Far from Common — Thoughts from Dusty Baker

With the release of Crossroads: A Memoir of Baseball and Life, the Olympic Club hosted an evening with Dusty Baker on Friday, September 11, 2026. I wasn't about to miss the chance to meet, greet, listen to, and learn from the former San Francisco Giants manager. D-Bake isn't just one of the cooler cats around; he is beloved. He is anything but ordinary.

Why do I say that? He told me so.

I already knew a little about the Riverside native. He was just four years younger than Bobby Bonds an MLB great whose son Barry played Dusty. Reading about Barry in Love Me, Hate Me: Barry Bonds and the Making of an Antihero gave me a deeper appreciation for the extraordinary place where they both grew up. What is now known as the Inland Empire was a remarkably vibrant and diverse corner of Southern California, where racial diversity was part of the fabric of the community and young athletes—boys and girls alike—had opportunities to play, compete, and develop.

When Norton Air Force Base closed, the Baker family relocated to Sacramento, where Dusty's father, Johnnie Baker, found work at McClellan Air Force Base. Dusty and his brother enrolled at Del Campo High School in Carmichael. They were the only two Black students on campus—and quite possibly in Carmichael, too.

I know a little about Carmichael because it's home to Jesuit High School. As another school in Jesuits West, I've attended several programs on its campus, spoken with its coaches, and worked with its administrators. They take Ignatian spirituality seriously.

Although Dusty didn't attend Jesuit, the opening passage of his book makes me think he would have understood its approach to people:

I was raised to give everyone a chance. Or at least to try. My parents taught us to keep our eyes open and to trust our feelings about people. If you did that, you could trust that person enough to let them show you who they are. You might end up being disappointed, but more often than not, you would see the good in people. That core conviction has turned into a lifelong philosophy of mine.

That attitude isn't all that different from known a tool in a Jesuit toolbox. The Presupposition is a fancy term that essentially encourages us to assume another’s best intentions. Although Ignatius intended his guidance as a sort of grounding understanding between a retreatant and their guide, the Presupposition is excellent advice for, well, anybody who’s ever had to deal with the idiosyncrasies of another human being. 

I'd argue it's one reason Dusty has found such success in life, in the dugout, and on the diamond.

For over an hour, Dusty shared lessons he learned from Hank Aaron and Willie Mays. He told stories about hunting with Will Clark and working with strong personalities like Jeff Kent and Barry Bonds.

When I had the chance to ask a question, I asked about his experience taking over the Houston Astros in 2020.

You might recall that the Astros fired manager A.J. Hinch in January of that year after MLB suspended him for his role in the team's sign-stealing scandal. Dusty took over and managed the team from 2020 through 2023, winning the 2022 World Series.

As much as I hated the Astros, it was hard to cheer against Dusty. I know I'm not the only one who felt that way.

Dusty thanked me for the question. He explained that the first thing to understand was that he'd inherited a very good team. Too often, managers are brought in without a roster full of talent. The scandal was infuriating because the Astros had assembled a talented team and then undermined the legitimacy of their accomplishments by cheating. They didn't have to do that!

But Dusty also pointed out that the COVID-19 pandemic had an unexpected benefit: there were no fans in the stands, just cardboard cutouts. The team would have faced much more heat from the fans if the stadiums had been full.

After the talk and Q&A, I went over to have Dusty sign my book.

"You're the one who asked a good question," he said.

Note to self: Make your audience feel seen, heard, and special.

I also congratulated him on his induction into the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum's Hall of Game. I told him I'd visited the museum while in Kansas City.

"With all due respect to what they have there, I think it's totally underwhelming," I said. "Considering what those athletes accomplished, especially under those circumstances, I believe the Hall should make a statement. It's housed inside a modern, multipurpose building."

"I totally agree," he responded.

I explained that I loved the exhibits and learned a great deal, but that the physical space should reflect the extraordinary significance of the people and history it preserves. Across the way is a jazz museum. The Negro Leagues Baseball Museum deserves to stand alone, too."

I purchased a book while I was there, "Satchel Paige: Maybe I'll Pitch Forever."

He responded, "I played with Satchel."

I could hardly believe it! I said, "Well, I'm mentioning that because if you ever want to add a quote to the front of your book, he has a good one. It was also used in the first episode of Ted Lesso, Season 4, when Higgins visited the Negro Hall of Fame." I handed Dusty my iPhone so he could read it from the screen.

“Ain't no man can avoid being born average. But there ain't no man that got to be common.”—Satchel Paige.

I said, "That's you."

"I never thought I was common. Not me," he replied.

I loved the quiet confidence of that response. Dusty knows who he is, and he doesn't need to pretend otherwise. There's something compelling about that kind of self-assurance, especially when it comes with a willingness to build others up.

Throughout the evening, Dusty spoke candidly about race and acknowledged the challenges he'd faced. But what struck me most was that he didn't seem interested in letting those challenges define him—or allow them to keep him from seeing the good in others. His philosophy is rooted in giving people a chance, recognizing their gifts, and treating them as more than whatever assumptions others might make about them.

Perhaps that's part of what makes Dusty Baker so special. He knows he's not common, but he doesn't need to make anyone else feel small to prove it. He remembers the person who asked a good question. He credits the talent of the team he inherited. He carries the wisdom of the people who came before him. And he makes room for others to be seen, heard, and appreciated.

Satchel Paige was right: Nobody has to be common. But maybe the real measure of an extraordinary person isn't simply knowing that about yourself. It's helping other people believe it about themselves, too.

Photos
Memoir
WS Trophy

Standing Shoulder to Shoulder: Golf and Grace

Congratulations to the St. Ignatius varsity girls' golf team for beating WCAL rival Valley Christian for the first time in 14 years! With half the varsity squad made up of freshmen, the last time the Wildcats defeated the Warriors, most of these players were still in diapers. This talented, spirited, and spunky team has come a long way, baby! Cheers to the players and their dedicated, hardworking, and outstanding coaches.

