“To Rise Each Time You Fall”

Rosh HaShanah – First Day – 5759

Rabbi Gary S. Creditor

September 21, 1998

In light of the epochal year in baseball, first Mark McGuire and then Sammy Sosa's eclipsing Babe Ruth's sixty home runs in 154 games and Roger Maris' 61 in 162 games, I asked the Cantor if we could locate the appropriate place in the liturgy to insert "Take Me Out To The Ballgame." Unfortunately, the choral selections were all fully subscribed. Roger Maris hit 61 in 1961, my Bar Mitzvah year. I followed it with all the fervor that youth could muster. The first and only newspaper section was the Sports. I scanned every line in the box score.

But more than that, I followed the man. Maris was the first to challenge Babe Ruth under the scrutiny of the modern media. They relentlessly pursued him, asking the same questions day after day. He was degraded with an asterisk for taking 8 extra games. He would never be the Babe nor as good as his teammate Mickey Mantle. Even though he retreated from the public limelight, Roger Maris remained a mentch, a team player, a family man, with faith in God. He died quietly at the age of 50 from cancer.

Anyone who seen any of Mark McGuire's home runs must be impressed by their distance. They are prodigious. But more important is his humanity and his humility. Rather than boastful of his strength and enamoured with his record, on the day that he matched Maris' he paid homage to his father's birthday, of the same number. On that day and on the next, when he passed Maris', he saluted the man and his feat which stood unsurpassed for 37 years, his family, and publicly embraced Maris' children. Years, decades from now, when other pictures fade, that generosity of spirit will endure. Fate will not be kind to Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa, as it wasn't to Roger Maris, Babe Ruth, or us. Skills will erode. Future seasons will pale by comparison. The image we retain will be the true mark of the man: the size of the heart and not the tape measure of the home run. In this there is a lesson for us all.

A story: Babe Ruth was playing one of his last baseball games. He was growing old and was no longer agile as he once had been. In one inning alone his errors lead to five runs. Ruth trotted off the field to the jeering and booing of the crowd. Suddenly, a young boy jumped over the railing onto the diamond. With tears in his eyes he ran to the Babe and threw his arms around the aging hero. Ruth stopped, picked up the young fellow, hugged him, set him back down on his feet and affectionately patted him on the head. Almost as on cue the booing stopped and a reverent hush settled over the entire park. In those brief moments the crowd saw him, a different kind of hero – a man who still had a glory about him, a glory apart from athleticism – a glory that shown forth in a touch of love for a little boy who had intruded into his life.

Ruth's embrace of a child, Maris' inner fortitude and menchlichkeit, Sosa's friendship and hug of his competitor, McGuire's humility and comradeship to his team and to Sosa: Here is the heroic. Here is the glory. We, in our lives, simple and retiring by comparison, can emulate greatness. There is something more to life. In watching these men, we can capture glory for ourselves.

I suppose that most of the men, and some of the women have played baseball, or at least softball. I began in the "Peanut League", graduated to the "Farm League", and retired before a career in the "Little League". Some of us might have dreamt of playing in major league parks, but we just weren't quite good enough. Baseball didn't only have its thrills. It has its personal disappointments. While I began at 3rd base, did some catching, pitching and played 1st base, I usually wound up in right field. For me and all the right fielders of our youth, Peter, Paul and Mary wrote this song. You'll get the message.

Saturday's summers when I was a kid 
We ran to the schoolyard and here's what we did. 
We'd pick out the captains and we choose up the teams

It was always a measure of my self-esteem 
Cause the fastest, the strongest were chosen first 
The last ones they picked were the worst. 
I 'd never need to ask it was sealed

I just took up my place in right field. 
Playing right field it's easy you know. 
You can be awkward and you can be slow. 
That's why I'm here in right field, watching the dandelions grow.

Playing right field can be lonely and dull 
Little leagues never have lefty's that pull. 
I'd dream of the day they'd hit one my way 
They never did but still I would pray

That I'd make a fantastic catch on the run 
And not lose the ball in the sun. 
And then I'd awake from this long reverie 
And pray that the ball never came out to me.

Off in the distance the game's dragging on. 
There's strikes on the batter some runners are on. 
I don't know the inning; I don't know the score 
The whole team is yelling and I don't know what for.

Then suddenly everyone's looking at me 
My mind has been wandering what could it be? 
They point to the sky and I look up above 
And the baseball falls into my glove!

Here in right field it's important you know. 
You've got to know how to catch; you've got to know how to throw. 
That's why I'm here in right field, watching the dandelions grow.

I watched many a dandelion in my short career, hit long foul balls and struck out a lot. My teams didn't win many games and there were no cheers from the bleachers. Yet baseball is a great metaphor for life. It is how we handle the low points which is illustrative and instructional to us in our daily lives. We can't all come in first. We can't all be thebest. We can't all set and break records. Not in baseball. Not in love. Not in careers. Not in class rank. Not in business. Someone will be first. Someone will be last. There were pitchers that threw the balls that the batters hit. Tracy Stallard gave up Maris' 61 st. Steve Trechel gave up McGuire's 62 nd.

For the pitchers, for me in right field, for all those who don't finish first, second, nor third, for all those have loved and lost, to McGuire and Sosa when their skills wane and the crowd boos, from a different sport, I offer the poem: The Race.Though it is a little long, it is very special to me and once you hear it, I am sure it will be for you too.

The Race

This is the inspiration of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur – a fresh start, unburdened of our sins and guilt feelings, feelings of inadequacy or of failure. God urges us to know that in life, like in baseball and track, true winning –"is to rise each time we fall."

God loves us, regardless.

God embraces us, regardless.

God supports us, regardless.

That is how we will live each day of the year, not matter what comes our way, home run or strike out.

 

In a book entitled "Jacob's Journey" by ben Shea, there is the following scene:

A woman came to her Rabbi and said to him:

"I want my life to make an impression on others."

"Every life is an impression," the rabbi said.

"What do you mean?" asked the woman.

And the rabbi answered, "We are God's finger prints."

We might hold the baseball bat

We might hold the pen

We might hold the scalpel

We might hold the book.

But as we hold each other's hands, we are God's fingerprints here on earth.

 

Let us leave an enduring print: of goodness,

Of kindness,

Of menchlechkeit,

Of love,

Let us resolve: to rise each time we fall. 

Amen.