The Spiritual Mirror of Baseball

היום חמשה ימים בעמר
Today is five days of the omer
הוד שבחסד
A day of humility in a week of loving kindness

One of the bonds I had with my teacher, Rabbi Alan Lew, z"l, was that we were both fervent sports fans. The Warriors were the team closest to his heart. I remember when, with the excited anticipation of a 12-year-old sports geek, he explained exactly which players where going to break out and lead the Warriors to victory. By the middle of the season, he would sheepishly admit that they were, once again, going nowhere. The next season, his excitement returned, and he explained why really, this year was going to be the year that things would be better. Of course, it wasn't.

Rabbi Lew died before the Warriors began this golden era. I think of him often when I watch the games, knowing the joy he would feel. In honor of the Warriors' start to their next championship run and the start of baseball season, I share with you an excerpt from one of Rabbi Lew sermons, given during Rosh Hashanah 5760 in September, 1999. It captures Rabbi Lew's understanding of the spiritual nature of being a true and loyal sports fan.

---------------

I have been a baseball fan all my life. The most vivid memory I have is my first visit to Ebbets Field in 1948. My Uncle Benny, my favorite uncle who died a few years later, took me. It was the day the Dodgers clinched the pennant that year, and after the game the crowds poured out onto the street outside the Dodger dressing room and waited for their heroes to come out. In those days, athletes used to wear sport coats with white shirts -- no ties, collars spread wide open -- and as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of Gil Hodges immense Adam's apple protruding out of the open neck of his white shirt. He was a god.

Another sight I'll never forget; a short while later my father took me to my first night game, also at Ebbets Field. Coming into the park, I caught my first glimpse of that glistening green grass diamond bathed in the arclight. My heart still stops a little whenever I walk into a stadium and see that.

And, of course, in 1948, Jackie Robinson began the civil rights revolution by penetrating baseball, because both he and Branch Rickey seemed to understand that baseball was at the heart of the American psyche, and if America was going to change, it had to change here first. You know, Louis Finkelstein, the great chancellor, perhaps the greatest chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, had the same insight. He used to say, you can't be an American Rabbi unless you know baseball.

And in fact, I learned about social justice and civil rights and racial prejudice, not in school, not in synagogue, but through baseball.

Pee Wee Reese, the little colonel, died the other day. When Pee Wee Reese became the only player on the Dodgers to befriend Jackie Robinson, he also became my favorite player and he remained so until he retired.

Most of the ballplayers then were from the south. Pee Wee Reese was from the south too. Louisville, Kentucky, to be precise. But when the other players got up a petition saying they wouldn't play with Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese refused to sign. And then one afternoon in Cincinnati, when the fans were taunting Robinson mercilessly, and even some of the players were joining in, Pee Wee Reese walked over and put his arm around Jackie Robinson and stood beside him. Later, Jackie Robinson said, I never felt alone on a baseball field after that.

So When Jackie Robinson couldn't find a house to buy, I sent him a letter inviting him to come live in my neighborhood. He wrote me back. He said he was sorry that he couldn't live in my neighborhood, because he and his family had just purchased a house in Stamford, Connecticut.

Baseball mirrors life in a subtle and deeply spiritual way. It has a deep aesthetic and we pour our souls into this mythic diamond and allow our deepest aspirations and conflicts to play out there.

The pitcher gives up two singles in a row and then there is an error and the bases are loaded and gazing down on this pitcher from high up in the stands -- up in the upper deck where God sits so he can see the big picture -- gazing down on this pitcher we recognize his agony, we identify with his sense of impending doom, of endless trouble overwhelming him on all sides. Then it's over in a flash. Someone hits into a double play. הפכת מספדי למחול לי פתכת שקי ותאזרני שמחה – his mourning has turned to singing, his sackcloth and ashes to joy (Psalm 30,verse 12). And sure it had cost him a run, but it could have been worse -- much worse.

Then the next inning, your team leads off with a triple -- man on third, no outs -- infinite possibilities for success. But then they walk the bases full and as the possibilities for success increase, so does the possibility of trouble. Now you could hit into a double play. Now you could squander all this good fortune. Now your success could turn to failure.

Suddenly, the ball squirts away from the catcher. There's a thrill of fear.

And you feel all this inside your kishkes. This is happening to you. This is happening in your soul. Your soul is living out this drama.

When [Major League] Baseball went on strike some years ago, the year before the Ripken record, in fact, the cynical sports writers all said, 'This is a travesty, but the fans deserve it, because as soon as the strike is over they'll all come crawling back and fill the parks again.'

But to everyone's surprise, the fans did not come crawling back. Either they took vows to avenge the injury by not attending any games that year, or they simply lost interest -- they feigned indifference -- the surest sign of a broken heart there is.

Why were we so hurt? Because we felt we had been violated spiritually. We were invited to pour our souls and our hearts into this spiritual world, and our basic assumption in doing so is that this world would go on and on and on, like any good religious cosmos; that it would persist. And then Baseball goes and violates the cardinal rule of any religion. It stops showing up. It doesn't keep going no matter what. They didn't play the World Series the year of the strike for crying out loud. And in doing so, baseball gave us a very clear and a very ugly message; their money was more important than our souls.

We gave them our souls -- they held them in sacred trust -- and then they broke the faith. They didn't show up. They invited us to open our souls and then they failed to support them with their continuing presence. They didn't persist. They weren't there. They weren't present. They left our soul to flounder, like a fish flopping around on the counter at the fish market.