Today, the team competed in its final league match against the Lancers of Saint Francis. The win secured a tie for first place in the WCAL. But this is just the first leg of the journey to see how far these Wildcats can go. The goal? Make it to the state championship—and go to Disneyland.

Still riding the wave of the previous day’s victory, the girls arrived with plenty of momentum. Before the match, head coach Dan Schwabe offered a reminder.

Mind you: Dan has the gift of gab. He’s never met a stranger and is seldom at a loss for words. And yet, amid all those words, his messages have a way of hitting home. As I listened to him that day, he offered an image that will stay with me—and, I suspect, with the team. He said...

Go out there and have fun today. Play well. Play smart. Remember, today you get to walk shoulder to shoulder with your teammates. (In the remaining tournaments, players will be grouped with golfers from other schools and leagues). 

When we walk shoulder to shoulder creates the trust and This allows us bond as teammates and reminds that you are NOT out there alone!

You are able to gain a sense of calm and confidence from knowing we are in this together!

We gain strength from our teammates and when it seems like your scores may NOT count, make sure to remain engaged in the competition to make sure your partner NEVER feels alone!

Why? Because Together We Rise

His words served as the ideal bridge to our prayer.

As we gathered for our pregame ritual, I realized that we were standing shoulder to shoulder. We formed a circle and began with our traditional antiphon: Let us remember... We are in the holy presence of God. We linked arms and bowed our heads.

I invited everyone to pray for the person beside them, touching their right shoulder. Then I asked them to pray for the person standing on their left, touching their left shoulder.

Over the course of this season, we have walked together many times. I invited the team to take a moment to pray for the teammates and coaches with whom they had walked, shoulder to shoulder.

We concluded with the Prayer of Generosity.

At the inaugural North American Sports and Arts Chaplaincy Conference, Father Nate Wills, C.S.C., chaplain to the Notre Dame football team, urged those serving in this role to do more than simply show up. "This is more than a ministry of presence. I believe a chaplain is there to listen, engage, stay courageous and give/bring hope."

I don't think we can underestimate the importance of showing up. In the busyness of life, too many people don't. But ministry asks more of us than simply being present. It asks us to pay attention, to listen, to engage, and to offer hope.

I found a message of hope in Coach Schwabe's words. Golf is an individual sport, but high school golf is also a communal experience. Players may compete one shot at a time, but they don't have to walk the course alone. They share the journey, encourage one another, and learn to carry the weight of a difficult round together. And eventually, they must step into tournaments where they will walk alongside unfamiliar competitors, carrying with them what they have learned from the community that shaped them.

I don't entirely understand how I came to this position as the team's chaplain. Perhaps it was a calling.  I sensed a need in the life of the school, and responded with a team I knew. This is my first year in the role, and I'm still discovering  what it means to serve these young women.

But perhaps understanding isn't a prerequisite for responding. Sometimes we recognize a need, feel an invitation, and take the next step. We show up. We listen. We engage. We hope.

In her book, "Traveling Mercies" one of my favorite spiritual authors, Anne Lamott writes, "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us."

Sometimes, grace meets us standing in a circle. Shoulder to shoulder.

Photo Credits

More than a Musing: Encountering Notre Dame

Back when I was a young adult (in the eyes of the Church), an outspoken member of our group asked me about this blog. “It’s just a bunch of your musings, right?”

Given the time, energy, and thought I had invested in Sports and Spirituality, I was surprised—and miffed—that this was her interpretation of my writing. I have always come to this space intending to do much more than share a story or market a musing. I pen a post because I have something to say: a lesson I’ve learned, a connection I want to make, or a hope I want to share.

I’ve been writing this blog for almost 17 years, and I haven’t let go of that intention or of that comment. I think I know why: I recently returned from a short but sweet trip to Notre Dame, and what I want to share are my musings. I guess she was right. And perhaps what you read here with resonate with you, too.

Pilgrimage Made Easy
Travel to Notre Dame has never been easy. Growing up in the Bay Area, I didn't have the luxury—let alone the option—of driving to campus. Getting there required planes, occasionally a train (the South Shore), and certainly automobiles. Given the weather conditions in and around South Bend and the stress of getting from point A to point B—or, in this case, point ND—the journey itself is an unknown venture. But, this weekend, United Airlines offered a great assist: a direct flight from SFO to SBN.

In fact, I'm still thinking about it. Effortless. Smooth. Not only was it Easy like Sunday Morning, it was easy on Sunday morning. We left at 11:00 a.m. and landed at 12:45 p.m. Pacific time.

A sight to see every other year. SFO-->SBN

This flight is offered every other year when Stanford plays at Notre Dame. I felt like I was on an airbus chartered by Irish fans. It is however, but a temporary luxury. 

One chapter of my book, Caminos on Campus, addresses the effort it takes to get to Notre Dame. To me, that speaks to the very notion of pilgrimage. The journey matters. The effort matters. Although this trip was much easier, the destination is my spiritual home. And I take heart in knowing that, even when the journey gets easier, pilgrimage remains.

Culture of Encounter
One of the joys of returning to Notre Dame, especially for a fall football game, is walking familiar paths. I love taking in the beauty of campus, noticing what has changed, and discovering what's new. I never have to worry about meeting my daily step count! But what keeps me coming back is not simply the beauty of this walkable space. It's the people I encounter along the way.

Some encounters are expected. I walked past Father Pete McCormick, C.S.C., whose joy is palpable. From across the Quad I could see the joy oozing out of him. Other encounters unfold over a weekend spent with some of my favorite people: a glass of wine with one of my closest friends on the patio of the Morris Inn, a reception at Mendoza College of Business with her daughter, and time sharing space with my dear friend Erin and her family. These are some of the reasons Notre Dame feels like home.

