UTK Special 7/29/25
Ryne Sandberg
Ryne Sandberg died Monday. Sixty-five. Metastatic prostate cancer.
The game loses a Hall of Famer. I lose the reason I ever fell in love with baseball, if that is something that can be truly lost.
I grew up in the 1980’s and when my family first got cable, the channel I chose was WGN. In the sunny green afternoon, watching a young third baseman the Cubs had just stolen from Philadelphia, I fell hard. Harry Caray was new to the north side. Steve Stone was there in his rookie season as an announcer. That’s where I learned baseball, through that broadcast window and on dusty fields trying to be Sandberg. I was never an infielder.
I met him four times. Choked three of them.
The first time was before a Cubs playoff game. It was the one we all now call the Bartman Game, down on the Wrigley grass. I was in a circle with Len Kasper and Boog Sciambi. I felt someone join us, turned, and there he was. Sciambi says I went ghost-white. Never said a word.
Second time was at Harry Caray’s restaurant, where I was having dinner with Steve Stone. (I’m sorry some of this sounds like namedropping.) Someone came over to the table. It was Sandberg again. I shook his hand and he and Steve spoke a minute but me? No words.
Third time was at Victory Field here in Indy. He was managing the IronPigs, doing it the hard way — buses, backfields, small parks. Media availability. My turn to ask a question. I opened my mouth and all that came out was “uhhhh.” Complete choke.
Fourth time, same place later in the year. I promised myself I would get words out. I got all of them out. Too many. It came out in a rush - that he was the reason I loved baseball, that I’d watched every inning, that I dreamed of ivy, that I remembered the MVP, the Sandberg Game, the playoff runs, the retirement, the comeback. Every bit of 12-year-old me spilled out in a single breath.
He nodded. “Thank you. Next question.”
That was it. That was my moment with my hero.
I’ve heard he died on Hall of Fame induction day and that he didn’t want the announcement to overshadow anyone else. I don’t know if that’s true, but it tracks. That was Sandberg. No fuss. No noise. Just go out and do the job better than anyone else on the field.
Ryne Sandberg was everything I wanted to be - quiet, confident, handsome, skilled, and the best in the world at something he loved.
Monday, Ryne Sandberg died. With him went a little of that WGN afternoon light.
It's a huge loss and so young. I totally felt this. Mine was Seaver. I never got to meet him even though I, like you, spent some time as a sportswriter and, living up here in Northern California wine country, I was just miles from his vineyard for the last decade or so of his life. RIP Sandberg. Even Mets fans appreciated you.