Rite of Spring

I don’t know if you can hear it, but I can. The excitement in the air: soon, very soon long-empty stands will once again welcome the sound of balls hitting mitts, of bats swooshing through the air, of cheers and jeers, the smell of hot dogs and beer, the sound of peanuts being cracked open—all of this will ring for real in San Francisco tomorrow, and Oakland on the day after. The regular season of baseball will begin.

I have to admit it, I’m a sports nut. I know it shouldn’t be so: Unitarian Universalist ministers are “supposed” to be always thinking of higher elevated topics. We shouldn’t be sitting in bars watching innings of baseball, periods of hockey, halves of basketball and soccer, or rounds of golf. We should, instead, be thinking about the nature of theology, whether or not there is a god, what it means to be a good person, and how we can save the world.

But I can’t help it. I think it’s genetic. Or maybe nurture. My father loved sports. He would sit, glued to the TV, through hours and hours of football and hockey—games of choice—or basketball and baseball if nothing else was on. Dad was not a passive viewer. I learned what coaches should do and all the words that I should never say in the pulpit by the time I was four. His language was colourful, to say the least. Kids in the neighborhood would come to our house during the games, just so they could enrich their vocabularies with words their mothers wished they never heard.

My father also sustained a football injury in our living room. After one incredible play, Dad jumped up out of his chair with great glee and noise. Glee that, once again, was expressed in words I can’t repeat in the pulpit. But you know as well as I that what goes up, must come down, and down Dad did come, right (or should I say wrong) on his heel. He was on crutches for six weeks. Years later, I was to follow in my father’s example when I sustained my two Boston Marathon injuries. There I was standing just two blocks away from the finish line, which was out of sight around a couple corners. The runners, though near the end, didn’t really know it. Many were lagging, so those of us standing there thought it was our job to encourage them. I clapped and clapped and clapped, and sustained bruised wrists from the repetitive motion. I couldn’t hold a book for days. So then I yelled and yelled and yelled, and sustained a sore throat and laryngitis. I couldn’t speak for days. Two Boston Marathon injuries, akin to my father’s football injury, though a little less dramatic. No crutches.

I’m addicted to sports. I’m a season ticket holder to the Detroit Shock, the women’s professional basketball team. I’ll be launching a field trip early in June when they come to beat the Sacramento Monarchs. My first professional baseball game was in the late 1970s, during the Toronto Blue Jays’ second year. They were still in the old exhibition Stadium down along the waterfront. It was April, and there were snow flurries melting in my hot chocolate. I warmed my hands under the dryers in the restroom as we stayed through extra innings to the end. Who won, I can’t recall. But there was something about that cold, miserable day on the Toronto waterfront that made me a baseball—and Blue Jays—fan from then on.

When I was in Harvard, one of my classmates, Arthur, had season’s tickets to the evening home games of the Red Sox. A holdover from his corporate days, Arthur and his wife Andrea still have those season tickets—even though they’ve lived in Vancouver for the last fifteen years. It’s quite a commute from Vancouver, but they do it as often as they can.

But while we were in school, if Andrea couldn’t make it, there was a line-up of other women to take her place. I remember that Arthur and I even went the night before our New Testament final. We had our bible flash cards in our knapsacks, along with the New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha. Between innings and during pitching changes, we crammed for the exam. As we approached the ballpark, Arthur asked me, “I wonder how many people inside have pondering the delay of the parousia?” The parousia, for those who have not been subjected to Bernadette Brooten’s New Testament studies, is the second coming. I didn’t answer Arthur then, but when we entered the stadium and discovered it was Salvation Army night, I turned to Arthur and said, “Lots. Lots of people here have pondered the delay of the parousia.” Who won the game that night, I can’t recall. But I got an A- in New Testament.

And while I was in Calgary, every so often, we would take ourselves off to see the Calgary Cannons play in the sweetest little ballpark you’ve ever seen. Sitting there, in our $7 seats (the best in the house), eating Ball Park franks, and watching the sun set over the snowcapped mountains, it was incredible. The Cannons were a Triple A club, for whom I can’t remember now, and it was always necessary to check your car after the game to see if one of the foul balls had hit it as it ricocheted out of the park. Who won the games, I can’t recall. But it was great watching the stars of the future play on that little field.

Similarly, for years my trips to our annual meeting, General Assembly, included a trip to a nearby ball park. I’ve seen the Salt Lake Buzz in Franklin Covey, the Red Sox, the Milwaukee Brewers, Atlanta Braves. I also went to one of our ministers’ meetings at Wrigley Field to see the Cubs play. Who won, I can’t recall. But I remember the feel and the smell and the sounds and the lights and the laughter. And I’ve learned there is much we can learn about life from sports. Today, let me share baseball’s wisdom.

