Personal Reflection
Arnie Kanter
Rosh Hashanah, 5769
Shanah Tovah.
Having toiled for the past twenty-four years in the obscurity of Open Mike Land, where one is limited, in theory, to three minutes, I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to be here. Sitting in the pews on the bimah on Yom Kippur afternoon, dreaming of a corned beef sandwich on rye, with a pickle, which of us Open Mikers has not thought, as we awaited our turn, “Man, if I only had a crack at a personal reflection”.
And then, one day, that phone rings and Bryna, on the other end, says, “Pack your Hebrew Cubs hat, Kanter, you’re on your way to the Bigs.”
Soon thereafter, though, reality sets in, and the demons of self-doubt dance, like sugar plum designated hitters, in your head. Does baseball, and the Cubs in particular, belong center-stage in a High Holiday service?
And, worse still, as I began to reflect on my reflection, it occurred to me, sadly, that just maybe there’s something slightly sick about a 65-year old guy caring about whether the Cubs win or lose.
So, in my hour and a half today, I want to muse on why caring about baseball and the Cubs, for me, fits hand-in-glove with our religion.
Let’s start with the importance of place. Whether in the presence of the ark of the covenant, as it wended its way through the desert – which, unfortunately, I missed – or at the Wailing Wall in Eretz Yisrael – at which I’ve yet to wail – whether in the cramped quarters of the old JRC, our temporary, HVAC-challenged building, the beautiful new JRC structure with its Wrigley Field-inspired ivy walls outside, or in this, our High Holidays church – can any of us imagine celebrating the High Holidays in a synagogue? – place matters. Place instills a sense of holiness. And, for me, it is impossible to sit out at Wrigley Field on a beautiful, sunny afternoon and not experience a sense of the divine.
The value of tradition. In Judaism, we eat the maror and drink four cups of wine, we wear a kippah and we sing “shehehianu” and “dayenu.” In Cubsism, I eat kosher hot dogs and drink four Bud Lites, I wear a Hebrew Cubs hat and I sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and “Hey Chicago, What Do You Say, the Cubs Are Going to Win Today.” So, not a whole lot of difference there.
Success is not perfection. On Yom Kippur we repent, confess that we have not done all that we might have, confident that we may still be written into the Book of Life. Baseball makes this point even more clearly. When I get frustrated, on the rare occasions on which I’m unable to achieve perfection, I remember that, if I’d had a bit more baseball talent, hitting safely just three out of ten times might have written me into the Hall of Fame, where I could have davened with Sandy Koufax and Hank Greenberg.
Everyone makes a difference. At JRC, we have folks who serve on the Board or on committees, provide food for onegs, volunteer at soup kitchens, chant torah, donate money or clothes, usher for the High Holidays, and sing in the choir. Without them, JRC would not be JRC. The Cubs have coaches, trainers, clubhouse attendants and players who hit home runs, who pitch the seventh inning, who steal a base, who bunt a runner into scoring position, who make a terrific fielding play, who pinch hit or pinch run and who fill in at several positions. Without them, the Cubs would not be the Cubs.
Cultivating wonder. At its best, religion helps us to appreciate some of the simple things we take for granted, from the wonders of nature – I love to look out at the trees through the windows of our new sanctuary – to the kindness of fellow congregants. The older I get, it’s not the home runs that I love best in baseball, but the seemingly routine play made by a shortstop who runs far to his right, backhands the ball and, in the same motion, throws to first to nip the runner. Though this play won’t show up in the box score, may hardly be noticed, it is a supremely athletic, beautiful and basically impossible feat. Baseball has helped me learn to marvel at the routine.
Stuff happens. Life does not always go smoothly. When it doesn’t, that’s often difficult to abide. Religion tries to give us some perspective on this. Over the course of a Cubs season, I can count on the fact that a relief pitcher will walk in the winning run, the Cubs will fail to score in a critical situation with the bases loaded and nobody out, an outfielder will cost them a game by dropping a routine fly ball, a runner representing the winning run will be picked off of third base, an opposing pitcher with an 8.00 ERA will strike out twelve Cubs and hold them scoreless and an opposing batter with a .140 average will hit three home runs and drive in eight runs. Now you have two choices in those situations. You can aggravate the hell out of yourself, swear and cause your blood pressure to soar. That’s what I do. Or, as I hope someday to be able to do, if I mature, you can tell yourself, “Well, Arnold, that’s too bad, but, y’know, stuff happens.”
