Many of you know that Rabbi Wayne grew up on the Southside of Chicago and had a deep and abiding love for the city, and especially for his neighborhood. His grandparents, aunts and uncles, and 19 cousins all lived within a mile of one another, and they had their choice of synagogues, JCCs, and schools, and played golf and baseball in the enormous and beautiful Jackson Park, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, (the architect of Central Park in New York). It was a mixed and integrated area of working-class families who watched out for one another and made community a priority.
And so, it broke Rabbi Wayne’s heart to watch the disintegration and destruction of the Southside in the early 70s, as White-Flight and diminishing resources caused businesses to fail and close, poverty, crime, and drugs to take over, and his neighborhood to become known in Chicago as “Terror Town”.
But he always believed in the Southside and would admonish everyone, “Save your dixie-cups…the South will rise again!” For a while, he had great thoughts about moving back to the Southside, starting a synagogue there and beginning the renewal of the area he loved so much. (Truly, the man never thought small!)
So, when ten years ago, the Obamas began to plan their Presidential Center in Jackson Park on the Southside, Rabbi was overjoyed, hopeful, excited, and thrilled.
This week of the Solstice, we all got to witness the overwhelming love, devotion, and commitment to community, as the Obama Center opened, and the whole world showed up to celebrate. (It is not even possible to get tickets now, until 2027.) Finally, a great light begins to shine in the Southside once again.
So when I asked Rabbi what the Legacy piece would be this coming month, it was no great surprise when he pointed to Chapter 10 of his beautiful book of stories about growing up in his beloved Southside. The book is called Chicago Sweet — and it was never published. But indeed, each story is a sweetness that stabs the heart and brings a tear to the eye.
This story that he shares with us this month reminds us again, of where our priorities need to lie and what is truly important. And again, we get to wrestle with profound wisdom that underlies seemingly simple innocence. Enjoy and Much Love,
Ellen, continuing the work of the Elijah Minyan
Chapter 10 of Chicago Sweet,
by Rabbi Wayne Dosick
LOUIE, NELLIE, BILLY, AND BIG KLU
The highlight of my childhood was the year 1959 when the Chicago White Sox won the American League pennant.
Every summer before that, it was the New York Yankees, the New York Yankees, the New York Yankees (except for 1954, when it was the Cleveland Indians.) It was enough to break the heart of a young baseball fan — deeply, rabidly loyal to his hometown team. Every spring I got a new Sox cap, and every fall, the season ended just like the cap — used up, dusty, and torn.
But, how I loved those White Sox. I knew the names of all the players, and their positions, and their uniform numbers. And, I met a number of them, because, in those days, before free agency and astronomical salaries, many of the players had to get winter jobs. So, they lived in the city, and worked in automobile dealerships, and as greeters in family restaurants, and as salesmen in a wide variety of industries.
As a public service and to promote the team, many players would volunteer to be speakers at church and synagogue dinners, Boy Scout troop meetings, service club events, and father-son outings (daughters weren’t yet included in this pre-feminist macho world.) They would shake hands, and sign autographs, and tell “inside the locker room” stories that made us feel as if we really knew them. One of the Sox players had a grandmother who lived in our neighborhood, so, once in a while, when he came to visit Grandma, he would stop by our playground, toss out a new ball for us to play with, and on rare (but incredibly precious) occasions, hit fly balls or infield practice to ear-to-ear-grinning ten year olds.
The 1959 season was magical. Even though we had traded the beloved Minnie Minoso to the Cleveland Indians, and had a fellow named Al Smith in left field, the rest of the team was made up of hometown heroes. “Little Louie” Aparicio was the shortstop whose fielding was nothing short of extraordinary. Nellie Fox was the scrappy second baseman. Billy Pierce was the smooth left-handed pitcher. And, near the end of the season, added to the team to play first base was Big Ted Kluszewski — whose arms were so large that he cut off the sleeves of his uniform shirt so he would have unrestricted room to swing his bat.
As the team won more and more games, giving hope to usually disappointed fans, more and more Chicagoans would sit in front of black and white television screens, or put ears close to little transistor radios, or get an extension cord for the plug-in radio, and take it out to the front porch or stoop to listen to the night games. Cheers went up from the whole neighborhood when there was a good play or hit, and communal groans could be heard when the other team did something well. The weekend that the Sox beat the Yankees four straight, there was euphoria throughout the city.
And, then, the day finally came. September 23rd in Cleveland. Back in Chicago, we were all glued to our little black and white television sets. Bottom of the 9th. The Indians loaded the bases with one out. Sharp ground ball to Louie. He touches second and rifles the ball to Big Klu at first. Double play! The White Sox win the pennant — for the first time in 40 years. Elation! Jubilation! Back in Chicago, the city exploded in celebration.
Mayor Richard J. Daley was so excited at what his Sox had done, he ordered the fire commissioner to sound the air raid siren. Now, my grandmother knew nothing about baseball, and she surely did not know that something good had just happened to the White Sox. She knew that it was the middle of the Cold War. She knew that the Russians were a constant threat to the United States. She heard the air raid siren, and she had only one thought: The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!
Fortunately, at that moment, the Russians were safely tucked into their beds in the Kremlin, and my grandmother — God rest her precious soul — learned one more lesson in the great wonders of living in America.
Unfortunately, the White Sox fell under the spell — and better pitching — of the (newly minted Los Angeles) Dodgers (so sorry, abandoned Brooklyn) and, despite a first game victory of 11 to 1, the Sox lost the World Series in six games. Chicago’s euphoria turned to deep sadness, and a melancholy fell over the city that lasted well into the winter. (Or, perhaps, this is just the overly dramatic remembrance of a deeply disappointed twelve year old, who loved his team and was crushed by its defeat.)
As the winter “hot-stove league” (talks about possible trades and team rosters) heated up, the White Sox devised a very clever way to appease the disappointment of young fans. In full-page newspaper ads, the Sox announced a contest to choose a batboy for the coming season. (It was still the time of female inequality, so it was a bat-boy, not a bat-girl. And, besides, what father would let his young daughter hang around a professional sports locker room with a bunch of 20-something male athletes running around in their jocks?)
The job entailed being on the field with the team at every home game, fulfilling the traditional tasks of a batboy — placing the players’ bats and helmets in the proper racks, preparing the on-deck circle, picking up the bats and helmets from the field, giving new baseballs to the umpires, and, being a general helper to players and coaches, or, as the ad put it, “being an important, contributing member of the team.” And, there was the promise of one road trip during the year with the team to some big, alluring cities, and a scholarship for college, and the tantalizing, gigantic salary of $4.00 per game.
Never mind the questions of how I would get from school or home to the game, how I would get home from the ballpark at eleven or twelve at night, how I would do my homework, or prepare for my upcoming Bar Mitzvah, or, the unstated, but implied duty of helping the locker room attendant polish a team-worth of shoes every night. (I hardly ever polished my own shoes, yet less twenty-five pairs of baseball spikes.)
My dear parents tried to point out the pitfalls of this “dream job.” But, I would not be deterred. I rushed to fill out the application and to write the essay about why I should be selected as the next Chicago White Sox batboy.
I wondered: How could I make my little essay stand out from the thousands and thousands of others that were sure to be received?
Flash of creative brilliance: I’ll write a poem.
To this day, I still remember the first stanza.
“Sox batboy is what I want to be.
That’s the job — yes sir-ree.
‘Twould be the greatest thrill for me,
With Louie, Nellie, and Big Kluszewski.”
I didn’t win the contest. I was not the 1960 Chicago White Sox batboy.
My parents said all the appropriate comforting words, and, I am sure, privately breathed a sigh of relief. My Bar Mitzvah teacher chuckled, for, after all, I had already told him that I probably wouldn’t be coming to the lessons anymore, because I’d be batboy for the White Sox. I, of course, was, once again devastated by the White Sox who, not only lost the World Series, but, now, rejected me (and my more-than-clever poem) from “being an important, contributing member of the team.”
A dream dashed. My career in baseball ended before it even began.
The newspapers published the winning essay, and an interview with the guy who won, and an interview with a team official who had made the final choice.
“What made this young man stand out to you?” the team official was asked.
“It was his essay.”
“What did he write?”
“He said that he wanted the job as our batboy because he really needs the $4.00 per game salary, and, most, because he really needs the college scholarship.”
The interviewer turned to the winner who said, “Yes. My mother is bringing up me and my brothers and sisters all alone. (How can he be the batboy, when his grammar is incorrect? my still-jealous self wanted to know.) We need the money for groceries. And, unless I get the scholarship I’ll never be able to go to college.”
“Wow,” I thought. “My family has never been without groceries. And tuition to a state college is less than $100 a semester.” (Impossible to believe now.) “My family will be able to afford that. I wanted to win because it would be fun, because I love baseball, because I love the White Sox. He needed to win to help his family eat.”
He needed to win.
It reminded me of a story that I had heard in Hebrew School. A synagogue was seeking a new shofar-blower. The shofar is a ram’s horn that is sounded on the holy days of Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish new year. With its piercing blasts, it reminds us of our human frailties and failings, of our mistakes and transgressions, and of our hope for ultimate redemption for ourselves and our world. The synagogue’s long-time shofar blower had died, so auditions were being held for his replacement. There were three final candidates, each of whom had excellent skills, and, really, there was little discernable difference between their shofar-blowing.
So, the rabbi asked each of the three to answer a question. “What will you be thinking of when you sound the shofar for the congregation on the holy day?”
The first replied, “I’ll be thinking of the greatness of our human foibles.”
The second said, “I’ll be thinking of the greatness of God’s love and power to forgive.”
The third, quietly, and almost embarrassingly, said, “I will be thinking of how much I need this job and its salary, because I must have a dowry for my daughter so that she can get married.”
He needed the job.
Who was chosen?
The one with the greatest need.
The shofar-blower and the batboy are much the same. Their needs were more important than anyone else’s desire, or worthy thoughts and aspirations — or, even, cute little poem.
And so:
As every human being who came before us, each day we face the ethical dilemma — personal desire and self-interest versus the needs of others and the common good of the human family.
Our raw, untamed instincts pull at us to meet our own needs, to fulfill our own desires, to put ourselves ahead of any other.
Yet, our felt-sense obligation and responsibility as children of the Divine, as children of the universe, is to make the life of another as precious to us as our own.
It is really the only way our world can function. We need and crave not a patchwork quilt of self-centeredness and selfishness, but a circle of mutual concerns and sacred interdependence.
“I set before you this day the blessing and the curse.”
The curse if we live only for ourselves.
The blessing when we embrace the Other.
Choose.
The cheering crowds of the fields of sport and the compelling sound of the shofar call to us: Listen to the voice of another, expressing need, and longing, and hope; respond to the plaintive cries of the human soul, recognize and celebrate the Oneness of all humankind.
The whole world is waiting for us to rise up in shared purpose and commitment, to sing the song of harmony and unity.
“If not now, when?”