Remove Contents and Pray

I swing the bat with a whoosh, meet the ball exactly where it’s meant to be met, timing right, and send it soaring in a long, smooth arc. I pour the Shabbat wine in a blood red arc into the waiting Kiddush cup. The ball lands with a smack in the pocket of the glove. Deep center.

Please rise, for the National Anthem. The cantor goes to the prayer book. The pitcher goes to the rosin bag. Peers in for the sign. The stretch. The pitch. The crowd chants—Shemah Yisroel! Hero Israel!—swaying forward and back. The Wave. Because it is what is done, and has been, and will be. Book of Life. Long-term contract. The Ark will be opened, please rise.

I adjust my yarmulke and tallis—that silken cape or pair of wings—and begin to pray: Baruch atah Adonai. Praying for the catch, I tug on the visor of my cap and race to meet the ball. I tap the fattened end of the bat against the far corner of home and then raise it in readiness. At the Torah, I touch the tasseled end of my tallis to the parchment and raise my voice in prayer—Eloheynu melech ha’olam. We want a pitcher, not a glass of water! I slap palms with my teammates after making it home, high-five the mezuzah upon entering the house.

The lighting of the Shabbat candles. The lights at Fenway. The Western Wall. The Wall in Left. The First Temple. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Williams, Yazstremski, and Rice. Ben Gurion. Tom Yawkey. Dayan. Yaz. 1967’s Impossible Dream—Six Day War, Seven Game Series.

Home plate. Seder plate. Symbols of old stories we can’t stop telling. The Balfour Declaration was signed in 1917. The Red Sox won the World Series in 1918. Israel fought in 1948, ’67, ’73, ’82-’85. The Sox made it to the Series in 1946, ’67,’75, ’86. Green Line. Green Monster.

Borey pree hagafen. I drink from the cup. Beer, followed by a hotdog in a soft warm bun. The braided loaf of challah, golden brown, like my tan after a summer of play. Pull off a piece. Hamotzey lechem meen ha’aretz.

Four bases. Four levels of interpretation. Seventh day of rest. Seventh inning stretch. Ten Commandments. Ten to a side. Ten make a minyan. In the old ballgame.

The tallis covers my shoulders and back and is inscribed, in gold and silver Hebrew letters, House of Israel. House of Pizza, in yellow, adorns the back of my Little League T-shirt. The proud sponsor of the Kings. We finish last, at two and eighteen. The numerical value of chai—life—is 18. Life is loss. I drop the one fly ball that comes to me all season, in foul territory. It caroms off my glove and away. We get slaughtered. The slaughtering of the paschal lamb, of the first born, of Isaac. What would my father have done?

Through the gates into the Old City. Gate E to the Grandstand. Major Leagues and Minor. Oral and written traditions. Rule books. A bag full of bats and balls and bases. The velvet covering of the Torah. Remove contents and pray.

The starting lineup is announced. This week’s Torah portion. The Rabbi calls out my name, as my father’s son, for an aliyah. I adjust my yarmulke, which falls off easily, and long for a visor at which to tug. I begin to chant, hit the pitch just right. Hebrew darts across the page in a counter-clockwise swirl, like advancing base runners. I toss out a line, and the congregation hurls one back. How is it that the Red Sea parted? How is it that the ball passed through Bill Buckner’s legs? The curse of the Bambino. Sent into exile. We’ll win the Series yet. Next year in Jerusalem.

In a playoff game against the Cherubim—the Angels, I mean—the ball leaps off Henderson’s bat, and makes its way toward the upper reaches of the ballpark, and beyond. Utter ascension. The crowd roars and rises. Shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu laz’man hazeh. Please rise for the Amidah. Abraham Williams, Isaac Yazstremski, and Jacob Rice. We all rise. Silent prayer.

Steve Budd has an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) from Boston University. He’s an award-winning solo performer with three plays to his credit, and teaches college writing and literature classes in the San Francisco Bay Area.