So when people say, Mark Mcguire and Sammy Sosa saved baseball last year with their successful assault on Babe Ruth's cherished record -- with their incredible shower of big, booming home runs -- I respectfully disagree. I think baseball began to be saved the year before, when Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig's record. This record -- his performance -- was precisely the antidote for the abomination baseball had committed. Baseball had failed to keep the faith, baseball had failed to show up, baseball had stopped. But Cal Ripken had showed up every day for 2,131 days. Cal Ripken had never failed to show up, and this achievement seemed to me to penetrate right to the marrow of the mysterious spirituality of Baseball and its power to transform us.

Simple human presence -- simply being present, simply persisting in being here -- has a tremendous spiritual power. It has the power to heal. It has the power to nurture.

Rabbi Lew and Jackie Robinson

היום עשרים  יום שהם שני שבועות וששה ימים בעמר

Today is twenty days, which is two weeks and six days of the omer
יסוד שבתפארת
A day of foundation in a week of compassion

A tough day for our country--for the world. Why anyone wants to make such a huge statement that means lives will be lost is totally beyond my comprehension. Maybe I'll write more about this tomorrow, maybe not. But today, to keep some normality, the topic is baseball.

It was 66 years ago today that Jackie Robinson made his debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers. All the major league players are wearing number 42 today in his honor. One of the best ways I know to pay homage to his memory is to share some words from a big fan--my teacher, Rabbi Alan Lew, z''l. Here is an excerpt from my favorite Rabbi Lew sermon, Yasher Koach,  given on Rosh Hashanah 5760/2000.

I have been a baseball fan all my life. The most vivid memory I have is my first visit to Ebbets Field in 1948. My Uncle Benny, my favorite uncle who died a few years later, took me. It was the day the Dodgers clinched the pennant that year, and after the game the crowds poured out onto the street outside the Dodger dressing room and waited for their heroes to come out. In those days, athletes used to wear sport coats with white shirts -- no ties, collars spread wide open -- and as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of Gil Hodges immense Adam's apple protruding out of the open neck of his white shirt. He was a god. 

Another sight I'll never forget; a short while later my father took me to my first night game, also at Ebbets Field. Coming into the park, I caught my first glimpse of that glistening green grass diamond bathed in the arclight. My heart still stops a little whenever I walk into a stadium and see that 

And, of course, in 1948, Jackie Robinson began the civil rights revolution by penetrating baseball, because both he and Branch Rickey seemed to understand that baseball was at the heart of the American psyche, and if America was going to change, it had to change here first. You know, Louis Finkelstein, the great chancellor, perhaps the greatest chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, had the same insight. He used to say, you can't be an American Rabbi unless you know baseball. 

And in fact, I learned about social justice and civil rights and racial prejudice, not in school, not in synagogue, but through baseball. 

Pee Wee Reese, the little colonel, died the other day. When Pee Wee Reese became the only player on the Dodgers to befriend Jackie Robinson, he also became my favorite player and he remained so until he retired. 

Most of the ballplayers then were from the south. Pee Wee Reese was from the south too. Louisville, Kentucky, to be precise. But when the other players got up a petition saying they wouldn't play with Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese refused to sign. And then one afternoon in Cincinnati, when the fans were taunting Robinson mercilessly, and even some of the players were joining in, Pee Wee Reese walked over and put his arm around Jackie Robinson and stood beside him. Later, Jackie Robinson said, I never felt alone on a baseball field after that. 

So When Jackie Robinson couldn't find a house to buy, I sent him a letter inviting him to come live in my neighborhood. He wrote me back. He said he was sorry that he couldn't live in my neighborhood, because he and his family had just purchased a house in Stamford, Connecticut. 

Baseball mirrors life in a subtle and deeply spiritual way. It has a deep aesthetic and we pour our souls into this mythic diamond and allow our deepest aspirations and conflicts to play out there. 

Zichron'hem l'vracha - the memories of both Rabbi Lew and Jackie Robinson are blessings to us today.

Got Balz? Coming of Age with baseball, bagels, and mambo

היום ששה ועשרים יום שהם שלשה שבועות וחמשה ימים לעומר
Today is twenty-six days, which is three weeks and five days of the omer
הוד שבנצח
A day of humility in a week of perseverance

I have a curriculum called "The Kabbalah of Jewish Identity" that I use in my class of 7th & 8th graders. It will come as no surprise that I created this during last year's omer period :) I use the bottom seven sephirot--the same ones we use to count the omer--as a hook to discuss different aspects of what it means to be a Jew. For humility, I first give them each two cards which the rabbis (which ones depends on who you ask :) say you should always have with you--one saying "For my sake, the world was created"; the other saying "I am but dust and ashes" The they learn about Hank Greenberg and Sandy Kofax--two Hall of Fame baseball players who faced the decision of whether or not to play in the World Series on Yom Kippur. Although neither one was an observant Jew, they opted not to play. They knew how important it was to the American Jewish community that they were a part of to honor that ritual. As big as they were in their professions, as important a moment they were facing--they understood the humility of being a part of something bigger.