My talented classmate and friend, Garret Gray '96.

Then came game day.

After Pete's Pregame, where Notre Dame Athletic Director Pete Bevacqua interviewed Stanford's new AD, Jon Donahoe, I was leaving Jordan Hall of Science when I recognized an alum whose story I had recently read in the summer issue of Notre Dame Magazine.

I had to stop him. I was so moved by the profile piece: Send a Volley and I wanted him to know. I told Ron that he could have been interviewed by Pete, too. A former varsity tennis player who competed on Notre Dame's national championship team, he continues to play the sport he loves, now in a wheelchair.

Reading his story had inspired me. Meeting him gave me the opportunity to tell him so.

It was a brief encounter, just a few moments carved out of a busy football weekend. But it reminded me how much can happen when we pay attention to the people around us. I could have kept walking. I could have admired the campus, checked off the familiar landmarks, and moved on to the next event. Instead, I had the chance break open his story a little more and share that his life and example have made a difference to someone else.

That's what a culture of encounter makes possible. It asks us to look up and around, to recognize that the people sharing our paths are more than passing faces. Each carries a story worth hearing, and sometimes we get the privilege of telling someone that their story matters.

Less Music in this Musing
I am very happy to report that a change has been made! In what is more than a musing, one year ago I wrote "Stay Different Irish." In that post I opined

We're Not Different #3: Speaking of music...

My friend Bill and I caught the Player Walk, a game day tradition whereby coaches and players  process from the Basilica of the Sacred Heart to the Stadium. I love seeing  the team in dress ware—a uniform navy blazer and dress shirt. A few wore ties; all carry their own backpacks.

I realize they are moving from a place of introspection and prayer to a public space that is loud and demands a lot from them. I get that they want to be "in the zone," but I wish they would remove their head phones/ take out their ear buds. To me, silencing the cheers and potential jeers creates a barrier. For example, when I saw Cooper Flanagan, I yelled out "Go Spartans!" I wanted to make a connection to his high school alma mater, De La Salle high school. Those AirPods prevent any sort of communique.

These athletes are modeling what we see every week in the NFL and among their peer group. Am I asking too much in requesting that they be open and stay open to family, friends and fans who call their name and cheer for Old Notre Dame?!

I came to the Player Walk in fear of what I might see. Would they all be wearing over the ear, padded, noise canceling headwear? Turns out, many were BUT they were not covering their ears. All but two players had earbuds/AirPods/a headset out and away (or above their ears). I have to believe a coach said something to the team. Consequently, I felt they were more in the moment. And that singular small gesture allowed me to be, too.

With the People 
I had the privilege of joining a friend in a box seat to watch the game. The padded seats were on the press-box side, facing the opposing team. Our view was unobstructed, delicious food was included in the ticket price, and getting up and out of our seats was no bother. I'm grateful for any chance to see the Irish, especially when they get the W. But given the choice, I'd rather sit somewhere else.

This isn't a complaint. I'm grateful for the opportunity and for an amazing seat. It's just that I think a football game asks something of us. We sit on bleachers, often packed tightly together. We stand up and squeeze past one another to let people in and out. We're close enough to engage with the people around us. We high-five strangers, catch bits of their conversations, and, if you're lucky enough to sit  with my Uncle Jay, you get a referee's POV.

You leave the game feeling as though you played a part in it. When you sit in a climate-controlled box, the experience is different.

Let me be clear: for older fans, people with mobility challenges, or anyone facing extreme weather, box seats can be the way to go. In my mind, I'm still a bit of a young adult, and I think there's something to be said for sitting with and among the people. Part of the Culture of Encounter is showing up, sharing space, and being in the mix. For me, that means sitting in the stands.

In Conclusion
The last visit to Notre Dame was for my class reunion in June. At that time, my mom was still alive and I found solace in talking to my classmates who had already lost a parent. This time, I arrived carrying her memory and talking to others about her life and her death. She provided for a wonderful home where I grew up and returning to Notre Dame felt no different. It is a another home, overseen by a holy Mother where I too have grown up.

Perhaps that's part of what makes returning to Notre Dame so meaningful. We come for all sorts of reasons: the beauty, the traditions, the football, the friendships, the feeling of being home. But we also return as different people than we were the last time we walked these familiar paths. We bring our joys and our losses, our stories and our questions. And we discover that even in a place we know so well, there are still people to meet, stories to hear, and opportunities to encounter something—or someone—that changes the way we see the world.

Photo Credits

What Are Captains For? Christian Yelich and Roy Kent Weigh In...

Although the honor of captain is not uncommon in most sports, it is a rare distinction in baseball. So when the Brewers named Christian Yelich the first official captain in franchise history, it made me pause and revisit a question that some athletic directors and coaches love to ask: Why have a team captain and what should they do? 

When I worked in athletics, I came to learn that a number of athletic directors and coaches wanted to do away with sports captains entirely. They felt the importance of the position was entirely overblown. Others believed leadership should simply emerge from within a team and that a person didn't need a “C” on their uniform to confer that role.

Rather than abandon an opportunity for a young person to exercise leadership, we considered their arguments and grievances and folded those concerns into making the selection process clearer. We returned again and again to the question: Why should a team have a captain? And, to me, that leads to an even better question: What are captains for?

Yelich is one of only three active Major League players with the title of captain, joining the Yankees’ Aaron Judge and the Royals’ Salvador Perez. What is particularly interesting to me is that the idea to name Yelich captain came from within the Brewers' clubhouse.

According to manager Pat Murphy, an unnamed player brought the idea to him. Murphy ran it by the owner and president of baseball operations before presenting it to Yelich.

The Brew Crew's skipper said Yelich consented—but under one condition.

