Ryno

“As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.”
-- Ernest Hemingway

Time and perspective do interesting things to the heroes of our childhood. When they are kind, they reinforce the wide-eyed admiration of youth. When they are cruel, those heroes can become the embodiment of the harsh realities of the adult world. Somewhere in the middle, there’s only the dull weight of doubt that maybe the lofty in our memory figures weren’t as exalted as we once envisioned.

I never had much place for athletes in the halls of my admiration. Since I was eight years old, sports have been a continuous presence in my life. Little league baseball, park board basketball, and flag football started early and evolved through high school. But in all that time, when every one of my peers had a favorite player’s number to request for their jerseys, I was content with what remained in the box.

Very often I felt an elitist pride as a young male more fascinated with the works of Shakespeare and Spielberg than the records of the Bulls and the Bears. I laughed when my brother used “we” to infuse himself into the inner workings of his favorite teams (i.e. “We just need a solid closer to contend next year.”). Even though I participated in sports, I had no interest in them outside of my own personal sphere.

There was one exception, though. My great-grandmother used to pick my brother and I up from grade school every afternoon. She’d take us back to her house where we’d harass the dog and do puzzles waiting for our mother to get off work. I don’t remember much about the hours we spent in that quaint little house, there are no stories to tell, but I’ll never forget the soundtrack – that drunk old man slobbering “HOLY COW!”

My great-grandma Maxi (named after the dog, for whatever reason) epitomized the die-hard sports fan. Barely a teen when the Cubs won their last World Series, she followed them for the remaining 70 years of her life. I don’t know who she inherited her Cubbie passion from, but she passed hers on to my brother and me.

Of the two of us, my brother was the more passionate. He knew the roster up and down, their numbers and stats. I had neither the mind nor the drive to collect the log of ever-changing information that my brother did. My fandom was bare bones. I liked the Cubs, plain and simple. The only aspect of my interest that entailed any sort of specificity was my favorite player: Ryne Sandberg.

I’ve never been drawn to the flashy players. Humility is such a rare commodity in modern sports that as I considered this essay I missed Sandberg's humble spirit more and more. Every day, whether the Cubs were worst or first, Sandberg came to the field and did the job. In a year when whiney millionaires and diva personas poisoned the Cubs, the cool, collected demeanor of number 23 would have been a blessed addition.

I remember the days in little league when my brother often imitated Andre Dawson’s straight-legged batting style. I spent long hours trying to find something, anything, to imitate about Sandberg. Without the flair, or even idiosyncrasies, of most of the premiere players in the league, all I was left to imitate was his character.

Ironically, Sandberg’s character may have hindered him on his path to the Hall of Fame. For the sports writers who vote on the Hall, Sandberg was never a stellar interview. He didn’t carry himself with the brash arrogance of a Deion Sanders; he was never good for a compelling quote. He wasn’t a surly character like Barry Bonds, one whose contempt for the press could at least be marketed. No, Sandberg welcomed the press with a smile, then made generous use of the Crash Davis’ clichés. Gotta take it one game at a time, and God willing…

This week, in his third year on the ballot, Ryne Sandberg was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Of course, I’m thrilled to see my boyhood hero crowned with this prestigious honor, but a part of me is bitter that it didn’t happen sooner.

As I scoured my memories of Ryne Sandberg, there seemed to be little to debate. I remember him hitting .300 religiously. I remember him being reliable for 30 home runs and 100 RBI’s each season when such numbers were unheard of for a second baseman. And at a high volume position like second base, I remember Sandberg errors coming as infrequently as Cubs playoff appearances.

How does this career translate to a third ballot hall-of-famer? Well, that wasn’t exactly Sandberg’s career.

He was not the powerhouse hitter I remember. Sandberg only hit over 30 home runs in two seasons. During those two seasons he also drove in exactly 100 runs, the only two times he accomplished that as well. He never got to 3000 hits, 500 home runs, nor did he bat .300 for his career, the unofficial benchmarks for entry into the Hall.

If one aspect of Sandberg's game that bears out after all these yearst is his defense, the most overlooked characteristic of play in all of team sports. Sandberg’s career fielding percentage, even including his initial years being shuffled from third to short to second, was .989. Out of every thousand plays that came Sandberg’s way, only eleven weren't completed for outs. Most second basemen botch that many in one season. Take out my corrupted memory of Sandberg’s offensive prowess, he was still one of the greatest two or three second baseman of all-time. So, either the Hall completely ignores second basemen, or they overlooked Sandberg’s history at that position. I can’t say with great certainty.

In a serendipitous moment last summer, I got tickets, unknowingly, to Ryne Sandberg Day at Wrigley Field. I never got to see Sandberg play in person, so as I watched him throw out the first pitch from my spot in the bleachers I fought back tears. I felt absurd and tried to concoct an explanation should any of my fellow Cub fans see my breakdown. Only one did.

I turned to my brother, and he smiled at me. It was simple understanding. He had sat next to me in Grandma Maxi’s living room while Harry Caray bastardized the English language and Steve Stone tried to reign him in. His favorite players had evolved over the years, but he knew that, for me, nobody will ever compare to Ryno. Regardless of what the statistics or the Hall voters say, for me he will always be the definitive ballplayer.