Once again, the venn diagram aspect of my communities comes into play. On the day of humility where I get to intersect my Jewish world and my baseball world, my friend and video/film worlds join the overlap. My friends Marcia Jarmel & Ken Schneider, award-winning filmmakers who I met because of my video profession, are finishing a film made with their son Micah documenting his bar mitzvah project of bringing baseball gear to teens in Cuba. The Cuba connection is not just one of need, but a place that is a part of Micah's grandfather's Holocaust rescue story. And it is not just a coming of age story, not just a Holocaust survival story, but it is a story that can reach our youth about their Jewish identity. But rather than me tell you about it, watch the video below.





The film is almost done, but there is still finishing work to be done so this piece can go out into the world. I know I will be using this in my classroom, sharing this bar mitzvah story with the b'nei mitzvah of the future. Please click here for more information and share this with anyone you think may be interested.

Baruch Dayan Emet - Harmon Killebrew

היום תשעה ועשרים יום שהם ארבעה שבועות ויום אחד לעמר
Today is twenty-nine days, which is four weeks and one day, of the omer
חסד שבהוד
A day of loving kindness in a week of humility

Baseball Hall-of-Famer Harmon Killebrew, a great power hitter of the 60s, died today of esophageal cancer. He was 74 years old.

For some reason that I cannot explain, I was a Harmon Killebrew fan. I didn't know much about him, or the team he played for, the Minnesota Twins. As a little Jewish kid living in Long Island, New York, I would have been hard pressed to find Minnesota on a map :) And my baseball heart was with the National League Mets, so I would guess that I rarely watched him play. Knowing the way my mind works, I could have been fascinated with his name. But whatever the reason, I was very aware of his existence, and happy when he made the sports news on the radio.

Appropriately enough for the start of this fifth omer week, NPR ended their tribute to Killebrew with these words:

Besides his achievements on the field, fans will also remember Killebrew for his sportsmanship and humility — qualities that can't be measured in the record books.

A walk to the park

היום ששה ועשרים יום שהם שלשה שבועות וחמשה ימים לעמר
Today is twenty-six days, which is three weeks and five days, of the omer
הוד שבנצח
A day of humility in a week of perseverance

In Zen Buddhism, Yoga philosophy, and probably some other Eastern religions, the principle of non-attachment is integral to the practice. While there's nothing I know of in Judaism that would prohibit this practice, I don't thing it's something that's encouraged. There is a tendency to hold on to our traditions so tightly that we sometimes squeeze the life right out of them. We take customs that have developed out of a particular time and/or place and make them a mandatory aspect of rituals now performed in times and places far removed from their origins.

I thought about the concept of non-attachment as I was rushing to get to the Giants/Diamondbacks game on Thursday afternoon. I thought I had allotted enough time to get from my weekly Torah study in the East Bay to the ballpark. But a car stalled at the entrance to the Bay Bridge caused a slow down in traffic as I drove back to San Francisco. That led me to take a Muni train that did not go directly to AT&T park, so I had to walk four crosstown blocks to get there. All of this conspired to make me miss the beginning of the game.

I'm someone who prides themselves as being a first-pitch to last-pitch kind of fan, and this did not sit well with me. As I walked those long blocks, I realized how attached I was to being "the one who is always on time." It's not like I had a client waiting, a job that had to be done. It was a sunny afternoon, I should just enjoy the stroll. The timing of my arrival was up to me, not set by any rule. A fun afternoon watching a baseball game with a friend was the point--fifteen minutes was not going to ruin that goal. But I had to talk myself out of being annoyed and upset with myself for being late. While during the course of the walk I was able to relax, I hope someday I can get to that place more easily :)

Commitment is an important part of practice. Rituals need a structure. But context and meaning also need to be in the mix. Sometimes, in the rigidity of attachment, we lose the essence we're striving for.

Perfect

היום ארבעים יום שהם חמשה שבועות וחמשה יומים בעמר
Today is the fortieth day, making five weeks and five days of the omer
הוד שב יסוד
A day of humility in a week of foundation

Dallas Braden, pitcher for the Oakland A's, threw a perfect game today. The opposing team, the Tampa Bay Rays, are currently the best team in baseball. It was the 19th perfect game in major league history and the 2nd in team history. Jim "Catfish" Hunter pitched a perfect game 42-years earlier almost to the day--May 8th, 1968.

Dallas Braden has reached a milestone event for his career at the early age of 26. He's proven to have a brash personality, as evidenced by his recent feud with Alex Rodriguez. That's not necessarily a bad thing--if that brashness is tempered with "menchness" and backed up with talent. I wasn't sure if he had either. Watching his performance on the mound, his emotion with his grandmother, his appreciation for the support of his teamates, and his obvious love and honor for the game showed me both.

Missing my teacher and his teachings

היום ששה ושלשים יום שהם חמשה שבועות ויום אכד בעמר
Today is the thirty-sixth day, making five weeks and one day of the omer
חסד שב יסוד
A day of loving kindness in a week of foundation

I'm missing Rabbi Lew these days. There are a couple of things I'd like to share with him, and one thing I'd like to ask.

It was Rabbi Lew who gave me a teaching of Jewish medieval sage, Don Isaac Abravanel, that has been formative for me. I have been doing research on Abravanel for a talk I'm giving at Netivot Shalom's after-kiddish program on May 15. I am fascinated learning how he navigated being a financier, a statesman, and a mystic all in one lifetime. The time and place he lived in--late 15th/early 16th century Portugal/Spain/Italy--leading the Jewish community that was expelled from Spain in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella. The book I'm reading, Don Isaac Abravanel: Statesman & Philosopher by Benzion Netanyahu is a thorough biography, but I with I could share my enthusiasm with Rabbi Lew, and I'm sure he would have some tidbits of knowledge that he could share with me.