Adam McCalvy writes, “He had one request that we ask Robin Yount before we do such a thing, and Robin agreed wholeheartedly,” Murphy said. “Because in Yeli’s mind, Robin is the first captain.”

That says a ton about Yelich's leadership style to me.

A captain is recognized by teammates—by peers—for much more than talent. They are respected for what they do in the clubhouse, how they treat others, and the way they carry themselves when no one is watching. And, as we see with Yelich, they do all of it with a respect for those who have paved the way and with a certain humility in mind. I love it. 

But the truth of the matter is, I found a great answer to my captain question—*What is a captain for? What should they do?*—from one of my favorite shows: Ted Lasso. Thank you, Roy Kent!

In Episode 7, “Yes & Baby,” Roy Kent is talking with a short-term love interest, Dr. Erin Beaumont. Although he was open to dating, his heart was still with Keeley. Dr. Beaumont knows the end is near. Before she bows out and bids farewell, she summons some gumption and asks:

“Look. There is one question. Why? Why did this happen?”

Roy responds, “What? Us?”

He admits that Keeley wanted him to date other women so that he could learn to fully see someone and let them fully see him.

Dr. Beaumont asks, “So I was just part of some experiment then?”

“No,” Roy tells her. “You were not part of my plan.”

Then, after she asks whether she simply wasn't enough, Roy gives her one of my favorite answers in the entire series:

“Are you kidding me? You’re a f***ing captain.”

She looks confused. “Is that an insult?”

“No! Alright, look. On a football team, captain has three jobs:

1. Make sure everyone’s heading toward the same goal.

2. Stand up for what’s right.

3. Put the well-being of others before yourself.

And you have to be able to hold the center. The way you are with your patients, the way you are with your friends, the way you’ve been with me… You’re a captain. I see you.”

She looks at him and says, “I see you too.”

And there it is. I think that is what captains are for: not simply to wear a “C.” Not simply to speak for the team, take the coin toss, or rally everyone before a game. And certainly not because they are necessarily the best player.

Captains are there to help a team remember where it is going, to stand up for what is right, and to care about the people alongside them. They hold the center when things get messy. They notice people. They make sure no one gets left behind.

And maybe the most important thing a captain can do is to see their teammates—and to help their teammates see themselves.

That, to me, is leadership worth putting a “C” on a jersey for. Go Brewers!

Photo Credits
Dr. B and Roy
Cheesehead

More than Praying Over Putts—The Purpose of a Team Chaplain

I am very happy to report and share that I have a new role in St. Ignatius athletics. For the 2026–2027 school year, I am the varsity girls’ golf chaplain.

Last year, I returned to coaching as the JV girls’ golf coach, a job I shared with another coach. But when my fellow assistant welcomed a third child and my responsibilities in the Office of Adult Spirituality grew, it became clear that coaching wasn’t going to be possible. Fortunately, the desire and need for sports chaplains at SI has emerged, and serving in this role is something I have been wanting to try. It's been a joy and a privilege—a win-win. 

A good friend and former coach recently asked me what serving as the golf team chaplain actually means.

“Do you teach them to pray over putts?”

Considering his short game, maybe he should.

His question gave me the opportunity to talk a little bit about the team, the program, and what we have done so far. They are young, and they are very talented. We are all excited to see where this team will go. But I’ve worked with good teams before. As as much as talent and skill are valuable to any program, I am more concerned with who they become. And I mean this on the golf course, too. 

Last week the team went on a Thursday Morning Comfort Run—
Handing out sandwiches in the TL

Scottie Scheffler is a good example of what I mean. He is, by almost any measure, a remarkably successful golfer. But when I think about what I want for our girls, I’m not thinking first about how many tournaments they win, how low they shoot, or where they end up on a leaderboard.

I’m thinking about who they are when they are playing well—and who they are when they aren’t. As as far as I'm concerned, what he did at the President's Cup this past weekend is so much more than an indicator of his character and integrity. He served as a role model for sportsmanship and how the game ought to be played.

Hugh Kellenberger of The New York Times captures the event well. He writes, 

Scottie Scheffler conceded a 32-foot par putt to his opponent on Sunday in the Presidents Cup, an act of sportsmanship after an unruly fan got involved in the match.

A fan yelled, “Go Scottie,” at an extremely loud volume as Nico Echavarria was in his backswing on the 14th hole, causing the International Team member to slice his drive far right. Echavarria dropped his driver in disgust and glared in the fan’s direction.

Scheffler immediately stepped up for Echavarria, looking at the fan and yelling, “There’s no place for that.”

Echavarria’s drive only went 226 yards to the right rough, and he ended up still 32 feet away from the hole after his third shot. Scheffler had 15 inches left for his par and was 3 up at the time, but gave Echavarria his par putt.

It’s also worth noting that this concession was all for naught. Splitting the hole extended the match.

But what I wanted the team to consider is much more than exercising sportsmanship when something is on the line. What spoke to me was that Scottie thought to do it in the first place. He let it be known that what happened on the tee box was not okay. And he took it upon himself, within his realm of control, to show that it wasn’t.

I cannot guarantee that my role as a coach (in the past) or now, as a chaplain will see to it that my golfers would do the same. But I hope, to be planting seeds and pointing the way so that it might. 

After recalling this example, I gave each girl a prayers card from the Australian Catholic Social Justice Council. On the back is A Prayer for Good Sports. I said "this isn't not something you need to say together. Maybe it's one that you keep in your bag and say on your own. It's a great reminder."

That, to me, is where a team chaplain comes in.

I’m not there to teach them how to pray over putts.

I'm there to invite them to consider: Who are they when they are frustrated? How do they respond to a bad break? How do they treat a teammate who is struggling? What happens when no one is watching? Can they find joy in the game without making their identity dependent on the score?

