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That's right, folks — today is the birthday of the man with the biggest and best afro in MLB history: Oscar Gamble, whose tonsorial majesty both inspired Big Hair & Plastic Grass, and quite appropriately graces its cover. Celebrate in any funky way you see fit.
It's been over a week since Ron Santo passed away, but I've been simply too saddened and shocked by his death to write anything about him until now. Shocked because, despite his many serious health issues, including the diabetes that forced the amputation of his legs and the bladder cancer that eventually killed him, Ronnie just seemed too damn stubborn to die. Saddened, because, well, as so many Cubs fans have already said, he really seemed like a member of the family.
I never got to see Ron Santo play; he was already retired by the time I started paying serious attention to what was going on in the major leagues. So the bulk of my experience (and connection) with him stemmed from many years of listening to Cubs radio broadcasts — in recent years via XM, where I could hear Santo and his play-by-play partner Pat Hughes calling the games from Wrigley, even while I was driving through the desert. Santo was by no means a masterful color commentator; like Harry Caray before him, he would often call players by the wrong name, or forget the particulars of what was happening on the field, and he was an obvious "homer" who audibly lived and died according to whether or not the Cubs won. And, of course, he was occasionally prone to going off on bizarre tangents, like the time in 2007 when he spent several whole innings of a broadcast obsessing on the origin of the peanut.
But while all of those things (and his impressive array of monosyllabic grunts and exultations — "Yes!" "Ah Jeez," etc.) could be annoying, they were also part of what made him so endearing. As I wrote in the 2007 Robe post about the peanut game, "When the Cubs are winning, his joy is a wonderful thing to (audibly) behold; when the Cubs are getting killed, his moans and groans are so hilarious, they almost take the edge off the loss." To me, listening to Ron Santo was like watching a ballgame with that eccentric uncle in the family who sometimes makes you cringe at the dinner table with his blunt commentary or inappropriate non-sequiturs, but who does it with such a good hearted, genuine manner that you can't help loving him anyway.
I'm thankful that I got to meet him this past January at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp in Arizona, because I got to see that the man in person was exactly the same guy I'd heard on the radio all these years. There was an undeniable touch of vanity about him — as exemplified by the toupeés he wore, and the fact that (according to several of the old-timers) he'd had his prosthetic legs made longer than his amputated ones, because he'd always wanted to be 6'2" — but there was a whole lot of gruff sweetness and humility, as well. Unlike some of the other august personages at the camp, he was extremely approachable, and clearly loved shooting the shit about the old days as well as what was happening with the current Cubs team.
Of course, without Pat Hughes there to reign him in, we were subjected to a couple of rambling and hilarious (in the "where is he going with this?" sense) monologues during the morning meetings. There was one particularly memorable one where he went on and on about the death threats he received in NYC in 1970; after ten minutes of build-up, he said, "So, I gave the threatening letters to the FBI, and after a long time they finally came back and told me that the guy who wrote 'em was probably gay." End of story. My friend Paul and I turned and looked at each other like, "Um, what the fuck did he just say?" But, well, that was Ronnie for ya...
The sadness I (and undoubtedly many others) felt over Ron Santo's passing was also wrapped up around the fact that he never got to see his two big dreams come to fruition: Induction into the Hall of Fame, and a World Series championship for the Cubs. There were several times this past decade where both of those things seemed realistically on the verge of happening, and then were cruelly snatched away by the HoF Veterans Committee (aka, the "Now that we've gotten into the Hall, let's keep everyone else out" committee) and some frustrating Cubs teams that curled up in a fetal position when the going got tough. (Yeah, I'm still pissed about 2008 — and I will never forget the almost animalistic cries of anguish and rage Santo uttered during Game 2 of the NLDS against the Dodgers, when the Cubs went down 5-0 in the second inning thanks in part to two dumb infield errors.)
Many others have made legitimate and compelling arguments for his inclusion in the Hall of Fame, so I'm not going to go into that here, except to say that I believe Santo belongs in there — but he probably didn't help his own case with his oft-stated desire for induction. It's a tricky line between promoting yourself for induction and acting sufficiently humble and "dignified" for the voters' tastes, and that's a line Santo never could have walked in a million years. Just like his love for the Cubs, he wore his belief that he was a rightful Hall of Famer on his sleeve, because that's the kind of "on his mind/on his tongue) guy he was. Still, it would have been so gratifying to see his joy at finally getting into the Hall, or the Cubs finally winning the World Series (or even just friggin' making it in there for the first time since 1945), that him dying before either of those things could happen somehow seemed exceptionally, arbitrarily cruel — not to mention a stark reminder that most of us will die before ever seeing our fondest dreams come true.
Then again, how much do those dreams mean in the long run? Sure, it would be nice to get your name and face on a plaque in Cooperstown for future generations to venerate; sure, it would be nice to see the team you've loved and been part of for most of your life go all the way. But ultimately, Ron Santo's life and legacy won't be measured by either of those things; rather, it will be measured (as it already is) by the countless people who were inspired by his courageous example, and by all the people who fell in love with the game of baseball while watching him play or listening to him call a game. The Cubs may be losers, but Ron Santo was never one, not by any metric you can trot out.
Rest in peace, Ronnie. You gave it your all while you were here, and I — and a whole lotta other folks — loved you for that. It may be too painful to listen to Cubs games without you around, but I'll be sure to say a few "Ah, Jeez"es for ya when the 2011 season starts.
That's right, folks! Want to get a FREE autographed first edition of Big Hair & Plastic Grass for yourself or a baseball-lovin' loved one in time for Christmas? Well, I just might be able to hook you up!
For one week, beginning Saturday, December 4, I will be giving away one signed and personalized copy per day via the Big Hair & Plastic Grass Facebook page. Go to the page and "Like" it, and you will receive details every morning in your Facebook feed as to how you can enter each day's drawing. Each day's winner will be selected at random, and will receive a copy autographed by BH&PG author Dan Epstein (dat's me!), and personalized according to the winner's instructions. (You know, something involving your favorite 70s team, player, hairdo, etc.)
This promotion is being done totally out of my pocket, but it's my way of saying thanks for all the amazing support I've received this year for my funky labor of love. And hey, if you feel like actually buying a copy for someone this holiday season, you can score one online directly from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Indiebound.org. If you know a guy or gal who grew up loving baseball in the 1970s, I guarantee you that the cover alone will make them smile — and the stuff inside ain't too shabby, either...