I also would like to tell him about my teaching, and my participation in the LINK Educator Fellowship program at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. I had talked with him looking for my calling. As with his answer to finding my questions, he said that my calling will find me. I wish he was here to turn to for guidance as I walk towards what I hope will be a path found.

And I wish I could ask him how he came to be a Giants fan, as he grew up a Dodger fan. My friend Robert Rubin is one who decided to remain true to his roots, and wears his Dodger blue with pride--something not so easy in the Bay Area :) Rabbi Lew chose to change his allegiance. This was something I always meant to ask him but never got around to it. There's a story there---one I'll never know.

I will dedicate my talk on May 15 to Rabbi Lew. I will continue to spread the teachings he gave us. It's the best way I can honor his memory. But I will also always feel the loss.

Holding on to our Memories

היום שלשה עשר יום שהם שבוע אחד
וששה ימים בעמר
Today is the thirteenth day, making one week
and six days of the omer
יסוד שבגבורה
A day of foundation in a week of strength

I emailed the "Rabbi Alan Lew on Baseball" post to my friend Roger, who has a Zen Buddhist practice and is an avid baseball fan--so I figured he would get many of the nuances of Rabbi Lew's writing. But it turned out he got a nuance that I had been unaware of, even with all the times I've read those words.

Roger liked the sermon, but remarked, "wow--he was really angry about the strike." I had never noticed any anger--to me, he was just describing the feelings of fans at that time, and was vintage Rabbi Lew. But Roger, someone who knew of Rabbi Lew but never met or studied with him, felt the heat of emotion. "Maybe it's a Jewish thing," he concluded. And you know, maybe it is.

As Jews, we have a long history and very full memories which imbue our ritual practice. We relive our past moments as a people--in Passover seders, in Purim schpiels, in reading and studying Torah each week. We relive our past moments in our lives--in taking stock each year on Yom Kippur, in remembering our loved ones on the anniversary of their passing. This rituals hold our memories--they bond us and sustain us through the years, through the centuries.

So in his sermon, Rabbi Lew was invoking that long tradition. Just as we re-enact the liberation from slavery each year, feeling the joy of freedom and the angst of the uncertainty that lies ahead, Rabbi Lew would always remember the hurt caused by the loss of trust in a game he held so dear. But it makes the healing brought by Cal Ripken's record that much more powerful. As he said:

"Cal Ripken had never failed to show up, and this achievement seemed to me to penetrate right to the marrow of the mysterious spirituality of Baseball and its power to transform us."

So thank you Roger, for showing me a nuance I'd never seen. And, of course, thanks always to Rabbi Lew, who would surely appreciate Roger's insight--one fan to another.

Rabbi Alan Lew on Baseball

היום המשה ימים בעמר
Today is the fifth day of the omer
הוד שבחסד
A day of humility in a week of loving kindness
It's damp and a bit gloomy in San Francisco today, but I can feel the sunshine that comes with the start of baseball season. There's something magical about this day because no matter what team you root for, whether at the top of the heap or a struggling franchise, everyone can dream of their team going to the World Series.
One of the bonds I had with my teacher, Rabbi Alan Lew, z"l, was that we were both fervent sports fans, although the Warriors were the only team we had in common. As far as baseball was concerned, he was a National League snob and loved to make reference to "that other, bush league team across the bay" that I rooted for. But then again, I could never understand how he could ever root for the Yankees, even during the World Series of 2001.
So on this day when hope springs eternal, I give you an excerpt from one of my favorite Rabbi Lew sermons, given during Rosh Hashanah 5760 in September, 1999. I know he would appreciate me sharing it with all of you today. And I think many of you who knew Rabbi Lew will be able to hear his voice as you read.


---------------

I have been a baseball fan all my life. The most vivid memory I have is my first visit to Ebbets Field in 1948. My Uncle Benny, my favorite uncle who died a few years later, took me. It was the day the Dodgers clinched the pennant that year, and after the game the crowds poured out onto the street outside the Dodger dressing room and waited for their heroes to come out. In those days, athletes used to wear sport coats with white shirts -- no ties, collars spread wide open -- and as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of Gil Hodges immense Adam's apple protruding out of the open neck of his white shirt. He was a god.

Another sight I'll never forget; a short while later my father took me to my first night game, also at Ebbets Field. Coming into the park, I caught my first glimpse of that glistening green grass diamond bathed in the arclight. My heart still stops a little whenever I walk into a stadium and see that.

And, of course, in 1948, Jackie Robinson began the civil rights revolution by penetrating baseball, because both he and Branch Rickey seemed to understand that baseball was at the heart of the American psyche, and if America was going to change, it had to change here first. You know, Louis Finkelstein, the great chancellor, perhaps the greatest chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, had the same insight. He used to say, you can't be an American Rabbi unless you know baseball.

And in fact, I learned about social justice and civil rights and racial prejudice, not in school, not in synagogue, but through baseball.

Pee Wee Reese, the little colonel, died the other day. When Pee Wee Reese became the only player on the Dodgers to befriend Jackie Robinson, he also became my favorite player and he remained so until he retired.

