Ron Santo: A Picture of Courage

Pictured: Ron Santo (on the left) at Nationals Park, August 2010.

What can someone who never saw Ron Santo play third base actually say about his playing? The truth is I can't speak true justice of the man's time spent around the horn of Wrigley Field and America's other Major League ballparks. What I can shed some light on is the effect Santo had on Chicago, Cubs fans, the Cubs, and Major League Baseball.

When Santo's passing was announced on Friday morning it came as a shock to all. Santo, of course, has not been in the best of health over the past few years (this past year especially) due to complications with bladder cancer and diabetes. But here's the thing about Ron Santo -- he might have been sick but nothing ever stood in between him and his beloved Cubbies.

Wrigley Field die-hards know that stand-fan Ronnie Woo-Woo may make a run for the number one spot on the Cubs Fan list but Santo was different. Santo saw the Cubs from all possible angles. Santo was and still is the ultimate Cubs fan.

The last broadcast I ever heard Santo make was Lou Pinella's final game as Cubs manager against Bobby Cox and the Atlanta Braves at Wrigley Field on August 21, 2010. My family friends shared their tickets with me for that day but I was forced to leave after the seventh inning (against my will ... I have never left a Cubs game early before then and never will again ... that's just something Cubs fans do not do ... we do NOT leave baseball games early whether our team is winning, losing, or playing ... that's just a fact). Since I left early in order to take the 1.5 hour trip to Michigan City, In. to visit my grandpa, my mom and I turned on WGN Radio in the car.

The Cubs went on to win the game (I think) and Ron Santo gave his usual commentary. At times it sounded as if he was losing hope, at other's he was as positive as ever. One thing was obvious -- his emotional ups and downs were defined by the Cubs play at any given moment.

The morning Santo passed away, floods of Twitter messages and memory-filled editorials consumed the online newspapers of Chicago and blog streams of Major League Baseball. Sports writers of every American quadrant shed a tear for baseball's loss. Why? Because Ron Santo was a unique character whose personality has yet to be matched by any player of the modern era.

Photo from Chicago Now

It's impossible to count how many articles since Santo's passing have referenced the infamous "heel click" that turned into the Cubs' "victory dance" that the Mets seemed to hate so much.

That heel click always reminded me of Bert Lahr's interpretation of the Cowardly Lion in the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz.

Ronnie had all the courage in the world even in the face of impending death and medical difficulties. The Cubs and baseball is what kept him alive all these years. His devotion was as undying and immortal as any incarnation of an all mighty religious god.

Friday night I found it necessary to commemorate this man's memory with drinks along side the only other Cubs fan of a friend I have in Washington, D.C. We sipped scotch in his honor all while talking about how Jim Hendry needs to go if the Cubs want to start at a shot for a World Series and how the Rickett's asking the Illinois government for money to "improve Wrigley" is a shameful act of greed.

[Side Note: Dear Rickett's family, If you can't pay for the work you want done then you shouldn't have bought the team in the first place. Maybe if you paid more attention to the product on the field as opposed to adding macaroni art to the streets of Chicago the people buying tickets might fill their seats instead of leaving them empty.]

There has been some talk of whether or not Santo should have been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. While the fan inside me wants to say, "Send the man to the Hall," the baseball writer in me says:

"He's right where he belongs -- he's got a retired number by the Cubs at Wrigley Field and will always be remembered as the perfect combination of Harry Caray, Ernie Banks, and Ronnie Woo-Woo. He's got the announcer's spirit and antics like Caray, the player's devotion and understanding like Banks, and the fan's perspective like Woo-Woo. He doesn't need the Hall. He's already in a Hall class all his own."

Santo didn't want to be inducted into the Hall after passing away if he wasn't "good enough" to be inducted while he was alive. As weird as it sounds, I hope his wishes are held as sacred.

On a personal note, I was only ever in the same place as Ron Santo within a few feet of each other one time in my entire life (as far as I know). This past summer was my first on the Major League Baseball beat as the Nats writer for WeLoveDC.com. The Cubs came to town for a three-game series in August and Ron Santo was there with them.

I made it a point to be on the field for batting practice just to catch a glimpse of the Cubs legend in passing. The final game of the series he stood on the warning track during batting practice at Nationals Park chatting to buddies he's made throughout the years including the Cubs beat writers, Cubs players, Cubs players turned Nats players, and Nats coaching staff he knew from back in the day. He walked slowly atop his two prosthetic legs but what I saw was a man who never let himself be defeated. Instead, he defeated the odds by staying alive all these years.

So here's to the Chicago Cubs for keeping a legend's heart strong enough through the good and the bad because of a little unconditional love.

Rest in Peace, Ron Santo. May Cubs fans and players for decades to come know the passion you felt for this team and the wonderful feeling baseball can create in the hearts of the average person. Your courage is and always will be an inspiration.

Google Makes My Day: Wizard of Oz Edition

This morning I received a text from a friend of mine telling me to go to Google.com as soon as possible. I didn't understand why she was so specific. Usually when people tell me to "google" something, I go to the search engine and type in some text. Not this time.

My friend was specific. She said go to Google.com, not "google (insert random mundane word here).

Much to my pleasant surprise the following photo appeared:

Today in 1939, "The Wizard of Oz" premiered in Oconomowoc, WI. -- the same town in which my dad attended camp as a kid.

For those of you who don't know why the Wizard of Oz has a special place in my heart, let me explain. My dad was one of the biggest Oz collectors around. He restored all of L. Frank Baum's first edition books in the Oz series and was known throughout the Oz collecting world by many.

