The first word I ever said was probably “mom” or “dad” or some kind of typical simple word for a child, but soon after I am sure that I said “Cubs.” I was born a Cubs fan. Puncture my skin and I think you are bound to find the color blue. For a little while, in my earlier attempting to walk years, I tried to stray away. I liked the pirates, mostly because I wanted to be one, and I’m sure I had a day or two of Yankee fandom during the T-ball days when I would call my shot and attempt a home run like the great Bambino (ironically a legend that happened in the ’32 World Series…against the Cubs). Those days were few and far between. Maybe it was my mother’s Chicago heritage or growing up in the midwest or perhaps my love of sorrow, but whatever the case I know that I was destined to be a Cubs fan.
A note to anyone who thinks sports are just games. In Iowa, sports are religion. Some would say wresting, football, basketball, or golf, but although my Sunday place of worship is Lambeau Field, my God is baseball. As I have written in a previous blog, baseball is the truest form of entertainment (except theatre) in my life. It’s my chicken soup for the soul, which coupled with being a Chicago Cubs fan might explain my many years of depression. Anyway, I am a Cubs fan through and through and it is as a Cubs fan that I write this blog entry.
My favorite baseball player is Mark Grace. Always has been, always will be. In recent years he has made a few errors in judgment but while I was a kid he was my sport icon. .303 career batting average with a .383 on base percentage. He debuted for the Cubs just a few months before I was born and as I grew up there wasn’t a day when he wasn’t on first base. The Cubs crowning achievement in his 13 year Chicago career was a one game playoff in 1998 under Jim Riggleman. Eventually he left the Cubs for the South, joining the D-Backs and winning a World Series in his three final years. I grew up in the great home run races of Sosa and in the ending years of Sandberg, but Grace was my guy. Every fan has that player, the one who you watch closer than the game. For my mother it was Billy Williams, for me it was Mark Grace, for my friends it was Sosa, but no matter who you cheered for in your own time, there is only one Mr. Cub.
There are two players in the history of the Chicago Cubs franchise who deserve the title of “Mr. Cub,” although only one of them has it and unfortunately this past week the world is now without them both. The first Cub taken from us was Ron Santo, not a Cub his entire career, but the time he missed on the field he made up for it in the booth. The other was Ernie Banks.
After joining the KC Monarchs Negro League Team, serving in Germany during the Korean War, and returning to the Monarchs, Ernie Banks arrived in Chicago on September 17, 1953. He never left. In a 19 year career he amassed 512 home runs, over 2500 hits, 2 MVPs, 1 gold glove, and 14 all star appearances. When his turn for the Hall of Fame came up he was elected on the first ballot with over 80% of the vote. He is considered one of the greatest players to ever play the game of baseball. But none of this is why he is “Mr. Cub.”
He was a player-manager towards the end of his career. After baseball he served as a Cubs ambassador, started multiple charity organizations, became the first black man in America to own a Ford Dealership, and promoted and financially supported baseball leagues in some of the poorest parts of Chicago. In the later years of his life he became an ordained minister and presided over Sean Marshall’s wedding. He was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom and President Barack Obama presented him with a bat once owned by Jackie Robinson. Eventually he moved to LA but still he went to Cubs training camp almost every single year and Wrigley field regularly. It was recently said that “the Chicago Cubs do not have a mascot, but they hardly need one when the face of the franchise is still so visible.” But none of this is why he is “Mr. Cub”.
Ernie Banks was Mr. Cub, because despite 19 years of losing he never lost. Banks was and still is considered the greatest optimist to ever play the game. He brought a joy to the world within the game and without it. In 19 years he never once had a single playoff at bat. For many of those years, the Cubs were in dead last and then towards the end they suffered heart breaking defeats to teams like the ’69 Mets. There are many great players to never win the big game, the big series, but how many of those players played 154 game seasons. How many played in a place where loser-dum was considered a daily ritual. Most importantly, how many complained? Ernie Banks didn’t. Ever.
Baseball is just a game. The Bartman ball, the series with the Dodgers, the cork bat, the ’98 game, all massive disappointments, but nevertheless just part of the game, but there are moments, there are people who allow baseball to transcend the bridge between a game and something much more. Ernie Banks wasn’t just a ball player, he was a model of how to live with hope despite overwhelming despair.
I met him once, briefly, during a spring training game in Arizona. I have a ball signed by him. I remember going up in line to meet him and asking him to sign my ball. It was important to me, but in the face of icons I get very shy so I said thank you and began to walk away. My mother didn’t. She stayed and thanked him for what he had done for the game, but more importantly for what he had meant to Chicago. I was annoyed and embarrassed and eventually wrestled her away. I said, “he doesn’t care, he hears that all the time.”
Perhaps he heard that all the time. I’m sure my mother’s words went in one ear and out the other, but nevertheless I was wrong. I should have thanked him. Because even though I never saw him play, I did see him live and that was enough for me to understand “Mr. Cub.”
“We’ve got the setting - sunshine, fresh air, the team behind us. So let’s play two.” RIP Mr. Cub.
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