Most of the ballplayers then were from the south. Pee Wee Reese was from the south too. Louisville, Kentucky, to be precise. But when the other players got up a petition saying they wouldn't play with Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese refused to sign. And then one afternoon in Cincinnati, when the fans were taunting Robinson mercilessly, and even some of the players were joining in, Pee Wee Reese walked over and put his arm around Jackie Robinson and stood beside him. Later, Jackie Robinson said, I never felt alone on a baseball field after that.

So When Jackie Robinson couldn't find a house to buy, I sent him a letter inviting him to come live in my neighborhood. He wrote me back. He said he was sorry that he couldn't live in my neighborhood, because he and his family had just purchased a house in Stamford, Connecticut.

Baseball mirrors life in a subtle and deeply spiritual way. It has a deep aesthetic and we pour our souls into this mythic diamond and allow our deepest aspirations and conflicts to play out there.

The pitcher gives up two singles in a row and then there is an error and the bases are loaded and gazing down on this pitcher from high up in the stands -- up in the upper deck where God sits so he can see the big picture -- gazing down on this pitcher we recognize his agony, we identify with his sense of impending doom, of endless trouble overwhelming him on all sides. Then it's over in a flash. Someone hits into a double play. הפכת מספדי למחול לי פתכת שקי ותאזרני שמחה – his mourning has turned to singing, his sackcloth and ashes to joy (Psalm 30,verse 12). And sure it had cost him a run, but it could have been worse -- much worse.

Then the next inning, your team leads off with a triple -- man on third, no outs -- infinite possibilities for success. But then they walk the bases full and as the possibilities for success increase, so does the possibility of trouble. Now you could hit into a double play. Now you could squander all this good fortune. Now your success could turn to failure.

Suddenly, the ball squirts away from the catcher. There's a thrill of fear.

And you feel all this inside your kishkes. This is happening to you. This is happening in your soul. Your soul is living out this drama.

When [Major League] Baseball went on strike some years ago, the year before the Ripken record, in fact, the cynical sports writers all said, 'This is a travesty, but the fans deserve it, because as soon as the strike is over they'll all come crawling back and fill the parks again.'

But to everyone's surprise, the fans did not come crawling back. Either they took vows to avenge the injury by not attending any games that year, or they simply lost interest -- they feigned indifference -- the surest sign of a broken heart there is.

Why were we so hurt? Because we felt we had been violated spiritually. We were invited to pour our souls and our hearts into this spiritual world, and our basic assumption in doing so is that this world would go on and on and on, like any good religious cosmos; that it would persist. And then Baseball goes and violates the cardinal rule of any religion. It stops showing up. It doesn't keep going no matter what. They didn't play the World Series the year of the strike for crying out loud. And in doing so, baseball gave us a very clear and a very ugly message; their money was more important than our souls.

We gave them our souls -- they held them in sacred trust -- and then they broke the faith. They didn't show up. They invited us to open our souls and then they failed to support them with their continuing presence. They didn't persist. They weren't there. They weren't present. They left our soul to flounder, like a fish flopping around on the counter at the fish market.

So when people say, Mark Mcguire and Sammy Sosa saved baseball last year with their successful assault on Babe Ruth's cherished record -- with their incredible shower of big, booming home runs -- I respectfully disagree. I think baseball began to be saved the year before, when Cal Ripken broke Lou Geherig's record. This record -- his performance -- was precisely the antidote for the abomination baseball had committed. Baseball had failed to keep the faith, baseball had failed to show up, baseball had stopped. But Cal Ripken had showed up every day for 2,131 days. Cal Ripken had never failed to show up, and this achievement seemed to me to penetrate right to the marrow of the mysterious spirituality of Baseball and its power to transform us.

Simple human presence -- simply being present, simply persisting in being here -- has a tremendous spiritual power. It has the power to heal. It has the power to nurture.

The end of an era.....

היום שבעה יומים שהם שבוע אחד לעמר
Today is the seventh day of the omer - one week
מלכות שבחסד
A day of majesty in a week of loving kindness




Former Oakland Raiders coach and premier football sportscaster John Madden announced his retirement today. As I started blogging the omer, I made the point that the 21st century is actually starting at this time. His retirement is more proof of that, since his stepping out of the broadcast booth certainly marks the end of an era.

The games will go on, but it won't be the same. The next generations of fans will only get to see and hear his brilliance on archived recordings. I can only hope that those generations of sports broadcasters study those recordings and learn.

Another loss for the sports world today is the death of Les Keiter. Read his obituary from today's New York Times. His major claim to fame? He recreated the San Francisco Giants games for the New York fans still following their former home team, ". . . through [his] booming voice and excitable embellishments, aided by his Western Union ticker reports, his taped crowd noise and a drumstick and wooden block alongside his microphone.

Like John Madden, he was someone who worked hard at his craft, working to give his listeners the full flavor of whatever sporting event he was covering.


Just a note on the photo accompanying this post. Not only does it give me a way to indicate 7, today's day of the omer, but I get to take a moment on this day of Yizkor as we remember those who are gone, to honor Lyle Alzado. Alzado was a NFL football player who is a 1967 alumni of Lawrence High School, graduating with my brother. He and my brother had no contact, but I can say I watched him play football as we saw the games he played in during high school. He died in 1992--from the Wikipedia page on him:

"Alzado is probably most remembered today for being one of the first major U.S. sports figures to admit using steroids. In the last years of his life, as he battled against the brain tumor that eventually caused his death at the age of 43, Alzado asserted that his steroid abuse directly led to his fatal illness, but every single one of his physicians stated it could not possibly be true, and that while steroid's do have harsh side effects, they were not the cause of his brain cancer.

