Chicago Cubs Legend, And One Of The Best Baseball Players Of All Time, Ryne Sandberg Has Sadly Passed Away At The Age Of 65
There have been whispers around Chicago for the past few weeks that Ryne Sandberg wasn’t doing well, but I don’t think anybody could have imagined he’d be gone this soon.
This is terrible and heartbreaking on so many levels.
It feels like just yesterday we were all standing outside Wrigley Field, sun beating down, watching the Cubs unveil Ryne Sandberg’s statue. Commemorating not just a player, but the moment every Cubs fan over 40 still gets misty-eyed about: the Sandberg Game.
June 23, 1984. Two home runs off Hall of Famer Bruce Sutter, seven RBIs, and a wild 12-11 comeback over the Cardinals that basically made “Wrigleyville” a thing and launched a million hopeless baseball crushes.
Sandberg’s acceptance speech at the statue unveiling was classic Ryno- humble, sincere, and all about the relationships he built with teammates, family, and the city. He made it clear he never saw himself as a superstar. He just wanted to play the game the right way and make people proud to wear a Cubs hat. And honestly, that’s exactly what he did.
Just last summer, things were looking good.
But then a couple weeks ago this was posted.
In true Sandberg fashion, he was staying positive, finding the silver lining in a really shit situation. Cancer is the absolute fucking worst.
If you are a Cubs fan, are related to one, or call one a friend, then you know that they are plenty used to disappointment. The only thing more reliable than a Cubs bullpen implosion is that someone will tell them to “wait ‘til next year.”
Cubs fans learn to pick their heroes carefully, knowing they might be gone or traded at any moment, or worse, break their hearts by turning out to be a total jagoff when you finally meet them.
But then you meet Ryne Sandberg, and you realize some heroes are actually better in real life.
I worked seven seasons in the press box at Wrigley, which sounds like heaven on Earth because it is. Getting to go to "work" where you watch baseball from the first pitch of batting practice 3 hours before the gates open, until the last fan exits the ballpark and they're spraying down the concourse for 80-90 games a year was a dream come true. Getting to play music for each of those games for the 42,000 people packed into the Cathedral, they call Wrigley Field, is even more surreal. Like anything you do for long enough, over time you begin to take it for granted. But every so often, you run into living legends, and they remind you again why you fell in love with baseball in the first place.
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Sandberg- "Ryno" to every Chicagoan with a working pulse, was always around. Not in a “look at me, I’m the big cheese” way, but in the way that made you think he was just another guy grinding out a 9-to-5 on Clark and Addison. He held the bathroom door for everyone. (Which sure, was very polite, but it was funny taking a piss next to a visiting team's broadcaster and having them ask "why did Ryne Sandburg just hold the bathroom door for me?" This happened more times than you would think.)
He’d stop on the stairs if you were hustling by, let you go first, give you that quiet little head-nod hello. I watched him greet every single person- press, fans, the cafeteria team, the custodians, the salespeople, literally everybody, like they mattered.
I never saw him turn down a photo. Never saw him blow off an autograph. Never saw him act like he was anything but grateful to be there.
It’s almost like he didn’t know he was Ryne Sandberg.
Like his retired number, and the future statue out front was for someone else.
If there’s a Hall of Fame for being a genuinely great human, he’s first-ballot, unanimous.
But none of that is to take away or discount the baseball player Sandberg was. Ryno was a fucking beast.
He was the coolest, calmest, baddest second baseman of my childhood, and probably yours too. (Sorry Jody Reed).
The numbers don’t even sound real- ten All-Star selections in a row, nine Gold Gloves, seven Silver Sluggers, and one MVP, all while carrying teams that had about as much firepower as your junior varsity team.
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(Fun fact - His parents, avid baseball fans, named him for Ryne Duren, the All-Star pitcher of the 1950s and ’60s best known for his time with the Yankees. (His brother Del was named after Del Ennis, a slugging outfielder of the 1940s and ’50s.))
