The Class of 2010

We remember Cubs baseball in 1987. Maybe not the specific details of individual games, but we remember what it meant to hear the announcer call Andre Dawson's name. It signified a good chance for runs to be driven in, for fastballs to soar onto Waveland. We remember our dads whooping and hollering the most guttural cheers when he was announced prior to the first pitch of the All-Star Game. We yelped along, too.

When we played baseball in the Fultz's backyard--usually three of us: two teams of one and an all-time pitcher, the ghost runners waiting on the base paths--we all wanted to be Andre Dawson. The Hawk. And when one of us had to settle and be Ryne Sandberg, we'd grunt, we'd complain, we'd wish we got to be Hawk. We all imitated his stance at the plate, our elbows raised above our chests, tilting the bat slightly toward the pitcher. We kept our back heel off the ground, dug the toe of our shoe into the dirt. We tried to stare down the pitcher. It always seemed to work.

When we'd crack one onto the Shamsi's back porch--our home run fence--we'd trot around the bases like we had been there before. No cheering, no clapping, no celebration. Because that's the way Hawk did it. After crossing home plate, we'd always give a curtain call. Because that's what Chicago fans demanded after he hit a home run. If we made a diving catch or pegged a guy out at home from the outfield, we always played the role of announcer afterward: "And Dawson throws out another runner! Ho-ly Cow!"

We remember Andre Dawson as a source of intimidation who was feared by the opposition, loved and respected by fans. He remember the home runs, the laser beam throws from right field, and the way he tossed his body around even though his knees were torn to shreds. He didn't need to be inducted into the Hall of Fame for us to remember him. But it's nice to know that we weren't the only ones who appreciated the way he played the game.