According to some reports, Alzado was using natural growth hormone, harvested from human corpses, as opposed to synthetic growth hormones. However, shortly before his death, Alzado recounted his steroid abuse in an article in Sports Illustrated. He said:
“ I started taking anabolic steroids in 1969 and never stopped. It was addicting, mentally addicting. Now I'm sick, and I'm scared. Ninety percent of the athletes I know are on the stuff. We're not born to be 300 lbs or jump 30 ft. But all the time I was taking steroids, I knew they were making me play better. I became very violent on the field and off it. I did things only crazy people do. Once a guy sideswiped my car and I beat the hell out of him. Now look at me. My hair's gone, I wobble when I walk and have to hold on to someone for support, and I have trouble remembering things. My last wish? That no one else ever dies this way."

Unfortunately, he didn't get his wish. I just wish those in a position in sports to do something about the use of steroids had paid heed to his words.

True Losses for Baseball

היום ארבעה יומים לעמר
Today is the fourth day of the omer
נצך שבחסד
A day of endurance in a week of loving kindness




Baruch Dayan HaEmet

Two losses for baseball today....

Harry Kalas, the voice of the Philadelphia Phillies for almost 40 years collapsed in the broadcast booth and died today, right before the game was to begin. Although it's a sad time for his family, friends, and fans, at least he was able to go out after he called the last out of the Phillies World Series win last fall.

Mark "the Bird" Fidrych was found dead today in what was apparently some sort of accident at his farm. His career was short, but he had that one great rookie year. There was a great spirit about him, his delivery was unique, and he was fun to watch. Below you'll see a 1985 interview with him.

Omer 5768 - Day 22; 3 weeks & 1 day

Today is Chesed she b'Nitzach - a day of loving kindness in a week of endurance.

I really feel badly for Barry Zito. I know I shouldn't--he didn't make the Giants give him that enormous contract. They offered and he accepted--who wouldn't take a guaranteed $126 million dollars. But he's pitching so poorly--his pitches have lost velocity, he can't make it more than 5 innings. He didn't do well last year, the first year of the contract. He's gone 0-7 to start this season, and the best he can hope for tonight is a no decision. The Giants' fans can't stand him--and show it.

I'm an A's fan, so I should be able to shrug my shoulders and say, "Ah, well...too bad....he was fine when he played for us...." But I can't. I like Barry Zito--he seems like such a good person. He's not arrogant; he's feeling the pain and taking the responsibility. He's working hard and taking all the advice. But none of it's working, and it hurts to watch.

I think major league pitchers have one of the toughest jobs in sports. So much of the game is riding on their shoulders. And their failures are so public as they take the team and the fans down with them. And it's hard to imagine how this cannot affect their entire being. Again--I know they get paid well and yes, that's part of the job that they just have to deal with to get the big bucks. But still, watching a high profile pitcher fail makes me squirm.

(Except if it's someone like Roger Clemens.....but that's a whole other story.)

Omer 5768 - Day 5

Today is Hod she b'Chesed - a day of humility in a week of loving kindness.

Yesterday afternoon I went to the A's game with Eric Stone and his 4 1/2 year old son Benjamin. It's a tradition Eric has started with Benjamin--going to a baseball game during Hol Ha'Moed Pesach--the intermediate days of Passover. Eric calls it their "matzah ball" game. I think this is the second or third time they've done this.

During a conversation when Eric was explaining Benjamin's history of attending baseball games, Eric asked Benjamin a couple of times, "do you remember that?" Each time, Benjamin shook his head "no." Now, these were events that happened two or three years ago--half of Benjamin's life. A lot has happened to him in that time--he can't be expected to remember everything that happened. After all, do I remember everything that happened when I was in my 20s??

But I began to think about my earliest memories--what has stuck with me? I have pictures in my mind of going with my dad with a sled to get his drums out of the car after a blizzard--I'm six or seven. I can remember being the last one in my kindergarten class to learn to tie her shoes. I can remember sitting on Pop's--my grandfather--lap at a seder, eating the matzah he hid under the tablecloth. I must of been about five, obviously unclear about the concept of the Afikoman. I can remember being hoisted onto the kitchen counter in my great-grandmother's kitchen while she made me a soda with the syrup and seltzer she had delivered.

But what amazes me is the one really early memory that has always been with me, and how I remember it. I must have been under two because I was still in a crib in my parent's bedroom. I can remember seeing the side of the crib, taking hold of the slats to lift myself up and then hang over the top, folding at the waist. It just seemed like a good thing to do, and I was fine with it. I also remember my mom coming in and flipping out, picking me up in a panic and putting me back down on the bedding. And I can actually remember thinking "why is she so upset, I was fine where I was."

We'll have to hear her side of the story when she reads this.

Sports Miracles - large and small

Like many professional endeavors, sports of all kinds have become huge, global businesses. Fans all over the world are complaining about the high costs of tickets and the astronomically high salaries paid to the players. Many people yearn for the "more innocent" sporting experiences of their youth. If you have any doubt of this, just read the comments sent in to the BBC program (or, in British English, programme) Have Your Say aired this past Sunday.

Then there's the pressure on the players themselves that manifests in many ways. And it's not just about steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs. Other problems these players may face become amplified when they are surrounded with people who just care about money and fame, not the person who needs help. I gave some example of this in postings two years ago, The Hard Reality of Sports and It's not just steroids . . .

