Midway through Ron Santo’s career with the Chicago Cubs, he was knocked unconscious by a pitch. After physicians got through examining the Cubs’ third baseman and he regained consciousness, his first words to the doctors were vintage Santo: “I’m ready to get back in the batter’s box; let’s go.”
Trouble was, he was at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, and by then the Cubs’ game that afternoon had long since ended.
It is called “ballplayers mentality,” the ability or, at least in the athlete’s mind, the desire to shake off whatever abnormality no matter how serious and return to action. It might also best sum up Santo’s 1997 season behind the microphone describing Cubs’ games on WGN radio.
It actually started in Arizona last winter, right before the start of Cubs spring training. The normally talkative Santo was having some discomfort talking, and a raspiness was evident in his delivery during exhibition game broadcasts.
“I never had had any problem with talking before, believe me,” recalled Santo, who was gearing up for his eighth season in the Cubs broadcast booth. “I just thought maybe it was a cold.”
It turned out to be much worse.
Near the end of the season, Santo, 57, of Bannockburn was knocked out of the booth. By the fall, he was undergoing surgery to remove polyps on his vocal cords. What his hands were to Santo the third baseman, his vocal cords were to Santo the broadcaster. And like any injury from which he battled back during his 16-year playing career in the major leagues, he was battling back from this one before Cubs fans all over the country.
“The amount of concern for Ron was amazing. People were listening and knew something was wrong,” said John McDonough, the Cubs vice president in charge of team broadcasts. “It was a tough year all around for the Cubs, a tough year for Ronnie.”
The 0-14 start by the Cubs didn’t help things emotionally for Santo, who has bled Cubbie blue since he originally was signed by the franchise in 1958 as a teenager out of Seattle. He takes every loss as hard–some say harder–than some of the players. And talking baseball is an integral part of Santo’s day whether on the field during batting practice or talking to customers at his Schaumburg-based restaurant after a game.
“I know emotionally it probably made things worse. Now I’m not going to say it was the cause, because we know that’s not true, but emotionally, sure, it made things tougher on Ronnie that things were going so badly on the field,” recalled Cubs play-by-play announcer Pat Hughes, a Lake County neighbor of Santo.
Santo disputed that the woeful performance on the field made his throat worse but conceded, “Let’s just say when the Cubs aren’t doing well, you don’t feel too good.”
Still, Santo was determined to battle through what team doctor John Marquardt originally thought was a bad case of laryngitis. He tried lozenges and an assortment of simple throat remedies to try to ease the hoarseness. For a time, it would provide temporary relief, only to flare up again after a short time.
There was one bright element to all of this for Santo, who was no stranger to dealing with doctors and personal illness. At no time did doctors believe the throat problems were related to his 40-year battle with juvenile diabetes. Santo has had the disease since age 18 and has been a leader in fundraising efforts for the Juvenile Diabetes Association.
During the All-Star break, the three days off figured to be the right tonic for the grind of traveling that leaves even the announcing crew thirsting for rest. The second half of the season would be different, Santo thought, and his voice would return to normal and the pain would be gone. Just like the Cubs would be able to turn around heir disastrous first half of the 1997 campaign.
Neither Santo nor the Cubs would get any better.
“I am a friend of Ronnie’s, and I eventually sat down with him and said, `Ron, you’ve got to do something about this for your own sake. We aren’t going anywhere, we aren’t going to make the playoffs or anything, and you should get this thing taken care of now,’ ” McDonough explained.
Santo kept going until a coast-to-coast plane ride that landed the Cubs in San Diego in August. After struggling through two-thirds of the season, Santo knew McDonough was right.
“We had a day off, and I didn’t leave the hotel room. Usually I’m out in the morning playing 18 holes of golf. Instead, I didn’t move. I kept my mouth shut, which for me was very, very tough,” Santo recalled. “I wasn’t any better. I knew something was wrong, really wrong.”
Santo knew it was time to shut it down and see an ear, nose and throat specialist.