I’m there to help them pay attention to what golf—and the people they play it with—might be teaching them.

Photo Credits

Kairos...Forever Giant... Thank you, Mike Krukow

Driving to school on Friday morning, I heard an audio montage—tributes from baseball players, managers and former teammates honoring Mike Krukow. Kruk pitched in Major League Baseball for 13 years before moving into the broadcast booth in 1990. Four years later, he joined Duane Kuiper, beginning one of baseball's most beloved broadcasting partnerships. And the better half of this dynamic duo (am I allowed to say that?) called his final game this weekend at Oracle Park. He is, "Forever Giant."

I was nearly in tears as I listened to the stories and memories, moments of grace and gratitude that lasted nearly twenty five minutes. Every commendation, remembrance and recollection for Kruk came from both the head and the heart. I encourage you to listen for yourself (17.54 min tribute to San Francisco Giants Legend Mike Krukow from 9/25). You'll hear words of wisdom, well wishes, gratitude and, ultimately, love.

Saying farewell to this future Hall of Fame broadcaster put a proper end to a disappointing season—the third worst since the team moved to San Francisco in 1958. And yet, loyal Giants fans came out to the yard all week to bid adieu. When I went to the game on Tuesday, September 22, I didn't realize I would be given my own opportunity to say goodbye—and, in the process, experience a kairotic moment as well. Allow me to explain.

In Sports and Spirituality, we are studying something familiar to all of us: time and space. Our examination of both, however, is in relationship to ritual, superstition, prayer—literally, figuratively, metaphorically and more. Our textbook, "On the Eighth Day: A Catholic Theology of Sport," examines four perspectives on time. Most of us are familiar with chronos—chronological time, the minutes, hours, days and years by which we measure our lives. But there is another kind of time: kairos. My students would refer to kairos as God's time. Our textbook describes it as a deeper time, or "the right moment." It states, "Kairotic time recognizes the significance of an event in the here and now. Instead of a moment merely being one second within sequential time, kairotic time denotes an important moment of action and has a permanent, in-depth nature."

A person need not go to a sacred space to encounter sacred time, and that's the beauty of Sports and Spirituality. A kairotic moment can happen on retreat, through the sacraments, or, in this instance, at Oracle Park.

My friends and I stood during the 7th Inning Stretch—a ritual that is both physically and mentally up lifting. The song came to a close, and my friend Jimmy and I both looked in the direction of Mike Krukow, sitting at his perch in the broadcast booth, not far from where we were standing. He looked our way, and we both waved. He waved back, and we turned to one another, confirming that we had, in fact, shared that moment with Kruk. Although it was a brief exchange that didn't involve any words—just smiling faces, a warm wave and grateful hearts—it felt timeless. Eternal. Forever Giant.

On the Eighth Day writes, "As in life, sports time is always 'kairotic.' The game will end; the race will be over; the season will come to a close. This lends deeper purpose, meaning, and promise to sport, which partially explains its popularity in an immanent world that can seem flat and devoid of teleological energy."

That's what a kairotic moment does: it interrupts ordinary time and gives us a glimpse of something more. For a few seconds at Oracle Park, time seemed to stand still. The game continued, the season was ending, and Kruk's final broadcast was approaching—but we were given something sacred. Connection, meaning, and gratitude... the stuff of God's time.

Thank you Mike Krukow, Forever Giant. Amen

Photo Credits
Mike Krukow

The Stories We Wear—Jersey Day

With the Bruce-Mahoney football game coming up on Friday, September 25, it’s Spirit Week! Students and teachers are subject to free to dress all week, provided we wear school colors or follow the theme of the day.

I looked over the list, taking inventory of what might work from my wardrobe. And then I saw it: Jersey Day.

I had a decision to make. Shamrock Series or Niner Faithful? 

I went with ND 2026 Shamrock Series as I'm hoping there will be a chance
early in 2027 when the whole school wears Niners gear ;-) 

Once I made that decision, I made another one: this might be my favorite day of the school year.

I love Jersey Day.

Walking through the hallways, my eyes feasted on a glorious assortment of colors and numbers, teams and sports, all represented by one deceptively simple article of clothing. Some jerseys were brand new. Many had clearly been around the block. There were a few archaic gems, a handful of head-scratchers, and more than a few that made me stop and think: Really?

But that’s what I love about jerseys. They tell stories.

A jersey can tell you who someone cheers for, where they’re from, what they remember, who they admire, or what they once dreamed of becoming. It can connect us to a team, a player, a city, a school, a family, or a particular moment in time. And on Jersey Day, you get to wear that story.

When one of my students walked in wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey—I was not surprised. He is his father's son; Connor wouldn't wear anything but the Birds. The jerseys of other students however prompted inquiry. Why the Baltimore Ravens (Ray Lewis)? What's the connection to the Cincinnati Bengals (Joe Burrow)? Their answers didn't vary. They too are bound to the teams of their parent(s)' and their family roots. Sure there were a few tall tales, but by and large I heard some great stories.

In class, we shared the story of the Bruce Mahoney rivalry. I asked my students "Why does it matter? Does it?" And "Why is it an important tradition?" I try to tell them they have inherited something super special in such a renown, historic athletic contest. 

We began with prayer in remembering the lives of Bill Bruce and Jerry Mahoney. We addressed how the tradition had changed in 2021 by including girls sports—with volleyball and basketball making it into a contest of three wins out of five to keep that regal trophy. And we concluded class time with an on campus scavenger hunt—requiring students to search for signs and symbols of the Bruce Mahoney past and present.

The joy of this day found a full circle moment as I mentioned the now forgone tradition of football players giving their jersey to a teacher or counselor at the all school pep rally. I have written about this gesture—what it meant to me and my colleagues many times. In the same way that you can't put a price on a tradition like the Bruce, you can't underestimate what receiving a jersey meant to the person who received it. I felt bound to that young man in a way that is timeless. 