He played the game like he actually respected it. No chest-thumping. Zero “look at me” bat flips. Just big plays, head down, run the bases, try not to draw too much attention. Very Chicago-esque when you think about it.
Harry Caray made him a household name, but Ryno never tried to become a celebrity. He was allergic to the spotlight, and Chicago loved him even more for it.
He was the face of the franchise when WGN turned the Cubs into America’s lovable losers and Wrigleyville became a baseball pilgrimage. The '84 Cubs, “The Sandberg Game,” and the way he made a noon start at Wrigley feel like the World Series.
Even if the team was on pace for 90 losses.
When Sandberg was inducted into Cooperstown, he gave a speech that was basically a masterclass in how to be a professional and a decent human being. He talked about respect- for the game, for his teammates, for his uniform, even his opponents. The guy just got it.
I wrote a blog before Pete Rose died, which included a part about that speech that stood out to me based on an article my father sent me to read.
Brooks went out to point out a speech from an actual Hall-Of-Famer, one of the true greats at his profession, and a man of the highest moral fiber: Ryne Sandburg.
In 2005, Ryne Sandberg was inducted into the baseball Hall of Fame. Heclo cites his speech as an example of how people talk when they are defined by their devotion to an institution:“I was in awe every time I walked onto the field. That’s respect. I was taught you never, ever disrespect your opponents or your teammates or your organization or your manager and never, ever your uniform. You make a great play, act like you’ve done it before; get a big hit, look for the third base coach and get ready to run the bases.
”Sandberg motioned to those inducted before him, “These guys sitting up here did not pave the way for the rest of us so that players could swing for the fences every time up and forget how to move a runner over to third. It’s disrespectful to them, to you and to the game of baseball that we all played growing up.
““The reason I am here, they tell me, is that I played the game a certain way, that I played the game the way it was supposed to be played. I don’t know about that, but I do know this: I had too much respect for the game to play it any other way. And if there is a single reason I am here today, it is because of one word: Respect. A lot of people say this honor validates my career, but I didn’t work hard for validation. I didn’t play the game right because I saw a reward at the end of the tunnel. I played it right because that’s what you’re supposed to do, play it right and with respect … . If this validates anything, it’s that guys who taught me the game … did what they were supposed to do, and I did what I was supposed to do.”
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He understood that baseball was bigger than any one player. Even if that player had 282 homers and could turn a double play with his eyes closed. (He also had 2,386 hits, 1,061 RBI and 344 stolen bases. Back when things besides home runs and percentages mattered.)
Ryno fought cancer the way he played the game: quietly, without drama, just pure grit and class. He was open about his battle, thanked the fans, talked about his family, and somehow made everyone feel like they were in his corner. Even as his health failed, he wanted to make sure the Cubs fan base knew how much he loved them.
Chicago sure lost a superhero today. Not a “look at me, I’m saving the world” kind, but the kind we hope our kids look up to. And the kind we all like to think we would be if we made it to the big leagues.
Ryne Sandberg made us believe that sometimes the good guys really are the best players on the field. The world needs a hell of a lot more of those kinds of guys. Wrigley won’t be the same without him in the hallways, holding the door, making everyone feel like they matter. Rest In Peace.
p.s. -
I asked my friend Jeff Magee, who knew Ryne better than anybody else I know, to write a few words about the kind of guy he was. Outside of baseball. Outside the ballpark. And he did me one better. He wrote a really fantastic piece about Ryne, his friend, and sent me some incredible pictures he had saved, which he asked me to include.
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I used to work for the Cubs. My job was handling players and alumni.
I’m going to attempt to encapsulate who Ryne was as a person, so this’ll be raw. I didn’t grow up a Cubs fan. I didn’t watch Ryne play. I wasn’t there for his Hall of Fame moments. My perspective is from working with him later in life, and I’m so damn lucky I did.
