CHICAGO— With the Cubs in a world of trouble at the World Series and Wrigleyville wringing hands in angst, there was only one thing to do: Go ask Ernie Banks for help. I sat down on the grass next to him in Graceland Cemetery. I talked. He listened.
Next year is finally here for the Cubs. How could Chicago go to the World Series without Mr. Cub?
Banks died last year at age 83. So I went searching for him Saturday, looking for a reminder why I fell in love with baseball as a child, wanting to believe a sports hero is something more than a folly of youth.