No athlete wears his or her jersey forever. Some jerseys hang from rafters; a select few are retired. But jerseys do something else: they capture a person in a particular place at a particular moment in time—sometimes a season, an era, or, if we're lucky, a lifetime. Stories have unfolded from them. Others are still waiting to be told, so listen up and lean in. Enjoy.

Let the Game Be Loud: Thoughts from the Shamrock Series at Lambeau Field

In 2020, the Shamrock Series was supposed to take place between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame at Lambeau Field. Rescheduled for 2026, I was finally able to travel to Green Bay for the gridiron contest. There is no shortage of sights and stories, tastes and treasures that I will savor for many years from this Labor Day weekend—or that I could write about for this blog. There is, however, one significant sense that I cannot let pass: sound. And it might be my strongest, most urgent request for not just college football, but sports on every level, including high school. Please, please: let the game be loud.

So grateful to have attended this game with my friend and fellow Farleyite, Eileen '95.
Great fans make games that much better!

The day started with the sound of more than 1,000 members of the Notre Dame family gathered inside The Nativity of Our Lord Parish in Green Bay. Although we arrived a half hour early for Mass (an atypical Catholic move!), we migrated to the overflow room for seats and a simulcast of the liturgy. Father Bob Dowd, C.S.C., president of the University, welcomed everyone by assuring us that the Alumni Association had looked for the biggest Catholic church in Green Bay. “I guess we should have held Mass at Lambeau.” Gratefully, joyfully and collectively, we clapped as one. What an awesome way to start game day.

SFND leadership and the overflow room.

From church, we—a pilgrim people—headed to holy ground: Lambeau Field. Along the way, we toured Titletown, visited with classmates, fellow alumni and friends at a number of tailgates, and found our way to one we weren't even invited to. With the wrong address in hand, we were welcomed by a woman with a friendly face and the strongest Wisconsin accent I have ever heard. The four of us stood on the patio, and she warmly greeted us by asking who we were there to meet. I gave her the name of my friend Don. She said, “Hmm… I don't know him.” I responded, “He's class of ’78.” She said, “We are class of ’86.” She asked us where we were from and then offered us beer, water or soda. Truly, that's the sound of hospitality. The Midwest does it so well.

There's not a bad seat in the house. All bleachers in there. Tight quarters!

Given that the Shamrock Series is a home game, we expected the Band of the Fighting Irish to be in full force. The trumpets came to play the Alma Mater at the conclusion of Mass, and when I saw the empty seats near the end zone, I knew we were in for a musical treat. They don't just play music at a football game, the band is part of the institution. It predates Notre Dame football by decades and is one of the oldest collegiate bands in continuous existence.I love the cadence of the drum line, the call of the horns, the staccato of the flutes against the action on the field. The roar or the crowd, the cheers and jeers, the whistle of the official, the cadence of the quarterback: those sounds are part of the texture of college football. That's the soundtrack I want to hear.

What I heard and didn't hear on Sunday was different. With no down time in sound, I didn't talk as much to the people around me. At times, I couldn't even hear my friend Eileen, who sat in the seat next to me. At one point, I wondered if there had been a delay of game because the crowd was so busy singing “Country Roads.” And this isn't just a Lambeau thing. I've noticed it at high school basketball games. It's been part of the NBA experience for years. At the Notre Dame-Purdue game last year, I realized that instead of hearing the band, I was hearing “Crazy Train.” I can't help but think of what Simon and Garfunkel sang about more than 50 years ago: the sound of silence. Except that's not quite what I'm asking for. I'm not asking for silence. I'm asking for something better: the sound of the game.

Don't get me wrong. Sound is incredibly important in sports. Let me be clear here: I think there is an important distinction between the different kinds of sound we hear at a sporting event. There is the band playing—music that belongs to the place and the tradition. There are fans chanting—sound that arises organically from the community. There is the roar of the crowd—the emotional response to what is actually happening on the field. There is the game itself—the whistles, the pads colliding, quarterbacks calling signals, coaches yelling and players communicating. But, my gripe is with the constant manufactured stimulation. It is the stadium operator pressing play on another song because there are 27 seconds until the next snap. It is the assumption that every lull needs to be filled, every moment needs a soundtrack, every pause needs to be entertained.

wearing the Shamrock Series game day jersey. Thanks to Eileen's husband, Joe!

I left wondering if I was just getting old. Seems like the something a young person might not complain about. Still, I wondered is it possible for the pendulum to swing the other way? Since we are saturated in noise, where else might be go...but to the other direction. My colleague and friend Owen offered a response to my question (he's the best!). He said "check out the remarks from the head coach at Memphis." Chris Huff is doing something different: no music at practice. He certainly bent my ear. 

Coach Huff's reasoning is simple. Practice is about focusing on the next play and he doesn't want his players worrying about who is on the aux or what song is playing. "Why the Noise? The Real Story Behind Memphis' Silent Practice" states, "In a game where one missed assignment can swing the scoreboard, silence becomes a tool. It sharpens senses and forces communication. It amplifies voices that matter, coaches, teammates, and the player’s own inner dialogue. Let’s be honest, practice is not about entertainment. It is about execution."

That got me thinking: If the players need silence to pay attention to the game, maybe the fans do, too.

We'll undefeated!

What happens to our experience of sport when we are never allowed to experience silence? What happens when we don't get to hear the crowd because the speakers are louder? What happens when the stadium doesn't trust the game—or the people in the stadium—to generate enough energy on its own?

Perhaps this is really an issue of attention. And attention matters in sports. It matters in spirituality, too. To be attentive is to be present. To be present is to notice. And sometimes the most important things we notice are the things we can hear only when everything else stops.

I don't want football to be quiet. Quite the opposite.

