If you’ve ever spent a sunny afternoon in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, you’ve probably heard it. That sharp, staccato yelp cutting through the roar of the crowd. "Cubs, woo! Cubs, woo!" It’s a sound that’s as much a part of the North Side as Old Style beer and the smell of the ivy. The man behind that voice is Ronnie Woo-Woo Wickers, a person who has spent the better part of seven decades as the unofficial heartbeat of Chicago baseball.
But here’s the thing: most people just see the uniform and hear the shout. They don't know the man who survived homelessness, personal tragedy, and more than a few brushes with death just to keep cheering for a team that, for a long time, didn't always love him back.
The Origin of the "Woo"
It wasn't some marketing stunt. Honestly, it started because of a teacher. Back in elementary school, a teacher told Ronnie to make the loudest sound he could. He let out a "Woo!" and something just clicked. By 1958 or 1959, he was bringing that energy to the ballpark.
Ronnie Wickers didn't have an easy start. Born premature on Halloween in 1941, he was raised by his grandmother on the South Side. She was the one who took him to his first game in 1947. Imagine that for a second. Ronnie was there when Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. He saw the legends when they were just men in flannel jerseys. That kind of history stays with you. It bakes into your bones.
Why Ronnie Woo-Woo Wickers Is More Than a Mascot
For years, Ronnie was everywhere. He wasn't just at the games; he was a neighborhood fixture. He worked nights as a custodian at Northwestern University for a long time. But life has a way of throwing curveballs you can't hit. In the 1980s, Ronnie lost his grandmother and his girlfriend. The grief was heavy. He ended up homeless, living on the streets but still finding his way to the Friendly Confines.
Between 1984 and 1990, he relied on donated tickets. There’s a famous story from 1987 when he vanished for a bit. People actually thought he was dead. The Sun-Times ran a headline about the "Woo Man" vanishing amid murder rumors.
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He wasn't dead. He was working at a pizza joint.
When he finally walked into the Tribune Tower to prove he was okay, he didn't just say "I'm fine." He marched in chanting, "I'm alive, woo! I'm alive, woo!" That is Ronnie in a nutshell. You can't keep the man down.
The Complicated Relationship with the Front Office
It hasn't always been high-fives and sunshine. While players like Gary "Sarge" Matthews and the late, great Harry Caray—who dubbed Ronnie "Leather Lungs"—embraced him, the team's management has sometimes been cooler.
Remember 2017? Ronnie got kicked out of a game. The issue was a ticket. Ronnie said his buddy had it on his phone; the Cubs said they didn't show it and got verbal. It was a mess.
"Wickers, like any other fan or celebrity, must have a ticket to attend a game at Wrigley Field. No exceptions." — Julian Green, Cubs Spokesperson.
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It felt like a turning point. The "Old Wrigley" where a local legend could slide in on a handshake was being replaced by a corporate machine. Some fans find him annoying. They think the "woo" is too much after nine innings. But for most, he’s a living link to a version of Chicago that is slowly disappearing.
Health Struggles and the Return to the Confines
Lately, the news hasn't been about e-tickets or ejections. It’s been about Ronnie's health. In late 2025 and moving into 2026, Ronnie has been battling pulmonary fibrosis. It’s a tough diagnosis for a man whose entire identity is built on his lungs.
He’s been staying at a nursing facility in Evanston, but even there, his room is a shrine to the Cubs. Last September, against the odds, he made it back to Wrigley. He sat in the stands, oxygen tank nearby, still taking photos with fans. He even talked about being back for the World Series. You have to admire that kind of relentless optimism.
Dealing with the Myths
Let's clear up a few things people get wrong about Ronnie.
- He’s not a beggar: Ronnie has spent years washing windows for local businesses around Wrigleyville to earn his keep. He’s a worker.
- The uniform isn't a costume: He wears it to funerals, too. He wore his Cubs gear to say goodbye to Harry Caray and even Muhammad Ali. To him, it’s his finest suit.
- The "Woo" isn't a scream: If you watch him closely, he doesn't use his lips to make the sound. It comes straight from the throat. It’s a guttural, physical exertion.
How to Support a Local Legend
If you see Ronnie Woo-Woo Wickers today, the best thing you can do isn't just ask for a selfie. It’s to acknowledge the stamina it takes to be a superfan for 70 years.
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Here is how you can actually engage with the legend:
- Send a Card: When he was in the nursing home, he received hundreds of get-well cards. It actually helps. He loves the connection to the fans.
- Respect the Space: If you see him at a game, remember he's in his 80s now. He's still "Leather Lungs," but he's also a senior citizen dealing with a serious lung condition.
- Buy the Bobblehead: If you can find one of the talking bobbleheads from the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame, grab it. A portion of those sales traditionally supported causes he cares about, like the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum.
Ronnie represents a type of fandom that doesn't exist much anymore—unconditional, loud, and entirely personal. He didn't do it for the "clout" or a TikTok following. He did it because he had fun with it.
Actionable Takeaways for Cubs Fans
If you want to experience the "Ronnie" version of Wrigley, stop looking at your phone. Put it away. Engage with the people in your section. Wear the jersey even when it’s 40 degrees and raining. Most importantly, find your own "woo"—whatever it is that makes you love the game regardless of the score.
The next time you're walking down Clark or Waveland and you hear that faint "Woo!" in the distance, take a second to realize you're hearing the voice of a man who survived the streets and the skeptics to become a permanent part of Chicago's soul.
To help keep his legacy alive, share your personal stories of meeting Ronnie with younger fans who might only know him from YouTube clips. Keeping the oral history of Wrigleyville's characters alive is the only way to ensure the park doesn't lose its magic.