I Didn't Know I Could Pitch Like That!

Erev Rosh HaShanah 

Rabbi Gary S. Creditor

September 10, 1999

Dr. Max Artz, alav hashalom, our teacher and vice-chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary a long time ago, said to us: "There are only three or four sermon themes. Everything else is a variation on it." I have recently been databanking all the sermons I have written spanning the twenty-five years of my rabbinate. When I scan the subject column, I realize the truth of his statement.

So when I composed my Rosh Hashanah sermon last year on Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa, I knew that it fit into the main category of "life", subcategory "baseball." David Lubke gave me a gift of a baseball card of each player, which sits proudly on my desk. Subcategory - finished. Not so fast. By accident I chanced upon either 95.3 or 103.7 - the country music stations and heard a song that reawakened memories of my youth and yet opened my eyes to new lessons. That provoked me to peruse the clippings I store and found an article written by Rabbi Bruce Aft, for his last year's Yizkor sermon. It contained a beautiful poem in the same subcategory. Now, a career season is the one when a player reaches his maximum potential, regardless of when it occurs in his career. I link these two pieces, the poem and song, inspired by two very unique and special men, Sosa and McGuire, having two career seasons in a row. When Mark McGuire responded to an interviewer saying "I'm not competing against Sammy Sosa, Roger Maris or Babe Ruth, I'm competing against myself," I knew that there was at least one more sermon left in this subcategory "baseball", main category "life".

I remember going with my father to the sporting goods store to buy my first real baseball glove. They were stiff, and with the brand new leather smell. Each was inscribed with a player's name. I chose the one with Alvin Dark. My "less-than-semi-professional" career on teams in the Peanut League and Farm League never included a winning season. When my throws from 3 rd base rarely arrived cacheable at 1 st base, they switched me to 1 st base so I could get a taste of my own medicine. Everybody always got a chance to play, no matter how bad you were. Yet I always looked forward to those games, win, or usually, lose. Nothing could dampen my enthusiasm. My mother always had my team shirt laundered and I proudly wore it as I rode my bike to the game. When Rabbi Aft went with his father to buy his glove, his father saved an advertisement from the Wilson Sporting Goods Company, which appeared in Sports Illustrated. It brought me back to those thrilling days of yesteryear.

This is your first game. 
I hope you win. 
I hope you win for your sake, not mine.

Because winning's nice. 
It's a good feeling. 
Like the whole world is yours. 
But it passes, this feeling. 
And what lasts is what you've learned.

And what you learn about is life. 
That's what sports is all about. 
Life. 
The whole thing is played out in an afternoon. 
The happiness of life. 
The miseries. 
The joys. The heartbreaks.

There's no telling what'll turn up. 
There's no telling whether they'll toss you out 
In the first five minutes 
Or whether you'll stay for the long haul.

There's no telling how you'll do. 
You might be a hero or you might be 
Absolutely nothing. 
There's just no telling. 
Too much depends on Chance. 
On how the ball bounces.

I'm not talking about the game. 
I'm talking about life. 
But it's life that the game is all about. 
Just as I said.

Because every game is life. 
And life is a game. 
A serious one. 
Dead serious. 
But that's what you do with serious things. 
You do your best. 
You take what comes. 
You take what comes and you run with it.

Winning is fun. 
Sure. 
But winning is not the point.

Want to win is the point. 
Not giving up is the point. 
Never being satisfied with what you've done is the point. 
Never letting up is the point. 
Never letting anyone down is the point.

Play to win. 
Sure. 
But lose like a champion. 
Because it's not winning that counts. 
What counts is trying.

Someone once said that baseball is a metaphor for life. This poem makes that truth abundantly clear. Every day is filled with choices and opportunities, and we have to make decisions without a crystal ball. Who knows what is right or wrong, win or lose? And when we err, chose the lesser the path, when things go the wrong way, how do we feel? The poem says: "Lose like a champion," not "win." "Because it's not winning that counts. What counts is trying." What counts is living this next year with grace, dignity, honor, respect of others, and with self-respect. Win, lose, or draw.

What do ball players do between games? In the days before practice tee's you would take your bat and a few balls and find an open field. All alone you would toss up the ball like this, and swing. If you were lucky to hit it, you would then walk after the ball, pick it up, and hit it - or try to hit it - back in the direction from where you came. Especially in the beginning of my baseball career it would be very frustrating to toss up the ball, swing - and miss, toss, swing - and miss. I remember Casey Stengel's remark during the first season of the New York Mets: "Can't anybody play the game around here?" [The answer was "no.'] Not me. You see yourself as Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider, and Willie Mays. In the batter's box. Toss, swing, and miss. Foul ball - maybe. It had to be me. My sense of self worth diminished with each attempt. Until finally you gather bat and ball, and go home.

For all of us who ever did this, for all of us who live, Kenny Rogers recorded this song. "The Greatest."

Little boy, in a baseball hat 
Stands in the field with his ball and bat. 
Says, "I am the greatest player of them all" 
Puts his bat on his shoulder and he tosses up his ball. 
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down, swings his bat all the way around. 
The world so still you can hear the sound, 
The baseball falls to the ground.

Now the little boy doesn't say a word, 
Picks up his ball, he is undeterred. 
Says, "I am the greatest there has ever been" 
And he grits he teeth and he tries again. 
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down, swings his bat all the way around. 
And the world so still you can hear the sound, 
The baseball falls to the ground.

He makes no excuses, he shows no fear, 
He just closes his eyes and listens to the cheers. 
Little boy, he adjusts his hat, 
Picks up his ball, stars at his bat.

Says, "I am the greatest, the game is on the line" 
And he gives his all one more time. 
And the ball goes up and the moon so bright, swings his bat with all his might. 
The world's so still, as can be, the baseball falls and that's strike three.

Now it's suppertime and his momma calls, 
Little boy starts home with his bat and ball. 
Says, "I am the greatest, that is a fact, 
But even I didn't know I could pitch like that!" 
Says, "I am the greatest, that is understood, 
But even I didn't know I could pitch that good!"

It's a matter of perspective: how we see the world, how we see life, how we see ourselves. This song is brilliant. I held the bat. I stood in the batter's box. I swung and missed. I totally forgot - I'm the one who tossed up the ball. "I'm the greatest…"

The rabbis teach us that we should have two stones in our pockets, one inscribed "I am nothing but dust and ashes," and on the other, "the world is made for me." And when things go super good in the year to come, let us not lose our balance, our humility, and our humanity. And if we should encounter moments when it seems "strike three," then remember our song, "I'm the greatest, that is a fact…"

Who knows how many home runs Manny Sosa and Mark McGuire will hit? Seventy? More? May they both have career seasons. Again. May we never cease trying, and if we lose, may we "lose like a champion." May we leave shul tonight, uplifted, that along the path we follow may we say to ourselves "I didn't know I could pitch so good…"

T'hay shanah metukah v'tovah,

May the year be sweet and good.

Amen.