“It was a tough day for Ronnie. He looked at me and said, `Partner, I can’t make it,’ ” Hughes said. “I told him, `Ronnie, your health is the most important, the most important thing that I am concerned about, the fans are concerned about and your family is concerned about. Take care of this thing.’ “
Santo’s departure left the Cubs with a problem. Announcing baseball is a two-man operation (three men in some ill-fated attempts in the past), and Hughes was left with the prospect of doing some games alone.
“What people have to understand is that by now, after nearly two years, Ronnie and I had developed a banter; we knew what each other was going to say during a stretch of a game,” Hughes said. “I did a few of those games in Florida by myself, including one real stinker; I got through it; you get through things like that, but I missed Ronnie’s presence. He was my partner and he wasn’t there.”
The Cubs had a decision: Leave Hughes to fend for himself until Santo returned or bring someone else in while Santo got diagnosed. Initially, they tabbed former Cubs hurler Scott Sanderson on an emergency basis, then turned to ex-Cubs catcher and former Santo teammate Randy Hundley.
Santo flew home from San Diego on that late August day, and Dr. Dave Hanson of Chicago gave him a thorough examination, including placing an instrument right down into his throat. For the first time, Santo could see a picture of what was causing the voice problem.
“There, right there for me to see, were two problems. Two nodules had developed a polyp,” Santo recalled.
“I hadn’t met Ron before then,” Hanson said. “We talked about what he needed to do, including resting his voice.”
Like that time back in his playing days, Santo was hoping to get it taken care of the next day so he could be back in the booth for the final five weeks of the season.
Instead, Hanson explained that another problem had emerged.
Santo had developed a case of reflux, meaning acid from the stomach was backing up into his throat. The buildup was irritating the larynx, preventing doctors from attacking the problem of the nodules and polyp. Until the reflux was relieved, doctors couldn’t operate, meaning Santo was done for the season.
Although Santo was told to cut back his talking, the more difficult task involved his diet. He was told he couldn’t eat anything three hours before he went to bed, including not having water, and he had to sleep sitting up.
“I did that for a solid month, and things started to get better,” Santo recalled. “The doctor examined me and said things were better and the problem could–now he said could–be better in three to four months (without surgery). Three to four months? I wasn’t going to wait around and see if I was better in three to four months. I told him, `Doc, I want to take care of it right now.’ “
The surgery at Northwestern Memorial Hospital went perfectly, according to Hanson. The nodules and polyp were removed, and Santo was on the mend, except he was not allowed to talk for seven days.
“That may have been the toughest part of all for Ron,” said his wife, Vicki. “It would be tough for anyone who likes to talk. Ron had to communicate everything with me by writing it down or gesturing to me.”
Vicki didn’t mind. After spending most of the season worrying about how serious the problem might be for her husband, she was glad to be the “interpreter” for a week.
“It was difficult to keep him quiet and to make him point for things,” Vicki recalled. “Then there were all the calls from people who cared about Ron and wanted to know how he was doing and to talk to him themselves. I tried to make as many calls as I could to our family and his close friends to tell them it wasn’t any more serious, but that was tough, too.”
Then, Santo was in for a little spring training–voice style.
“Ron had to learn that his voice was an instrument and had to be taken care of. The shouting had to stop,” Hanson said. “We had him go through some speech and breathing therapy, some performance training, so he could better learn how to use the voice.”
Hanson is confident that with the surgery and therapy, Santo’s voice problems shouldn’t recur.
“That week when I couldn’t talk, it was a very tough time. You try to keep your mouth shut for seven days without talking,” Santo said with a smile. “My voice was my life. I love broadcasting Cubs games so much I didn’t want to lose it. I knew it wasn’t cancer, it never entered into my mind, and I was told that other people who rely on their voices–singers, other broadcasters–go through it. But almost from the moment I got back home I was pointing toward getting back in the booth in the spring and starting anew.”
Just like his beloved Cubs.
