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Like Judaism, baseball is best when shared by generations
YOSEF ABRAMOWITZ
Special to Jewish News
Everybody has been following the heroic exploits of the St. Louis Cardinals' Mark McGwire on his home run quest. But the Boston Red Sox, like the Jews, have been the historic underdogs of baseball. So each year on opening day my father, brothers and myself religiously make the pilgrimage to Fenway Park.
My brothers and I grew up on baseball. We collected the cards, traded factoids, practiced the craft, digested the sports pages and watched the games - all with the enthusiastic support of our father, a closet Yankees fan. And so, even now that we're adults, baseball is still a common bond, a common language.
Earlier this season, my dad called. He had tickets to the Red Sox-Yankees game. Would I want to bring Aliza, his oldest grand-daughter, who is five? It was time to initiate the next generation into our rituals, to partake in family history and to create new memories.
Aliza's first reaction to the invitation was a question: "Can I play?" She was disappointed in the answer, but I assured her that she would be able to learn the game by watching and could later begin playing.
As the day of the game approached, I began to worry. We are kosher vegetarians, and she would see people eating Fenway Franks. We are careful with our words, and she would hear swearing. We have tried to instill Jewish values in everything we do, and we were going to attend the most American of summer rituals. We have taught our children to show respect to everybody and not to hate. But here I was taking her to sit amid 35,000 people who would boo and cheer to show favor for one team over another.
As we were walking through the gates to the stadium, my father, remembering his first baseball game in the 1950s, was anticipating a "magic moment." Similarly, each year I am amazed at my own near-religious reaction when I first see the green grass of Fenway. As I held Aliza's hand up the ramp toward the brightness of the open stadium, my father stepped in front of us to better catch a glimpse of Aliza's first look at the Fenway field. We stood for a second in the sunlight, pointing to the green of the field. Aliza looked, squinting through her glasses shaded by a brand-new Red Sox cap, and saw ... a field. She wanted to get to the seats so she could drink soda. Strike one.
At first, I thought maybe she's just too young to understand. This was, after all, the first time three generations of Abramowitzes had attended a baseball game, and it happened to be on the hallowed, sacred space of Fenway in a game that pits the home team against the bad guys. In other words, this moment was filled with meaning, pregnant with possibilities for family lore. But Aliza, who is generally spiritually sensitive, didn't see it.
We arrived at our seats, which were way back in the bleachers. We sat in a sea of zealous fans; of beer-spilling, foul-mouthed, treif-eating people who are not normally part of our Jewish suburban universe. The rituals began. The announcing of the players provoked a loud, mixed response from the crowd. ("Abba, why are some people booing?") The standing for the national anthem. ("Abba, where's a Jewish flag?") And the first pitch.
The innings passed slowly for Aliza, who enjoyed the ice cream, peanuts, soda, toy bat, and customary Cracker Jacks more than the game itself. I, too, sat distracted and did not fall into my usual focused following of each pitch and play. I decided to cheer for everyone, and Aliza followed my lead.
By the fifth inning, while the Red Sox were being trounced, Aliza was ready to leave. As a bearer of a family tradition, I felt as if I had failed until she started to ask some questions.
"Abba, are any of the players Jewish?"
"I don't think so sweety," I hesitantly responded.
"Why not?"
"A lot of Jews used to play baseball, but now we try to do other work that helps people," I say quietly in her ear so that the surrounding fans don't catch my mission-oriented answer.
"Can girls play baseball?"
"Sure, but not here."
And for the first time in her life, Aliza encountered a gender-biased obstacle. I felt terrible.
"Can we go now?" Strike Two.
We gathered our gear, thanked the patriarch for the experience and headed out for the subway. For the first time as a parent, I didn't feel that I had been an effective transmitter of a family tradition. It was unclear that my father's commitment to baseball would survive into another generation. This seemed like an important point at the moment.
Then Aliza and I approached some homeless people. Aliza immediately shared her change with them and said hello, which elicited several smiles. I told Aliza how proud I am of her and realized that I haven't failed as a parent.
The home that Aliza and her sister Hallel are being raised in is infused with Judaism. It is no accident that they are fans of Moses and Miriam, collecting stories of the Jewish people, trading factoids about holidays, practicing songs and prayers, and seeing the world through the lens of Jewish values. Judaism, like baseball or any other life passion, is best transmitted to the next generation when it is actively lived every day.
As we got home, Aliza took out the Red Sox bat my father bought for her at the game and beckoned me to pitch. She would much rather play than observe. She swung, hit the ball and smiled at me for approval. I told her how proud I am of her. "I know, Abba," she said.
Yosef Abramowitz is publisher of www.JewishFamily.com. His latest book, Beyond Scandal: The Parents' Guide to Sex, Lies & Leadership, is available at www.JFLBooks.com.
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