Ryne Sandberg understood that when a kid looks up at you with wide-eyed admiration, you don’t make a fool out of them. A tribute to the Cubs legend who respected the game, and us, too much to let us down.
Every generation that's played on an American sandlot carries a lighthouse name. A favorite ballplayer whose very mention can send a forgotten middle-aged man back in time and turn him into a kid again. Back to where he's chasing dusk‑lit grounders and his knees know no ache, where his swing is effortless and his back doesn't stay twisted for days after, and where the summers and the innings are infinite and he's yet to truly understand or appreciate that all games will one day end.
For many it was Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, or Jimmie Foxx. To others it was Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, or Jackie Robinson, depending on which radio they fell asleep beside. To others it was Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Tom Seaver, or Nolan Ryan. Our friends along the Mississippi and biggest rival rightly worship Stan Musial. South Siders of today may say Frank Thomas. Clemente, Koufax, Jackson, Morgan, Bench, Schmidt, Rose, Gibson, Banks, Stargell, McCovey, Ripken, Brett...listen, I can't list them all.
My Dad's was Mickey Mantle.
Mine's Ryne Sandberg.