There is a tendency to look at times past nostalgically, with rose-colored glasses. There has always been a dark side to professional sports. It was just on a smaller scale with much less public access. And our present times can also bring us an upside to sports, on both local and global levels.

A week or so ago, Iraq won the Asian Cup in soccer, beating Saudi Arabia 1 - 0. A country being destroyed by sectarian violence had a brief moment of unity in support of their national team--a team that includes Sunni, Shia, and Kurd. Sadly, the celebration came to an end with the news of the death of 50 people with bombs detonated in Baghdad by insurgents. But at least, like the 1914 Christmas Truce between the Germans and the European Allies that resulted in the famous soccer match between the trenches, there was a moment of joy that could be shared by all sides.

In my own corner of the world, there is the story of the Oakland Royals, a baseball team started by an Oakland couple to keep their kids and others away from the crossfire of a neighborhood notoriously known for drug dealing and drive-by shootings. Roscoe Bryant and his wife Lehi had no budget or coaching experience but they managed to field two teams. Scott Ostler of the San Francisco Chronicle picked up on the story and due to an article he wrote on June 22 of this year, more than 600 people, organizations and clubs came through with all sorts of support.

Ostler wrote a follow-up column published in today's sports section chronicling the accomplishments of this organization due to that show of support from the community. The help that has come in the form of donations, contacts with local companies and links to various grants and loans has encouraged the Bryants to enlarge their dream. They now hope to be able to open a youth center.

There was one more outcome of the establishment of these teams--something no one could have envisioned. "The local drug dealers watched what we've been doing," Roscoe says, "and they formed their own softball team. So they're off the block for a couple hours every night."

Some moments of violence stopped in streets of Baghdad and in the streets of Oakland. May we find ways to string more of those moments together to create a world of peace.

What defines a true fan?

Yesterday was my annual trip to see the A's play the Boston Red Sox. I go each year with my friend Peter Shwartz, a die-hard Red Sox fan. You can read about our 2005 outing here.

The weather was great--sunny and warm, which was a change from the chilly temperatures of the first three games. I could also be somewhat relaxed about the outcome. The A's had already taken the first three games, so while a sweep would be nice, going 3-1 against the team with the best record in Major League baseball would certainly be no disgrace.

It was a great pitching match-up; Curt Schilling against Joe Blanton - a veteran ace against a young up-and-comer. They both lived up to their billing. Blanton gave up a first inning homer to David Ortiz--no shame there, as Ortiz is one of the league's best hitters and was due to knock one out. Blanton and the A's bullpen allowed only 3 more hits, with no Sox player getting past second base. Unfortunately, Schilling was that much better--he just stifled the hitters.

I often bring a radio to the ballgame, but this time, thankfully, I left my radio home. The only commentary I heard was from the fans sitting around us. It wasn't until about the 6th inning that I realized that Schilling had a no-hitter going. I nudged Peter and pointed to the scoreboard. He took a breath and said, "We're not going to talk about this until it's over."

The game went into the ninth inning with the score still 1 - 0 Red Sox with no hits by the A's. Schilling gets two quick groundouts to Mark Kotsay and Jason Kendall. One out to go--and Shannon Stewart hits a clean single to right on his first pitch. The Red Sox win; Schilling gets a one-hit shutout instead of what would have been the first no-hitter of his career.

Curt Schilling pitched a magnificent game. Not only was he one out away from a no-hitter, but the game would have been as close to perfect as you could get--the only A's base runner was due to an error by the shortstop. It would have been cool to have been there to witness this milestone in his career.

Towards the end of my drive home I listened to KNBR sports radio. I guess some callers were talking about the game. When I tuned in, Ralph Barbiari was carrying on about some A's fan's disappointment about the missed opportunity to see a no-hitter. "No true fan wants to see a no-hitter pitched against their team, especially in their ballpark. Anyone who is disappointed about this is not a true fan."

Now, I have no doubt that I am a true and loyal fan, especially when it comes to the Oakland A's in baseball and the New York Giants in football. I may not be happy when my teams are in the dumpster, but I don't bail. I've been a Giant fan for over 40 years, and if you know anything about the Giant teams in the late 60s through the early 80s, you know I had little if anything to cheer about. And while the Super Bowl wins in 1987 and 1991 were very sweet, the 1997 playoff game against the Minnesota Vikings in which the Giants were ahead by nine points with a minute and a half to go--and then lost--was extremely painful.

You only feel those highs and lows when you are a true fan. Yet I still would have liked to see Schilling make his no-hitter. My team played well, the pitching staff allowed only 4 hits, and taking 3 out of 4 games against a really good team is a fine showing. I could concentrate on the excellence of a talented player and applaud his effort. I see nothing dishonest or disloyal in that.

Counting the Omer Day 37 - 5 weeks, 2 days

Today is Gevurah she b'Yesod - a day of strength in a week of foundation.


I am an Oakland A's baseball fan, and I really like my team. As a loyal fan, I stick with my team through good times and bad, but even though you always remain true to your team, you don't always like the team. But I'm a proud fan these days--and not because of their record.

