Ryne Sandberg

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What a beautiful day this is! I stand here today before you humbled and a grateful baseball player. I am truly honored and in awe, honored to be in the class with my fellow inductee Wade Boggs. And as I look behind me here, wow, at the greatest players in the history of the game, I am in awe. I know that if I had ever allowed myself to think this was possible, if I had ever taken one day in pro ball for granted, I’m sure I would not be here today. This will come as a shock I know, but I am almost speechless. 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."1 I love to play baseball. I’m a baseball player. I’ve always been a baseball player. I’m still a baseball player. That’s who I am. (I love you too.) [response to audience] I was a baseball player when I was 10 or 12 years old pretending to be Willie Stargell or Johnny Bench or Luis Tiant, when my bat was an old fungo, my ball was a plastic golf ball, when the field was the street and my older brother Del and I would play all day. I was a baseball player at North Central High School in Spokane, Washington even though I was all-city in basketball, even when I signed a letter of intent to play quarterback at Washington State. That’s why Del advised me to turn down the chance to play football and sign with the Phillies out of high school. I had too much respect for the game to leave it behind or to make it my second or third sport in college. Everything I am today, everything I have today, everything I will ever be is because of the game of baseball, not the game you see on TV or in movies; baseball, the one we all know, the one we played with whiffle ball bats pretending to be Yaz or Fisk or Rose, in dirt fields, and in allies. We all know that game. The game fit me because it was right. It was all about doing things right. If you played the game the right way, played the game for the team, good things would happen. That’s what I loved most about the game, how a ground out to second with a man on second and nobody out was a great thing. Respect. I was taught coming up in the Phillies organization to be seen and not heard by people like Pete Rose, my hero growing up, and players like Mike Schmidt and Steve Carlton and Manny Trillo. I understood that. My parents, Derwent and Elizabeth, who are no longer with us, understood that. My mom was at every single game I played as a kid, rain or shine. My dad always said, "Keep your nose clean, your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open because you might learn something." My sister Maryl and my late brother Lane knew this too; so did my first professional manager, Larry Rojas, a guy who was always in my corner as I climbed through the Phillies organization; guys like Bill Harper, the scout that signed me; Ken Eilmes, my high school coach; PJ Carey, a Phillies coach. They taught me to respect the game above all else. The fourth major league game I ever saw in person, I was in uniform. Yes, I was in awe. I was in awe every time I walked on to the field. That’s Respect. I was taught you never, ever disrespect your opponent or your teammates or your organization or your manager and never, ever your uniform. Make a great play -- act like you’ve done it before. Get a big hit -- look for the third base coach and -- and -- and get ready to run the bases. Hit a home run -- put your head down, drop the bat, run around the bases, because the name on the front is more -- a lot more important than the name on the back. That’s Respect. My managers like Don Zimmer and Jim Frey, they always said I made things easy on them by showing up on time, never getting into trouble, being ready to play every day, leading by example, being unselfish. I made things easy on them? These things they talk about -- playing every day? That was my job. I had too much respect for them and for the game to let them down. I was afraid to let them down. I didn’t want to let them down or let the fans down or my teammates or my family or myself. I had too much respect for them to let them down. Dallas Green brought me to Chicago and without him, who knows? I couldn’t let him down. I owed him too much. I had too much respect for him to let him down. People like Harry Caray and Don Zimmer used to compare me -- they used to compare me to Jackie Robinson. Can you think of a better tribute than that? But Harry, who was a huge supporter of mine, used to say how nice it is that a guy who can hit 40 homers or steal 50 bases or drive in a hundred runs is the best bunter on the team. Nice? That was my job. When did it -- When did it become okay for someone to hit home runs and forget how to play the rest of the game? When we went home every winter, they warned us not to lift heavy weights because they didn’t want us to lose flexibility. They wanted us to be baseball players, not only home run hitters. I played high school football at a hundred and eighty-five pounds and played big league baseball at a hundred and eighty-two. I’d get up to maybe 188 in the off-season because every summer I’d lose eight to ten pounds. In my day, if a guy came to spring training 20 pounds heavier than what he left, he was considered out of shape and was probably in trouble. He’d be under a microscope and the first time he couldn’t beat out a base hit or missed a fly ball, he was probably shipped out. 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.

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 learning how to bunt and hit and run and turning two is more important than knowing where to find the little red light at the dug out camera.


The feeling I’ve had since I got the call is a feeling I suspect will never go away. I’m told it never does. It’s the highest high you can imagine. I wish you all could feel what I feel standing here. This is my last big game. This is my last big at-bat. This is my last time catching the final out. I dreamed of this as a child but I had too much respect for baseball to think this was ever possible. I believe it is because I had so much respect for the game and respect for getting the most out of my ability that I stand here today. I hope others in the future will know this feeling for the same reason: Respect for the game of baseball. When we all played it, it was mandatory. It’s something I hope we will one day see again. Thank you, and go Cubs.

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Bonehead, Andy and Gem with revolving drummers apparently.

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