Ron Santo

by David Goldman

As another opening day comes and goes, I can’t help but think back to the summer of 1969 - a time of freedom, a time of magic, a time when anything seemed possible ... especially for me, a 13-year-old kid with diabetes.

I was diagnosed when I was a year and a half old. It was 1957 and the prognosis for a child diagnosed that early wasn’t good. I was facing the likelihood of blindness, kidney failure, heart disease and a host of other complications. But without him ever knowing it, one of our favorite Cubs helped me through those times.

Opening day in 1969 -- April 8 -- was cold and nasty -- a typical opening day at Wrigley Field. The Cubs let the Phillies tie the game in the 9^th but Willie Smith won it for us with a home run in extra innings.

It was a wild summer – from what seemed like an insurmountable division lead to the black cat in the on deck circle and blown call by the home plate ump at Shea. I lived and breathed the Cubs that summer.

That summer was the first time my friends and I could go by ourselves to see the Cubs play. We were 13 years old -- old enough to be able to take the bus to the El and the El down to Addison, just half a block away from Wrigley.

We’d go all the time. Things were different then at the ballpark. For one, you could afford to go. To sit in the bleachers at Wrigley Field in 1969 if you were under 16 years old cost 50 cents. Public transportation cost us 34 cents -- round trip. I don’t remember how much it cost for a hotdog and Coke (Diet Rite in my case), but it was probably under a buck. And tickets were available. We’d walk up to the ticket window an hour and a half before game time (we had to see batting practice, of course), buy our tickets and walk in. We didn’t have to get our tickets through someone who had a couple extra or through ticket brokers. You just went to the game, bought a ticket and you were in.

With a couple of dollars, we could go to Wrigley, watch our heroes and have a great time. It seemed to almost always be warm and sunny, our Cubs were in first place and everything was going right. I even got to see Ken Holtzman’s no-hitter, in which one of the Atlanta Braves hit a ball that everyone knew was gone, only to be brought back by a friendly breeze that deposited it directly into Billy Williams’ glove for an out.

But for me, the greatest thing of all was that the Cubs had a superstar third baseman who was a diabetic.

I don’t remember how I found out. I think one of my friends told me he had read it in the newspaper. How could that be? He was the best third baseman around at that time. He hit towering home runs, was a great fielder and was one of the team leaders. He’s got diabetes? He takes shots everyday? I just couldn’t comprehend it. Somehow, somewhere deep in my head, it had been implanted that if you’re a diabetic, you couldn’t do this sort of thing. A diabetic shouldn’t be able to be a major league baseball player, let alone an All-Star. But he was. I saw him play all those times. Good ol’ number 10. I saw him hit home runs, always have a dirty uniform, and jump in the air and click his heels every time the Cubs won during that season.

I sat there all of those warm summer days watching him. He played for the National League All-Star team nine times in his career, including that year.  And like me, he was a diabetic.

He became my hero – a true role model. If he could do this, I could do whatever I was destined to do. This disease was going to take its toll, but now I knew I could fight it. Because Santo did. I could do whatever I wanted in my life. Because Santo did. It was an awakening for me. While I never thought about the disease holding me back, I also never thought that I could do anything in life and be a diabetic. I felt like there was a new freedom for me.

I once read an interview with him. It was, I think he said, his rookie season. His teammates didn’t know he had diabetes. I think he said he was either afraid or embarrassed to tell them. He was in the on deck circle and he felt an insulin reaction coming on. He didn’t have any candy or sugar with him or in his uniform, so he decided he’d go up to the plate, swing three times, strikeout and go back to his locker where he had a candy bar. Well, on one of the swings he made contact and hit a home run. He said by the time he was rounding third and heading for home, he was feeling really weak and disoriented. He tagged home plate and headed back into the dugout, past his teammates who were all congratulating him, and straight back into the locker room to get that candy bar. After that, he told his manager – and, I believe, his teammates -- that he was a diabetic.

My first thought was, ‘why did he keep it a secret?” I thought that if others knew he had this disease, they would look out for him and help him if he needed help, just like my friends and family had always done for me. I guess that naiveté goes along with being 13. I thought that if others only knew, he could be a role model for them like he was for me. In time, he did become just that.

After baseball Ron had a second career in the radio booth for the Chicago Cubs. With all the medical advancements, he wasn’t able to dodge all of the ills that diabetes serves during one’s lifetime. He has had both feet amputated and has other complications from diabetes. Yet through it all, he remained the picture of courage. And every year he sponsors a fundraising walk for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation along with other work to raise millions of dollars as well as awareness.

When you’d hear him on the radio he always sounded like he was in a good mood. He was always  happy. He didn’t complain, didn’t blame anything on being a diabetic.

I never got to meet Ron, but there are things I’ve always wanted to tell him -- how much hope he gave a diabetic kid, that I learned something about how to carry myself because of him, and that I learned something about dealing with adversity.

During the last vote he  was denied membership into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Again. I don’t know why -- he was a better player and has better statistics than most third basemen already in there. Forty two years ago though, he became a Hall of Famer -- and a hero -- to me.

In the past, on Opening Day, I’d turn on the radio to listen to him doing the game.  And when I heard him, I’d be reminded once more why he’s remained a hero all these years. Now he’s gone, but he will always be my hero.