C’mon, Ernie
By Fred Malo Jr.
Carbondale
My Chicago Cubs are already down two zip and the bulk of the season hasn’t even started yet. Last week, they got swept in a two-game series in Tokyo against the defending world champion Los Angeles Dodgers — a team, unencumbered by a salary cap, that can get any player they want.
Oh well, the rest of the domestic schedule starts today. A hundred and sixty games to go and hope springs eternal in Cub fan world.
I’m a baseball fan, an anomaly in this pigskin crazed state, because I’m a Cub fan and I’m a Cub fan because of Ernie Banks. I worshipped the man. When I came home from elementary school, I didn’t ask my mom if the Cubs won, I’d ask, ”How’d Ernie do? Did he hit a homer?” If the answer was yes, Banks hit 512 in his career, it made my day.
My dad took me to many games at Wrigley Field. After one, Ernie was surrounded by a crowd in the players’ parking lot patiently signing autographs. Dad handed me a scorecard and a pencil and sent me off to fulfill a dream. Only six at the time, I got pushed around pretty good by the grownups in the crowd. Ernie saw this and said, “Let the boy through.”
I moved forward. I should’ve been nervous, but there was something in Ernie’s big friendly smile that put me right at ease. He asked my name and the pencil disappeared into his enormous hand. Ernie signed his name and wished me luck. I have that scorecard to this day.
Flash forward 20 years, Ernie’s retired and I’m working in a steel mill in East Chicago, Indiana. A high school classmate and fellow die-hard Cub fan, who was the manager of a sporting goods chain in Indianapolis, called me and asked if I was going to the sporting goods show at McCormick’s Place in Chicago.
“Hadn’t planned on it,” I replied.
“I think you might want to,” said my friend. “We have a booth there and we’ve lined up Ernie to shake hands and sign autographs.”
“See you there,” I blurted.
When I got to the show, I spied Ernie and walked over to introduce myself. The man was so drunk he couldn’t speak coherently. That big friendly smile was replaced by a boozy grin, his eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of gin.
It felt as if a ten-ton ingot had been dropped on my head, like my entire childhood had been invalidated. I would compare it to the time an older kid told me Santa Claus wasn’t real. That’s a good analogy. The Ernie I imagined was fictitious. The real Ernie had feet of clay.
On the drive home, my eyes welled up with gushers of tears so I couldn’t see the road. Not a good idea on the 16-lane Dan Ryan Expressway, so I pulled over. Once composed and coming to terms with one of the worst days in my life, I made it home.
When it became my turn to retire, I fell into the same pit Ernie did. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I downed many a whiskey bottle. I pulled myself out of that hole and I hope Ernie did, too.
Ernie died in 2015, the year before the Cubs won their first world championship in 108 years. Here’s hoping he was up there celebrating with a glass of soda and flashing that big friendly smile.
Spring Haiku
By Deborah Holt Williams
Glenwood Springs
Humble crocuses
Rise up against the winter
And demand spring NOW!