slot against the Mets–the frickin’ Mets— in 1998, when the Cubs seemingly (as they always do) had a playoff berth in the bag, only to let it out. 9th inning, and a game-ending routine pop-up is hit to Cubs left fielder Brant Brown. Brown caught the ball, but it (of course) popped out of his mitt. The Mets scored, and won the game.
Santo, doing the radio broadcast with his partner Pat Hughes, let out what can only be described as a primal scream of anguish. I’ve always joked that it sounded like the scream of a man who is walking down the street with his beloved wife of many decades, only to suddenly see her shot to death by a mugger. I’ve always joked that, but I was never really joking.
Santo had his flaws, like all human beings, but in many ways he was a truly great and heroic man. He fight with diabetes as a player (back when there was none of the medical conveniences sufferers have available today), and later as a broadcaster, including the days after he had both his feet amputated…what can you say to that? He genuinely touched and inspired many people. His work for the JDRF alone should earn him respect from even his harshest critics, and the snobs (and there were many) who sneered at him in his later years as a loutish, glory-seeking joke.
Ron Santo was a blessed man, and that’s how he lived his life, every single day. God favored him with great talent, but more importantly, with great fortitude and heart. Ron Santo never gave up when the odds were against him.
However, he was also defined by the things he so desperately yearned for and strove so hard for, but never got: Induction into the Hall of Fame, but more, to experience a World Series championship, first as a player and then as a broadcaster and the ultimate fan.
Ron Santo, dead at the age of 70, never having seen his beloved Cubs win a World Series. In this, above all, he represented generation after generation of the faithful. If I am lucky enough to ever see the Cubs win a World Series before I too pass, I will shed a tear in honor of Ron Santo.
