The passing Monday of Hall of Fame second baseman Ryne Sandberg, the Chicago Cubs hero for a generation, seems so out of place, and not just because he was only 65.
Sandberg, whose play defined a true love of the game, dies in the middle of baseball season? The pictures shared this week were of him smiling with thumbs up, despite the IV at his side, wearing his “Baseball is better at Wrigley Field” Cubs-blue T-shirt.
Looked like he could still pinch hit.
For those of us his age and for everyone with a TV set and cable, he was part of our young adulthood. He was part of mine. One of us even won the National League MVP in 1984 at age 25. (It wasn’t me.)
I have a bestie in Webster Parish who used the Cubs and WGN to help rear her children, even if she had to VHS the home games (it was all daytime ball at Wrigley back then) to watch at night. Sandberg (I shouldn’t even have to write this) was her favorite: those kids of hers gave her a Cubs jersey with Sandberg’s No. 23 on it for her birthday one year.
There was a time when that’s what Sandberg meant and that’s what the Cubs meant to a lot of us.
It was a summer weekend back then when airfare was cheap and I caught it just right and went to Chicago and watched Sandberg and the Cubs and the Cubs’ fans play a bunch of ex-Shreveport Captains and then-San Francisco Giants in the Friendly Confines, where everything and everyone was happy and humming.
A smiling grandmother wore a Cubs cap and checked tickets in our section. Evelyn was her name. She called people “Honey,” and Harry Caray blew her kisses from the press box during the seventh inning stretch.
All in all, it was a fine way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
In a way, it was like watching the game in your den with friends. With the Giants slugger Barry Bonds at the plate big moment, the hometown Cubs fan behind me leaned forward. He’d heard me talking about how good both Bonds and my cheeseburger were. He said: “You guys aren’t from Chicago, are you?”
“Sure,” I told him. “From the South side.”
And he laughed and his buddy laughed. “From the SOUTH SIDE!” he said. “You mean waaaaay South.” Then he spilled beer on his Bermuda shorts and a good time was had by all.
The guy laughed at everything. He wanted me to say more things. “Please,” he asked me, “say ‘reckon’ again. Just one more time. Please.”
It was only a few minutes later when the woman in front of me turned around with a bag of Gummy Bears. “Here,” she said. “Welcome to Chicago.”
Her name was Rivian. She was sitting by Ira. Ira comes to every game and he wants the Cubs to start bunting more, even when they play defense. When Mark Grace got the game-winning hit, Ira hugged Rivian. She’d had her fingers crossed.
That night we watched the White Sox in Comiskey Park. I should have felt more at home there — 3-year-old Comiskey really is on the South side — but I prefer Wrigley. At Cubs’ games, they play the organ between innings. Between innings at Sox games, they play metal and everybody tosses dimes at cracks in the concourse.
Sunday. It was back to Wrigley. And unanticipated peril.
First, a rain delay. Then in the bottom of the first inning, two women and two boys were hit by foul balls and had to get first aid. What are the odds?
Then Cubs third baseman Steve Buechel fouled a ball off his leg.
Then, another guy was reaching for a foul and almost fell clean out of the upper deck. For a while, it looked like there might not be enough fans and players left to play and watch a whole nine innings.
But there we, of course, and I knew they’d be back the next day, a few to play the Expos and a lot to watch them and to try and catch foul balls and to throw opponents’ homers back onto the field and to pound down the ol’ Mountain Dew. Which is why, as I left Wrigley Field slowly that Sunday during an eighth-inning rain delay to catch the late-evening flight back home, I wondered by everyone didn’t come here at least once a summer, if only to watch Sandberg play second, if only to share hugs with Rivian, if only to blow kisses to Evelyn.
Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu
