It had been 20 years since I stood at the plate and held a bat high above my head, my toes digging into the sand and my eye focused on the pitcher.
On May 21, that changed.
For a couple of decades now, an Orthodox shul baseball league has taken to the parks in Downsview and Thornhill to battle for the coveted honour of being the best. This year, during my 12-month period of cardio rehabilitation, I asked my nephew, Ezra Rosenzweig – a natural athlete who walks with the athletic majesty of basketball great Kobe Bryant – if he could secure me a position on the Clanton Park Synagogue shul team.
I don’t attend Clanton Park, but the rules have changed over time to allow for free agent daveners. Ezra approached the manager of the team, Immanuel “Gee” Greenberg, a very fine person, with my request.
I waited by the phone like a rookie waiting for the results of the draft. It rang. Ezra was on the line.
“We have a spot for you,” he said. “It will cost you $150 for the season, but you’ll get a jersey.”
A jersey! Man, this is better than I could have possibly imagined! Questions, questions, questions. Will I wash it in hot water or cold? Should I use my $20, second-hand, first basemen’s glove, or the fine-leather Wilson fielder’s glove that I received in a trade for a 1984 Ford?
I was nervous. All the guys on the team are half my age, with strength comparable to that of the biblical King David. What would I muster at the plate and in the field? What could I draw upon when facing down a formidable and God-fearing pitcher from Shomrai Shabbos synagogue?
Game day arrived, and sure enough, that old friend, the pre-game jitters, came to visit.
I walked onto the Clanton Park baseball diamond, just off Palm Drive, and tossed the ball around with my teammates – the 2008 shul champions. I felt an immediate camaraderie with them and was taken by their respect for this “old guy” with a paunch and stale throwing arm who was giving baseball a second shot.
Soon, it was my turn at bat. I was sweating. I was sixth in the order. The next game I would be No. 8.
The first pitch was a courteous one. I swung. Damn! I pulled my hamstring and missed the ball entirely.
The pitcher touched his tzitzit. He was serious. He pitched again. I was in pain (and would be for the entire game).
“Strike 2!” I could hear my heart beating as loud as the sound of the shofar.
The next pitch would be mine. Like Danny in Chaim Potok’s The Chosen, my first at-bat was a religious experience.
The pitch made its way into the strike zone, an easy lob tailored just for me. I could hear the thworp the ball would make once I connected. “Strike 3!” the umpire yelled. I stood there, Charlie Brownish, then smiled and walked back to the bench.
The boys patted me on the back and reverentially said, “Way to go. Next time.”
I went 0 for 5 that night. But things got better and in game 2. I walked twice, hit two singles, got a couple of RBIs, and pulled my hamstring again.
I was given the game ball.
Whenever I play, I smile for every moment of every inning, because after 20 years on the sidelines, I’m part of the finest frum shul league team in North America, with the greatest bunch of guys.
I am a ball player, and after years of searching, I have finally discovered a shul experience that works for me. Play ball!
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