Play Too

The number behind the jeep is 14.  There’s a somewhat amusing story to tell how my assigned parking space behind City Hall was numbered out of sequence to be #14, but the how will wait for another day.  The why is simple.  Ernie Banks’ number was 14.

Mr. Cub has passed away.  To think I wasn’t alive during his best years is hard to believe.  Ernie Banks was still the best player on the team when I was growing a few Red Line stops north of Wrigley Field, but he was playing first base by then.  I wasn’t yet born when he was a Gold Glove shortstop, hitting 47 home runs and driving in 143 RBIs.  Those off the charts numbers for a shortstop had him winning back to back National League MVPs, on teams that were terrible. 

Today, you are taught to be quick to the ball.  A compact, linear swing gets the ball in play efficiently.  But it doesn’t result in 512 home runs.  Ernie Banks didn’t slap at baseballs.  His long, arcing swing carried them, caressed them, over the ivy.  The teams he played on were so bad only 5,264 fans were at Wrigley Field the day he hit his 500th home run.  Modern Woodmen Park routinely has greater attendance.

Number 14 holds the record for major league games played without playing a single post-season game.  Two thousand, five hundred and twenty eight times he suited up for the Cubs, and not once did he take the field after the regular season ended.  He was Sisyphus, in pinstripes.  But try to Google image search a picture of Ernie frowning.  Take your time.  The closest you’ll get is A-Rod, upset about something.    

The closest he ever got to the post-season was 1969.  In the back row of Mrs. Horowitz’s class I’d sit, with the wire from the AM transistor radio to the earphone running up the back of my shirt.  It wasn’t good news I’d pass along to my second grade classmates.  The Mets made a run, and a lifetime of next years was the lesson plan of that late summer.   The calamities would take various forms.  Black cat.  Steve Garvey.  Bartman.  To be a Cubs fan is to live in constant suspension of disbelief.  What have we collectively done to deserve this?    

No matter, his bouyancy remained intact, engraving his beloved status in the hearts of Cubdom long before his batting stance was cast in bronze at 1060 West Addison.  His famous exhortation to “Let’s Play Two” tells you all you need to know about the power of optimism.  Generations who never saw him play would hear tales from their fathers or grandfathers and ask for number 14 for their Little League uniforms.  Colin was one of them.

The notion of retaining play and finding joy in your work is, perhaps, easier to spot in sports than other careers.  But it shouldn’t be.  Regardless of your craft, find joy in it.  Work hard.  But play, too.