What other sport has someone like Yogi Berra to brag about? His wisdom is legendary. Just listen to some of Yogi’s wisdom:

· You can’t think and hit at the same time.

· Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.

· A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.

· We were overwhelming underdogs.

· It’s never happened in World Series history, and it hasn’t happened since.

· It’s déjà vu all over again.

· If people don’t want to come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?

· Why buy good luggage? You only use it when you travel.

· If you can’t imitate him, don’t copy him.

· 90% of the game is half mental.

· Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours.

· Pair up in threes.

· Never answer an anonymous letter.

· You can observe a lot by watching.

· We have a good time together, even when we’re not together.

· Little League baseball is a good thing ’cause it keeps the parents off the streets, and the kids out of the house.

· The future ain’t what it used to be.

· It ain’t over ’til it’s over.

· I really didn’t say everything I said.

Smart sayings, these Yogi ones—I could probably stop here and you could just ponder those. But there is more to baseball.

For instance—can you imagine having to make an important decision in less than 4/10ths of a second? I can’t even fathom how quick that is. And yet, that’s the time frame batters have to discern the stitches on a ball coming at them at 90 miles and hour, and make a decision about whether to swing or not. To size up the ball, determine its speed, its direction, its possible spin. And then, after they make the decision, the decision goes from the mind to the muscles. And then the muscles begin to respond. And as they are responding, there is a window of about 8/10ths of a second to reconsider—beyond that time, it is impossible to stop the arms’ momentum forward. Baseball, from a physicist’s eye view, is nigh on impossible.

Yet people keep on playing this game. They don’t let the overwhelming odds and physics of the situation stop them, but rather practice and practice and practice, learning how to do the impossible. It’s a game of and for optimists. Sure, having a physical gift of a good arm or a good eye is something. But that’s not enough to explain why there are also thousands of people who play ball for sport rather than fame, despite knowing that it is impossible. People put themselves up against almost unbeatable odds, often with a great deal of grace and flare. Hope abounds.

Watching baseball is like watching life. If you keep your focus only on the ball, you’ll miss a lot. There is so much more going on, and just like life, the good stuff often happen in places you’re not looking, or where you don’t expect it. Sometimes keeping the eye only on the ball—or on what others deem most important—means that we miss something quite grand just on the edges of living. Sitting next to the Green Monster, the wall along Fenway Park’s right field that has robbed many of well-deserved home runs, you hear the center fielder talking with the fans. What? Players talking with fans? Tossing them balls? Being good role models for the kids? Yes, and it is great. There was such decency and humanity is these simple acts.

So much happens out of the view of the cameras. You see players from opposing teams chatting and joking with each other. With a wide open expansive view, you can see opportunities arise unbidden. I’ve seen incredible stolen bases by watching wide. Well, if truth be told, sometimes I was actually looking for the ball, but didn’t know where it was and then, zip, someone steals a base!

It’s like that in life, too. It’s often on the sidelines and away from the glare of camera lights that life really happens. Watching a child discover a mud puddle is never on the list of “developmental milestones” and yet it is one of the great moments of life. Finding a gourmet restaurant just because you got lost—often not looking where you are going yields surprises. Job or partner possibilities, all sorts of things, happen away from where you expect it.

Baseball also teaches us recovery from over commitment. When running from home to first, you’re allowed to overrun the base, if you don’t turn left. That’s great, because sometimes we overrun our own lives—when we go full speed ahead past our stopping point. Yet we can back up—apologize, start over, or whatever. As long as we know where we should have stopped, it often works out. That’s what forgiveness and learning from our mistakes is all about.

You also get to lead off. You can step a few feet away from the bag to be ready for what comes next. It’s a balancing game, for sure. How far can you be away and still get back in time? In life, we often get chances to “lead off”—like when someone else helps us with a project, or gives us a hand by supplying needed advice or financial help. Take college scholarships, the WIC program, Head Start. There are times we all need an extra bit of help, and being able to “lead off” turns our personal games around. We still have to pay attention to the rules, and not stray too far off the baseline or we might get caught. But the lead off can help us stay properly within the game.