I want to hear the band. I want to hear 80,000 people roar after a touchdown. I want to hear the student section erupt. I want to hear the collective gasp when a pass is intercepted. I want to hear the quarterback's cadence, the referee's whistle and the sound of shoulder pads colliding. I want to hear people around me laughing, groaning, cheering and arguing about the call. And I want to hear the band. Not AC/DC, Guns n Roses, or even Duran Duran (I mean, I do...but not at the expense of the ND band). Heck I even want to hear the guy two rows in back of me saying "I need the Irish to score again to cover the spread."  I want the game to make its own soundtrack.

Please, please turn down the stadium and let the game be loud.

NB: There is one moment in the game...unless you are the grinch, you have to admit...it's fun. At the conclusion of the third quarter, the announcer gave context for two of CFB's traditions at the conclusion of the third quarter. At ND, it's the 1812 Overture—which in my day, honored Lou Holtz (with the L until we switched to BD for Bob Davie). The other is the "unadulterated chaos" of "Jump Around" by House of Pain. It's hard not to long. It's hard not to move. Just see Ted Lasso, Season 4, Episode 6 if you don't believe me.

Risk or Rust —A Theology of Sport from Justin Buzzard

Two weeks ago today, I started my 21st year of teaching at St. Ignatius College Prep in San Francisco. This marks my 28th year in the classroom and a Sweet 16 for the course, Sports and Spirituality. Wow.

Justin Buzzard is also the author of a book "Date Your Wife."

This might sound strange, but I still use a textbook.

Strange? you ask. How’s that? The required reading can be found online. Several courses use a collection of articles or journals. But the reader I once used has been replaced by On the Eighth Day: A Catholic Theology of Sport, and it’s far better because of it. Thank you, Drs. Hoven, Carney, and Engel!

Although one of my seniors asked, “Who ever reads the introduction?” I politely informed him that we would—and explained why it’s important. Not only does it explain what the Canadian among the three authors believes God created on the eighth day (his answer is Wayne Gretzky), it defines theology and, more specifically, what a theology of sport is.

The “why” of a theology of sport is the question we will wrestle with from start to finish. I have more than a few answers.

Max and Jay are two of the three authors

The truth is, however, that one need not look long or hard to find one. And my students didn’t have to look very far. An answer—a compelling example—was taking the field just 45 miles south of our campus.

In case you haven’t heard, allow me to introduce you to Justin Buzzard.

Standing 6'2" tall and weighing 210 lbs, Buzzard certainly looks the part. He played football at Whitworth University decades ago—but an injury during his freshman year ended his college playing career. The father of three boys, his eldest son  encouraged him to try football again after seeing a video of a 60 year old man, Tom Green, playing college football. Buzzard spoke with the coaching staff at San Jose City College to determine if he could try out. He underwent conditioning, summer practice and became a Jaguar. Playing at defensive end, he proudly wears the number 48—reflective of the age he will turn in September!

To the surprise of some of my students, Buzzard is also the pastor of Garden City Church (which he founded 15 years ago). He sees his return to football as "an expression of his faith, not separate from it." In an interview on Fox News, Todd Piro asks him, How has your faith and your relationship with God guided you on this journey? He responds,

I think God cares about all of life and not just some separate—religious slice of you and football is a lot of fun and as a man, it's something I love doing. So, as I wrestled and thought through, "Do I really want to do this crazy thing?" I thought "God thinks football is a fun thing." I'm going to go for it and I'm going to enjoy it. I pray a lot that he will protect me from injury. I know what I am doing is high risk. I've been praying big, specific prayers. God, protect me. I want to go the distance and help my team—San Jose City College in anyway that I can. 

If that's not a theology of sport what is?! 

But one person’s personal and practical testimony cannot be the whole story. Fortunately, "On the Eighth Day" gives us some guidelines and guardrails. It defines a theology of sport as “faith seeking understanding, justice, mercy and contemplation in and through sport.” The authors ask: How might play and sport speak to us about God and living the Christian life? Does God care about play? Should people of faith participate in competitive sport? If so, how can their involvement develop a deeper connection to Jesus?

Importantly, the authors describe theology of sport not as a simple transition from theory to practice, but as “a dialogue between sport and faith that is both reflective and critical.”

That dialogue—and the questions it raises in light of both the positives and negatives, consolation and desolation, light and darkness—is the story of this semester.

As a teacher, I make a point of using compare and contrast to help students understand. So I couldn't help but notice another example this past week.

Drew Dougherty at Strake Jesuit in Houston teaches Sport and American Culture. This past week, he welcomed Gary Kubiak, who coached the Denver Broncos to a championship in Super Bowl 50 and also coached the Houston Texans. I wish I could take that class! I would have loved to hear Coach Kubiak speak, and I would love to know what he addressed in light of the course’s themes and essential questions.

I have no doubt there is considerable overlap between our courses. But there is a distinction. Sport and American Culture is not a Religious Studies course. It could certainly ask theological questions, but Sports and Spirituality explicitly asks students to discern the holy and transcendent in everything from a world championship to the daily practice that makes it possible.

Even 16 years later, I think it is a risk for students to take a class like Sports and Spirituality.

They probably love sport. They play it, watch it, celebrate it, argue about it, and sometimes hate it. But asking them to consider how sport connects to their faith—and ultimately to their own lives—is something else entirely. It asks them to risk seeing something familiar in a new way.

And that’s where Justin Buzzard’s motto—risk or rust—becomes more than a clever phrase.

There is a risk in this course: asking questions that don’t have easy answers; bringing something as familiar as sport into a Religious Studies classroom; looking for the holy and transcendent in winning and losing, excellence and failure, competition and community. Most of all, it is the risk of allowing those questions to become personal.

The opening assignment in Sports and Spirituality asks students to name a passage of Scripture, a quote, or a motto that is important to them. What words have shaped them? What do they return to when they need direction, encouragement, perspective, or courage?

