THE VIRTUES OF SHYNESS.

If you have met our little daughter, Aubrey, you know that she is quiet by nature. Some call her shy. Others say she is reserved. Almost everyone notices that she is a woman of few words when in unfamiliar situations.

“Oh, she won’t even make eye contact with me,” remarked one boisterous lady at the grocery store. “That must be so hard for her.” And last year, one of Aubrey’s typically loud second-grade classmates even boldly declared that she would help to “fix Aubrey’s 
shyness problem.”

My wife, Jackie, and I witness firsthand these moments of anxiety that our daughter experiences when meeting new people or when faced with changing environments. While we both have a somewhat relaxed and easygoing approach to life, Aubrey is much more of a look-before-you-leap type, calculating the pros and cons of virtually every action. Yes, it is sometimes a challenge for her and us, but while we have always acknowledged this introverted side of our daughter, we have never looked at it as a weakness.

We have discovered that Aubrey’s “shyness” trait is less of a flaw, and more a part of her personality. A personality that is filled with wit, wisdom, empathy, and an enthusiasm for life. A personality that has driven her to excel in school and virtually everything she attempts. In some ways, Aubrey is the perfect reflection of the old adage “still waters run deep.”

Thankfully, there are others in her life that understand. She is surrounded by an extended family that is constantly amazed by her wise-beyond-her-years perception of life and advanced sense of humor. She was blessed to encounter a first-grade teacher (who is also now her third-grade teacher) that “met Aubrey where she is”, never taking a cookie-cutter approach to teaching Aubrey and never pushing her to be outgoing or someone she is not – giving our daughter every opportunity to build her confidence and grow at her own pace.

And grow she has. This year alone, she has campaigned to become class president, volunteered to be a student greeter, and participated in her first horse show (her greatest love) just to name a few. I always tell Jackie that Aubrey is further proof to me that God exists – while we are her parents, Aubrey is already her own unique person. A sweet and sage spirit that is truly one of a kind.

We live in an age when the loudest are often the only ones listened to, rowdiness and misbehavior are rewarded, and obnoxious impatience is seen as a virtue. When people tell us to hang in there and Aubrey will someday come out of her shell (they mean well, of course), I secretly bristle. I look at her and think that she is already in a very good place . . . a place where she is supposed to be. A place that I often envy.

Yes, like my son who came before her, Aubrey has been a blessing since the day she was born. And, the more I look around me, I think the world could use a few more Aubreys – and a lot more shyness.

Woo Woo And Me.

As I carefully descend the slippery beer-stained concrete steps into the dimly lit concourses, I am greeted by the aroma of stale hot dogs, burning popcorn and fresh paint. I take a deep breath and throw myself into the overflowing blue mass of humanity in the quest for a warm pretzel on this chilly early April evening. Then, unexpectedly, it happens. 

Through the swirling crowd, I suddenly catch a glimpse of the jersey and batting helmet clad figure walking past me. I don’t need to see the stitched name on his back to know what it says or who he is – my pretzel can wait. With the enthusiasm of a star-struck teenager, I push my way towards him. “Ronnie,” I say as he turns around displaying a few more wrinkles than I remember, but with the same welcoming grin. “Ronnie, I remember you when.”

No, Wrigley Field is not for everybody – my wife, friends and in-laws are downright horrified by this place. But on this hope-filled 2015 Opening Night, I can’t help but feel like I am an honored guest in one of baseball’s greatest cathedrals. Although the park is currently a bit of a mess, Theo Epstein and his aggressive new conglomerate have long-range plans for both the team and the aging ballpark it calls home. Much to the chagrin of Wrigley purists, renovations are being applied to the outfield bleachers, including a giant left field video board and a massive scoreboard towering near the right field foul pole. And on the field, Jon Lester – our new $160-million man – is the poster boy for a team of new names and a seemingly fresh attitude. But, even in the midst of positive change, a familiar face is always welcome.

 “Ronnie, my friends and I met you back in the ‘80s.” I thought back to my college days when I would camp out with my buddies on Waveland Avenue, armed with sleeping bags and deep dish pizza to get us through the night, so we could be first in line for the coveted general admission bleacher tickets that would allow us to bask in the sun and take in a lazy Saturday afternoon ballgame.

Ronnie’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “You here in ’84?”
 “’84? Well, yes, of course. Not for any of the playoff games but the ones leading up to them. That’s when we first saw you.”

During that magical season which saw the Cubs win the Eastern Division, my buddies and I were suddenly forced to fight the crowds for those bleacher tickets and even just getting around the crowded, hysteria-filled streets could be a challenge. One Saturday, as we made our way past the iconic red Wrigley marquis board near the corner of Clark and Addison, a repetitive high-pitched chant filled the air. As we moved closer, we could make out the words, “Bowa, WOO! Sandberg WOO! Matthews WOO! Davis WOO! Sutcliffe WOO!” It was Ronnie. And before every home game, he would loudly and feverishly recite the Cubs starting lineup, punctuated with a crazed “WOO!” Years before, the Cubs’ faithful dubbed their unofficial cheerleader Ronnie Woo Woo. And the name – and ritual – stuck.

Ronnie “Woo-Woo” Withers was born on Chicago’s South Side in 1941. Growing up in a turbulent neighborhood and home environment, and physically abused by his mother, Ronnie was raised by his adoring grandmother who took him to his first Cubs game in the late ‘40s. For much of his life, he worked as a night custodian at Northwestern University – a job that allowed him to attend the day games at Wrigley during the pre-light era. In a 2004 Chicago Tribune interview, Ronnie recalled that he started "wooing" in the late 1950s. “It just came to be. I had fun with it,” he said. During an emotionally overwhelming period during the 1980s that saw both his grandmother and girlfriend pass away, a distraught Ronnie found himself depressed, jobless and eventually homeless. When his Wrigley family learned of his plight, they gave him tickets, and helped him to find both employment and a home. Today, Ronnie has become somewhat of a celebrity, even appearing on ESPN and making guest appearances at local bars and events. He has rarely missed a home game at Wrigley in over half
a century.

But on this night as I stand looking into the eyes of a man who has experienced a roller coaster of emotions and challenging situations throughout his often difficult life, I feel an overwhelming sense that, even in the midst of the chaos and crowd around us, he is home. At this ballpark. With these people. At this time. I offer to buy him a hot dog and drink and he respectfully declines. I reach out to shake his hand and he leans forward to give me a hug goodbye.

As I hear the roar of the crowd and make my way back toward the game, I realize I don’t really have a lot in common with Ronnie. I grew up in a small Midwestern town, surrounded by family, wanting for nothing. My first baseball game memories are at Busch Stadium in St. Louis with my loyal Cardinal-fan father. A sometimes tough but loving man who would also take me to my first Cubs game at Wrigley when I was in grade school. Now I have a family of my own that I adore.

But maybe a shared connection has nothing to do with a shared background. Maybe a love for a ballpark, a team and a city are enough to bring people together on common ground who seemingly have nothing in common. Maybe we don’t have to all be alike to collectively be part of something. Something bigger than ourselves.

As I settle back into my seat to watch Jon Lester’s next pitch, I smile as I have an unexpected epiphany. A sudden understanding that warms me even on this frigid night. The Lake Michigan wind chills my face as I realize, I am Ronnie Woo Woo. And Woo Woo is me.