The Scorecard, the staircase, and Ryno

I’ve been bleeding Cubbie blue since I was 14 years old—back when heartbreak wasn’t a possibility, it was a guarantee. I’ve lived through every gut-punch season, every blown lead, every “this could be the year” that somehow… wasn’t. Still, like every true fan of the Chicago Cubs, I kept coming back with that stubborn, irrational hope: Wait ‘til next year!

And through all those years, all those rosters and revolving heroes, one name stood above the rest for me—Ryne Sandberg. “Ryno.” The steady one. The guy you could believe in when belief was in short supply.

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When October 2003 rolled around and the Cubs were finally back in the playoffs, you better believe I was fired up. This wasn’t just a game—this was redemption knocking. Game day: October 3rd. Cubs up big, 12–3. Wrigley rocking. And me? I’m there, soaking it all in, thanks to my friends Rich and Heather who handed me a golden ticket. Didn’t even mind going solo—sometimes that’s the purest way to live a game.

Now, I’m old-school. I keep score. Not just casually—I mean every pitch matters kind of scorekeeping. I even made my own custom scorecard for this one, blue grid and all, Cubs on one side, Miami Marlins on the other. Flip it depending on who’s at bat—efficient, clean, beautiful.

Every strikeout, every hit, every moment preserved like it actually meant something… because it did.

But let’s be honest—this game got out of hand. Cubs were cruising. So, like a veteran of too many emotional marathons, I figured I’d slip out a little early, beat the rush. Turns out, half of Wrigley had the same idea.

So there I am, heading down the aisle, turning the corner toward the stairs… and BAM. I collide with someone coming down fast from the upper level. Nearly sends me flying. I mean, I’m gone—until this guy grabs my arm and steadies me, keeps me from tumbling backward down the steps.
I look up, ready to thank some good Samaritan… and I freeze.

Because standing there, holding me up, is none other than him. Ryno. Ryne Sandberg himself.
He’s looking at me, concerned, saying, “Are you okay? You okay?” And I’m just… stunned. Years of fandom, decades of loyalty, all crashing into one surreal moment on a stadium staircase.

I finally manage, “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”

He asks if I need anything.

And what does a lifelong Cubs fan say when his hero literally saves him from falling?
I hand him my scorecard.

“Would you autograph this?”

He smiles--that smile—like he knows exactly what this means. Signs it. Hands it back. And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing before the crowd catches on.

The Cubs won that day. Big.

But I’ll tell you what—I walked out of Wrigley with something even better than a playoff victory.

I got picked up by Ryno!