Working with Cubs alumni often felt like having 200 grandfathers. You’d call them, befriend them, hear old baseball stories or advice about what fertilizer they were using on their lawn. There were legends like Billy Williams, Kerry Wood, Ryan Dempster. And under-the-radar gems like Dave Otto (Google him, worth it). It was one of the best experiences of my life.
Ryne, though, was in a caliber of his own. I never had to worry about him. If we had overlapping events, he’d make time for both. If I needed 72 baseballs signed, he signed them. If I needed a fan video, he filmed it. No ego. No pushback. Just Ryne.
But beyond the professionalism, he was fun. I loved walking into the office lobby and seeing him standing there. Part of the job was bringing alumni into suites to entertain groups or sponsors. He was always great with people. He genuinely loved to laugh.
Every time we were up in the suites, I’d turn around and Ryne would be missing. I’d do a 180 and find him elbow deep in the chip basket. Literally. He’d look up, chip in hand, and say, “Have you tried these kettle cooked? These are unbelievable.” He meant it. Like, he was in awe of the chips. Then he’d laugh. Then I’d laugh. And in my head, I’d be thinking, “I’m cracking up over kettle chips with Ryne Sandberg. What is my life?”
That became our bit. Every time we were at an event, he’d show up and say, “Where’s the kettle cooked?” and just start laughing.
One night, I went to dinner at his house with a few friends. His wife is honestly one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met. She cooked dinner, poured wine, and Ryne just sat there cracking jokes, doing a napkin trick, being his quirky self. I brought a box of flavored kettle cooked chips as a gift. He was dying.
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Later, we went down to his trophy room, a basement filled wall to wall with Gold Gloves, Silver Sluggers, signed balls. He had a story for each item. He told them with humility, excitement, and zero ego. Not bragging, just storytelling.
There were two rooms. As he walked into the second, I snuck upstairs, grabbed the box of chips, and came back down. I put a bag of kettle chips in every one of his Gold Gloves on display. Every single one.
I remember thinking, “I’m really pushing it here…” but I did it anyway. He came around the corner, saw it, and nearly fell over laughing. He thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
Later that night, we were back upstairs, having more wine, talking about life and music. He told me to grab another bottle from the pantry. I opened the door and found one of his Gold Gloves sitting on the shelf, stuffed into his chip stash. I looked back, and he was just sitting there, grinning. “You like that?” he said.
Eventually, we ended up in his garage. He had a full bar set up and a record collection. We just sat around sampling whiskeys and flipping through vinyl. He was amazed I knew the words to the songs he grew up with. We got hammered. It was awesome.
Here’s the thing. Ryne Sandberg had the clout, the accolades, the name to treat me however he wanted, and I still would’ve had to do my job. But he didn’t choose to treat me kindly. That’s just how he was. That was his baseline. We’d text, make jokes. For some reason, our game became sending each other never-used emojis. The octopus with a question mark somehow meant, “Should I bring my World Series ring?”
He was kind, generous, hilarious, a little quirky, and it was incredible. If you just got on his wavelength, you saw the best parts of him.
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Ryno played 16 seasons in the majors. Started his MLB career 44 years ago. He’s probably met a million people. He had maybe 200 seats at his statue ceremony, and he invited me.
That, more than anything the organization ever did, meant everything. Because he invited me. Not the brand. Not the company. Not the Cubs. Ryne Sandberg, the person.
And that’s worth more than any ring. I didn’t earn the ring. But I earned a friend, someone who could’ve put anyone in that seat, and he picked me.
Selfishly, it makes me feel like I did it right. That what we had wasn’t just me doing my job.
RIP, Ryne. You’ll be remembered for your career, and I heard it was incredible. But I’ll remember you for the simple, enjoyable, unexpected friendship we had. And for never skipping the kettle chips.
You leave behind a beautiful family. I hope they know how deeply supported they are by friends, fans, and this entire community. The kindness and character you showed the world is so clearly present in every one of them.
- Jeff Magee