Imagine this too: being 40% accurate is incredibly good. Any batter that can hit 400 is special. What would our lives be like, if we allowed ourselves the room for this: 40% accuracy? Plus, batters don’t need to get it right the first time. They get two free swings, two free shots, two free strikes. Rather than the overly severe standards we hold for ourselves, it would be terrific if we allowed ourselves the chance to get those two tries in first. If they hit it out of the park on the first one or two, that’s great. But they get three tries, at a minimum. Imagine where you’re not expected to be perfect every time. Foul balls, too—another place where you can rest in “almost” without going down for the count. Grace abounds, even if we only connect part way, even if we hit the ball out of bounds. Sometimes you still get out, but you have a lot of chances along the way.

And even when you’re out, most of the time you’re not fully out. Sure, there are only three outs in every inning, but you get the chance to come back again and try again later in the game. You’re rarely out for good, unless you make the mistake of arguing with the umpire. Not a good thing if you want to show up again in a later inning. Yet baseball—like life—provides you with ample opportunities to try again, and to come back again, as long as you don’t give up or do something truly stupid.

And I ask you, where else, other than in life itself, is the goal always to come home again safely? Where else do you get such cheers merely by the simple act of coming home?

Okay, it’s time for the seventh inning stretch—all of you, on your feet!

Take me out to the ballgame,

Take me out to the fair.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,

I don’t care if we ever get back

For it’s root, root, root for the home team,

If they don’t win it’s a shame.

For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!

Now there are a couple of other oddities about baseball. One of them is the infield fly rule. This is a rule that tries to make the game fair for both sides, but despite my Harvard education, and the best efforts of dozens of people who keep on explaining it to me, I can’t remember it, so you are spared that this morning. But think of it—you don’t have to understand everything to enjoy the game. Or life.

Another thing. Usually we don’t approve of stealing in churches. But stealing bases—that’s great! It’s legal. It reminds me of another springtime event—tax loopholes. If you’re smart enough, you can find ways to save yourself—help your personal team win—that’s all within the rule book. Only the brave, the smart, and the ones willing to be constantly learning get this advantage—just like the advantage of stealing a base. I’m sure the loophole must have its origin in the stolen base, don’t you think?

Yet, let me tell you, the biggest similarity between baseball and life is the pace of the game. In baseball, as in life, there is a lot of time spent doing the ordinary. Balls are pitched, hit, missed, and so on. You might get a run or two, or you might not. It goes along at a pretty steady pace, without too much excitement or glamour.

But every now and then, you get the big inning. You get an inning where either everything goes great, perfect, wonderful, and where the other team can’t do squat. You get the grand slam, their catcher makes an error, the toss is just off, or you’re just so hot you’re unstoppable. Whichever it is, all of a sudden, the game has thrown you—viewer or player—into adrenaline overdrive. The thrill is there, and you know why you sit through all those other, sometimes boring, innings. Because eventually, eventually you get to the big inning. Eventually, there will be a payoff that is worth all the mundane stuff you sat through before.

And that, my friends, is much like life. We spend so many of our days doing the mundane, the routine, the boring. We take out the trash week after week after week. We do dishes, change diapers, walk the dog, go to work, hour after hour after hour and day after day after day. We prepare countless dinners, make innumerable phone calls. We carry on with those mundane chores. There is much to life that is no thrill at all.

But then, then, the big inning comes. You get the renovation done, you get the promotion and raise at work, you get to watch your baby take its first steps, you find the partner of your dreams, you travel to the place your heart feels most alive. You get what you’ve always dreamed of and worked for. You get to the big inning, the one that makes all the rest of that stuff seem like no big deal, no wasted time, that redeems the ordinary time. It’s worth it, after all—even the mundane, for it led to now.

But even if the big inning doesn’t happen just the way you want, at the end of the game you learn, once again, another baseball secret. You learn that baseball, and life, are really not about winning or losing, but how you play the game. That you have been faithful to your dreams, your team, your sense of fair play. That you have spent time watching the grass grow, and the pattern of lights on the grass field as twilight turns to night light. That you know that there may be times of boredom, but that even in those, there is something sublime in knowing that you are doing your best, and striving to be the best player you can be. You keep trying because you believe. Who won the game, I can’t remember. But oh, the feeling is grand. As first baseman Chris Chambliss said, “If you’re not having fun in baseball, you miss the point of everything.” And if you’re not having fun in life, you, too, may miss the point of everything.

Best of all, best of all, it ain’t over 'til it’s over. We get to come back, inning after inning, to revisit the game and watch as it unfolds each day in new and exciting ways. What more could anyone ask? Batter up!

Rite of Spring by the Rev. Dr. Lisa Presley March 30, 2008

Rite of Spring
by the Rev. Dr. Lisa Presley
March 30, 2008