Not only did we find an answer to the big questions of the course in Justin Buzzard, we found a motto worth remembering. 

JB: we will keep you and your team in our prayers. Thanks for your words and for taking the risk!

Photo Credits

Two Sisters, Two Pitches, One Gospel

While working alongside a sister in full habit in Chicago this summer, I realized that many of my students had never met a religious sister before. When I mentioned this to someone, they responded, “I wasn’t even sure the Catholic Church had them anymore.”

Once the driving force behind Catholic schools in the United States and around the world, women religious have seen their numbers decline dramatically. Some communities are growing and thriving, but sadly, many convents have closed, and religious orders have turned out the lights for good.

We are always called to read and respond to the signs of the times. Still, I can’t help but look back and recognize what a tremendous gift women religious have been—and what a tremendous loss their decline has been for the Church and for our world. But they’re not dead yet. 

This summer, I encountered two dynamos: one in person and the other through Instagram. Their vocations reflect the joy of the Gospel. They bear witness to the truth that a life lived for Christ can provide not only meaning and purpose, but great joy, too. They have a lot to offer. And I’d like to share their stories with you.

Sister Stephanie
Day one of the St. Ignatius College Prep Immersion began with my not being particularly happy about the 5:45 a.m. alarm. The Brother David Darst Center summoned us to an early breakfast so we could head out to the Mission of Our Lady of the Angels in West Humboldt Park on Chicago's west side. I grumbled as we walked to our bus, wishing I were time-zone agnostic. Chicago, after all, is two hours earlier than PDT.

We were greeted by a petite, young woman standing in a full brown habit: Sister Stephanie.

The Darst staff member Maggie had warned us about her ahead of time. She said, 

Sister Stephanie is a force. She oversees the Food Pantry, which provides food to about 4,000 families each month.

We soon learned that the purpose of the Mission is twofold: to assist the materially poor and to share the treasure of our Catholic faith. In addition to feeding the hungry, the Mission distributes clothing and household goods and provides emergency assistance, after-school programming, senior citizen programming, community dinners and special events. At its heart, the Mission of Our Lady of the Angels is about establishing and sustaining a Catholic presence in West Humboldt Park.

It was a good thing Sister Stephanie wore running shoes, because she did not stop.

Someone told us that if we couldn't find her, we should simply stop and wait a few moments. She was sure to barrel through again—directing, loading, unloading, negotiating, and, in general, taking care of business in a flash.

While she was certainly the leader, Sister Stephanie did not work alone. Several other women from her religious community assisted a regular volunteer crew of at least 25 people, including the 12 St. Ignatius students, another teacher and me.

What these rising seniors encountered looked nothing like the angry, mean or pious-and-petty nuns they might have seen on television or in movies. These women smiled. They led through service. They radiated the love of God.

It is important to mention that the Mission's work takes place in what was once the Catholic grade school at Our Lady of the Angels. The school closed in 1999, but its story cannot be told without acknowledging what happened there in 1958, when a devastating fire in the school took the lives of 92 children and three religious sisters. We took a photo in front of the statue honoring those who died.

At our evening reflection, every student commented on the impression Sister Stephanie—and the other sisters—had made on them. My immersion groups gathered nightly for reflection, and without a doubt, Sister Stephanie had made a noteworthy impression on all of us.

Sister Stephanie is part of the legacy of Mission and church that aims to "share the treasure of our Catholic Faith." My colleague Dan noted the paschal mystery we bore witness to that day. In the very same building where school children perished, is a place that brings people hungry for food, community and faith together. None of this is possible without hearts to lead and to serve. 

Sister Stephanie showed us the way.

Sister Mary Jo, Sobieck, OP
Trust me, people send me social media posts and Instagram reels of religious women all the time. I have never wanted to be a Sister, but I have nothing but love, gratitude and respect for so many of these she-roes in the Catholic Church. I watch them and wait. Are they a spectacle, or do they speak to me? This inquiring mind wants to know.

I started to see a Dominican Sister, Sister Mary Jo Sobieck, OP, on the daily. It's hard not to notice her. (Take a look and you will see why.) A Dominican Sister of Springfield, Illinois, Sister Mary Jo is probably best known for becoming an internet sensation after throwing one of the most memorable ceremonial first pitches in baseball history.

On August 18, 2018, Sister Mary Jo threw out the first pitch at a Chicago White Sox game as part of Marian Catholic's 60th-anniversary celebration.

She stepped onto the mound in her distinctive Dominican habit—white dress and black veil. She bounced the ball off her bicep and then threw a perfect strike over the plate. The video went viral internationally. She subsequently appeared on programs including Good Morning America and ESPN and even ended up with her own Topps' baseball card.

According to Chicago Catholic, she didn't just enjoy the attention. She used the unexpected platform to talk about God, vocation and religious life, particularly with young people. And it didn't stop there.

Today, she offers a "Daily Pitch" on Instagram. The posts connect a passage of Scripture with a real-life lesson. She makes personal and profound connections—continually connecting our joys and struggles, desires and shortcomings, needs, hopes and prayers with the Word of God.

It's wonderful.

And here's the thing: the more I watch, the less I see the spectacle and the more I see the Sister.

The first pitch may have put Sister Mary Jo on the internet's radar, but her daily pitch is something else entirely. She isn't simply throwing a baseball anymore. She's throwing out an invitation—to pay attention, to reflect, to pray, to recognize God in the ordinary stuff of our lives.

Maybe that's what makes her worth watching.

I encourage you to follow Sister Mary Jo. You might come for the first pitch but you'll stay for the daily one. 

I'm so glad we still have sisters in the Catholic Church—past, present and with the grace of God: forever.

Photo Credits
Sister MJ
Sister Steph