The value of sacrifice. Maimonides, I think, or Rashi, or maybe Moses said something about the levels of charity. Actually, it could have been Arnie Rachlis. Anyway, somebody said that the highest level is giving anonymously, without recognition. JRC recognized this hierarchy in a rather amazing way, by choosing to raise money for our new building without the traditional naming rights associated with making a large gift. This was actually quite courageous – and more than a bit disappointing to me, as I was really looking forward to establishing the Arnie Kanter Open Mike. Still, I can see how some might object to the Frito-Lay Erev Rosh Hashanah Service.
Baseball has its own levels of sacrifice. The sacrifice fly is good, but it’s not that much of a sacrifice because it gives the batter an RBI. The sacrifice bunt allows the batter to avoid an at-bat. But the highest form of sacrifice is the batter who, with a runner on second and no outs, punches a ground ball to the right side of the infield, putting the runner in position to score on a sacrifice fly, even though the batter is charged with making an out. Now that’s giving anonymously.
Finding something outside ourselves. When we get bogged down in our own mishagas, Judaism teaches us the duty of Tikkun Olam, the healing of the world, of thinking of something larger than us. Baseball, on the other hand, has the virtue of focusing me on something smaller than myself. But at least it gets me to focus outside of myself, takes me away – temporarily – from the seemingly insolvable problems that we face as individuals or nations. Many of us need this escape badly. At least I do.
And speaking of the problems our nation faces, it would not be right, in this election year, to fail to point out the intersection between religion, God and politics and how IS GOD A CUBS FAN? did what the Democratic Party was almost incapable of doing itself. For a long time, this book seemed to be the only thing on which Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama could agree.
In 2000, Senator Clinton wrote to me, “[Whether God is a Cubs fan] is a theological question I have asked myself many times and I am glad that you chose to devote your amusing little book to a problem that has perplexed me from girlhood. It might give you some comfort to know that Methodists all over the North Side have been asking the same question for years.”
And in 2004, then-candidate for senator, Barack Obama – in a letter widely credited with having secured the Jewish vote for him – wrote, “Thanks for the book. Cub-mania is at a fever-pitch. I take pride in Chicago’s reputation as a city of grit and character, and the Cubs’ suffering has definitely contributed to that character; we clearly owe the team a debt of gratitude. Keep writing.”
By the way, we don't know what Senator McCain thinks about IS GOD A CUBS FAN? We sent him a copy, but have not heard back from him. Maybe we sent it to the wrong house. But I digress….
There are many more parallels that I could draw between baseball and religion. But I think you get the idea, so I see no need to batter you with further commentary.
I want to close on a personal note, by telling you what the link between God, the Cubs and JRC has meant to me. What I intended to be a one-time reflection on God and the Cubs back at the Open Mike in 1984 has become something of a career and an obsession. In the process, these talks have become a small part of the rich tradition at JRC. While the High Holiday services might survive without them, why take that risk?
Of course, the talks, through the incredible teamwork of many JRC members, became the first book published by JRC, back in 1999. That book was celebrated in a quintessential JRC fashion, with a party in which grandstands were erected in the sanctuary and Take Me Out to the Ball Game was sung in Yiddish. A second edition was published in 2002 and the twenty-fifth anniversary of these talks will give rise to a World Series edition, which will be out early next year, in time for Valentine’s Day. More importantly, though, IS GOD A CUBS FAN? paved the way for three other books from JRC Press. These publications have become part of the fabric and spirit of the congregation. They have showcased some of the talent and creativity of our members and, in the process, they’ve raised more than a few shekels to support JRC activities.
On a personal level, these Open Mike talks and resulting books have led to connections with JRC members and others that have been very important to me. They have also deepened my love of and appreciation for baseball, for Judaism and for JRC.
So, as I suggested earlier, there may well be something slightly sick about a 65-year old guy caring about whether the Cubs win or lose. But – sick or not – I want to declare to you today that I do care. Devoutly.