So Long Mr. Banks

I was lucky enough to have all four of my grandparents until adulthood with my grandfathers having a profound impact on my life. My Mom's father was a German immigrant who loved animals. We referred to him as DuckyPa. My father's Dad was a second generation baker who we called CookiePa. But there was a third grandfather in my life, one I shared with millions of baseball fans who frequented the corner of Clark and Addison during Chicago summers. This was an adopted grandfather, though he may not have known it. This was a man who had a profound impact on so many despite few personal meetings. This was CubbiePa. This was Ernie Banks.

I heard of CubbiePa's passing while sitting on the editors desk at WBBM and instantly my eyes watered and my throat tightened. Celebrity deaths don't usually rise this kind of response from me, but this was different. I'm too young to have ever seen Ernie play baseball. I knew him as more of a mascot than a hall of fame slugger. I didn't live through his breaking the Cubs' color barrier or the knee injuries that forced his move to first base. I wasn't even a glint in my father's eye when the 1969 Cubs faltered down the stretch leading to the greatest disappointment of CubbiePa's career. But I feel as if I were there for all of it.

Ernie was a constant presence for those of us who grew up wearing Cubs blue. On trips to Wrigley chances were good that Ernie would be there. With his trademark smile and open arms, Banks made time for everyone who asked. It can't be easy for a person to live up to the expectations of millions, but CubbiePa always seemed to rise to the occasion. For those of us lucky enough to meet him face to face we'd be greeted with questions about our families as if he'd known us for years.

It's superficial to place a pro athlete on the same level as a grandfather. The athlete didn't engage in the years of heavy lifting. He wasn't there for the baby sitting or the face to face life lessons. He wasn't there for the birthdays, graduations, wedding or child birth. He wasn't there cooking family meals or on Christmas eve night. But for some reason an adoptive grandfather is always what Banks felt like. When my first nephew first grabbed a baseball bat we reveled at the similarities between his batting stance and CubbiePa's. The straight knees, the slight bend at the waist, the twitching fingers with the hands out front. It was as if the stance was hereditary.

He taught us from afar. Taught us that positivity and optimism is a choice that we can make every day. Taught us that everybody is worth the time to treat respectfully. Taught us about the unrivaled joy of a day at the ballpark and that life is love.

As Cub fans, Banks was ours, and we were his. He showed us that with every autograph, every handshake, every arm around the shoulder. We basked in his joy even when the results on the field were tragic. He basked in our respect and love, even when we misbehaved.

Perhaps the most incredible thing about Banks is the fact that it was all sincere. Working in the radio business I meet a lot of celebrities and athletes. Many of them put on a happy face for fans and cameras, but behind the scenes you get a glimpse of who they really are. All the optimism, positivity, love and joy... It was all real and it was all sincere.

My DuckyPa and CookiePa will always have a large permanent place in my heart. And there will always be just a little bit of room in there for our adoptive baseball grandpa too. We'll miss you CubbiePa.