The A's have a lot of injury problems right now. Currently on the disabled list:

Outfielders Mark Kotsay, Milton Bradley, Bobby Kielty
Starting Pitchers Rich Harden and Esteban Loaiza
DH Mike Piazza

Now, when the Yankees have multiple players out with injuries, they just go buy some more, as demonstrated with the recent Roger Clemens deal, which will cost the Yankees about $26 million. But the A's, due to smart drafting and good trades, can make the most of their small budget by going to their farm teams. We may not get the superstar players, but we get players who have a huge desire to prove themselves in the big league and put their all into the game.

It makes for some confusion when listening to the games on the radio--I hear names like Danny Putnam, Chris Snelling, Jack Cust and I have no idea who they are. But I learn their names pretty quickly, especially on days like today when Putnam goes 3 for 4, including his first major league homer and Cust hits two homers.

When you add up each team's total strength, the Yankees may land on top. But the A's management through the years have built up a strong minor league system as a foundation. They are able to call on players who play with heart and soul. That not only keeps them in the game, but makes us fans really happy as well.

Take me out to the Ballgame...in Israel??

I'm somewhat uncomfortable with this story about of the scouting of players for the newly formed Israeli Baseball League. The new league "is welcoming Jews and gentiles alike in hopes of exporting America's pastime to Israel and turning the violence-torn Jewish state - a country with only one full-size diamond - into the next great baseball power."

Why? The operations director, Martin Berger-a Miami lawyer-has an answer "Baseball, to us, is the great American game and there's so many Americans in Israel and there's so many great supporters of Israel in America. It's just a logical thing to do."

Logical to Mr. Berger and who else? This just seems nonsensical to me. Let's break down his reasoning. Baseball is a great American game. There are Americans in Israel. There are Americans who support Israel. How does that add up to starting a professional baseball league in Israel?

I'm a huge baseball fan. The existence and survival of Israel is very important to me. But in no way do the two connect. And then there's the bit about their hopes to compete in the 2009 World Baseball Classic using Jewish major and minor league players. Now, if those players are Israeli or their parents are Israeli or they choose to be Israeli, that's fine. But just to allow the players on the team because they are Jewish does not sit well with me. Should the Vatican field a team made up of Catholic players?

I just don't get it. If someone reading this can bring a different perspective, please comment. If you're interested in following the league, the season will open June 24 with six teams--the Bet Shemesh Blue Sox, Netanya Tigers, Petach Tikva Pioneers, Jerusalem/Gezer Lions, Haifa/Nahariva Stingrays, and Tel Aviv Lightening.

I'm wondering how they are going to share that one field.

Lost in the Shuffle

There are three stories out of the barrage of holiday "news" the media assulted us with this past week that I think deserve our attention. All three are sports related with ties to life in our times.

The first illuminates the horror of the war in Iraq. The Iraqi Olympic cycling coach was kidnapped from his home and killed. I read about this in a small blurb in my local paper, you can read the AP dispatch on ESPN.com. There you will find a list of other victims from the Iraqi sports community. "We lost another one," says Hussain al-Amidi, "He is not a politician and has no link with any party. It looks like no one is excluded from the violence."

I heard the next story on NPR last Wednesday, December 20. It was then that I first learned of the World Sports Humanitarian Hall of Fame. This Hall of Fame, located on the campus of Boise State University in Idaho, inducts "individuals who are world-class in athletic ability, role models in their community, and have a strong record of humanitarian efforts." We need more stories about athletes "who represent all that is good in sport." I've written before about how players can suffer detrimental effects of their sport to both body and soul (see "The Hard Reality of Sports" and "It's not just steroids. . ."). But how can we teach kids the positive attributes of sports when players like San Diego Chargers' Shawne Merriman get caught using steroids and still get rewarded with a trip to the Pro Bowl?

Then there is the full spectrum of fan behavior. You might remember the 2002 disputes over ownership of two Barry Bonds' record-setting home run balls--one his 73rd homer of the year, the other the 600th of his career. Both cases were all about greed. But on Monday--Christmas Day--my friend Peter sent me a link to an LA Times story that renewed my faith in sports' fans.

Jim Governale found a recording of Vince Scully's on-air call of the final inning of the Dodger's 5-0 victory over the Mets on June 30, 1962--the only known surviving account of the first Sandy Koufax's four no-hitters. The recording was made by Governale's uncle Dave Fantz when he was 14 years old. So what did Jim Governale do with his precious find? He cleaned up the audio as much as he could, burned it to CD, and, ignoring the advice of his friends, gave it to the Dodger organization. "I just wanted to do what was right by the Dodgers and Vin Scully and Sandy Koufax," he said. "It would mean more to me to honor the two of them by just doing the right thing, rather than just to sell out. To me, it seemed like a way of cheapening the recording and cheapening the find if I were to sell it." Now that's a lesson for our time. Thank you, Mr. Governale.

Don't Show Me the Money

I just finished reading the AP article on Minnesota's Justin Morneau receiving the Baseball American League's MVP Award. It's not long and had all the pertinent information and statistics. One for the trivia books--Morneau is the second Canadian born player to win the MVP (Larry Walker is the first).

Another aspect of "the story" is that Morneau is not one of the high paid, superstar players in baseball--although he might be on the road there now. Ryan Howard, winner of the National League MVP award, is in that same category. To prove the point, the article mentions Morneau's salary this year, a mere $385,000 -- that is low using major league baseball standards.

But when the article mentions the runner ups for the award, do I need to know how much they each received as a bonus? I'm not naive, I know that major league sports is all about the money. I just don't always need to see the price tag.