After his passing in January 2009, he received high praise not only from those who bought his "Oz Artifacts" off Ebay but from fellow collectors in general.

Our house is filled with first edition children's books, Oz memorabilia and more copies of the Wizard of Oz on VHS or DVD then anyone should really have. My mom also made sure to have the canter sing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" at my dad's funeral -- which he ended up singing at the graveside service as the lowered him to eternal rest at Chicago's Rosehill Cemetery.


I could get sad and upset, allowing the sight of this photo to numb my senses all day long but instead I'll relish it and smile and whistle "If I Only Had Brain" to myself.

Sounds like a good day to me.

A DC Snow Day

DC never gets "snow days". This angered me a bit upon moving to the District for four years of college. But due to this weekend's thundersnow experience, I got what I always wanted -- a day to do absolutely nothing because it snowed.

You see -- it's rare to get a snow day in Chicago. They are elusive and exclusive, so when they happen ... you count your lucky stars. This weekend in DC was no different.

The clock hadn't even struck 4:56 p.m. on Friday when my boss told me I could leave for the day. No one could believe the forecasts, but I being the "Snow Hopeful" was happy for the news. I fled this office with one song on my mind -- "Let it Snow" by Dean Martin was on repeat the whole bus ride home.

I, along with my closest friends, were part of the lone members of the DC-bar-district paying customers during the greatest storm in DC history consumed the city in white, powdery dust.

It was my best friend's birthday. So who cares if it was snowing? We braved the storm, had our fill of debaucherours fun a-la our undergrad Greek Life days, and were surrounded by maybe less than 500 others in the entire Adams Morgan area.

Adams Morgan was never a favorite of mine. I find it to be a disgusting hell-hole of vile human activity and copious amounts of drinking. This Friday night was special though. We hopped between two bars -- Bourbon (where we spent my 22nd Birthday) and Tom Toms. These bars are notorious (as are all Adams Morgan bars) for being sweaty, crowded late-night party spots for those looking to drink their work week away. It was not that place once the snow started.

Friday night's Adams Morgan was full of folks in snow boots, ugly Christmas sweaters, scarves, and hats. It was like being in Chicago without having to pay the $400 seasonal airline ticket. I felt home for the first time in 4.5 years. It was wonderful.

That wasn't the end of it. In the words of the most cliched story tellers, 'twas only the beginning!

2 inches of snow (give or take) fell in the District every hour until late Saturday night.

Monday, I got my snow day from work. Granted, I woke up at 6:30 a.m. in a frenzy about whether or not the snow day would mean a day off from work only to find an e-mail in my inbox saying I could stay home.

A few Gilmore Girls episodes and some Chinese food later, I took a nap only to wake up and realize: "2009 is almost over."

It was in that moment that I felt like Dorothy in the poppy fields overlooking the Emerald City. The snow woke me up and rekindled my fire. I've had the same dreams since I was 9-years-old. The snow reminded me that I've got to get to work if I want to make those happen.

70 Years and 10 Months -- What A Day

I never knew how important one movie could be in the life of a family -- until 2009 reared it's ugly head.

To endure four deaths in eight months is something I continue to struggle with everyday. I assure you, that's no exaggeration. I often times find myself holding back tears on the metro bus to work or on my lunch break walks to and from the Subway sandwich shop.

I can't remember a time when The Wizard of Oz wasn't a part of my life. In fact, I had no clue how big of a deal it really was until I was at my grandparents house in Michigan City, In. -- just hours after my Bubbe's funeral.

My three cousins and my younger sister huddled around the same television set we've huddled under for over 20 years now. This was a rare occasion seeing as three of us lived in outside of the Chicago area -- not to mention we hadn't done this since well before my youngest cousin (age 12) was born.

We watched our birthday parties on repeat, heckling each other over our poor taste in music and the matching outfits our mother's made us wear. But -- as the oldest of five granddaughters -- I assumed my role as team captain and chose to commandeer the television set.

At first I felt bad, but then I realized: This is the only way I'll be able to cope. Lucky for me, I was born first ... so the majority of home movies were, well ... of me.

That night, I watched my second birthday. I had never seen the video before. It was a pleasure to see my failed attempts at opening the gift wrap on my plethora of presents.

And then ... of course ... the kicker. My dad was sitting Indian-style on the white carpet floor, excited and with gift in hand. He called my name and waved me over, looked straight at the camera and said, "Rachel! Rachel! In 20 years, you're going to know I wrapped this gift for you! Do you know what it is?" I shook my head while smiling. I was excited! It was my birthday after all!

"Open it!," he shouted. I couldn't. My hands were too small and the box was too big. So he did it for me.

Low and behold, "It's The Wizard of Oz!" My dad was so happy. And in that moment, while watching television, I proceeded to cry the happiest cry I've ever cried in my entire life. I was 22.

Exactly 20 years later, I finally saw that video. It was as if my dad knew how important it was ahead of time.

You see, they sang "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" as they lowered my dad into the ground. It's just ... one of those things.

So today -- on the 70th anniversary of the silver screen debut of an American classic (and on the 10 month anniversary of my father's death) -- I am going to see the Wizard of Oz.

It's like the Wizard told the Tin Man, "A heart is not judged by how much you loved, but by how much you are loved by others."

I love this movie. I love my dad. And I can't wait to take this evening for myself and remember those two things together.