The Boy Who Gave Away His Foul Ball

A Rosh Hashanah Evening 2026 sermon,

co-written by Rabbi Elana Rabishaw and Rabbi Paul Kipnes, delivered by Rabbi Elana Rabishaw at Congregation Or Ami.

There is a moment in the Mishnah when the rabbis ask: What keeps this broken, beautiful world from falling apart? Their answer is deceptively simple: Al shlosha devarim ha’olam omed — the world stands on three things: on Torah, on worship, and on gemilut chasadim, acts of lovingkindness.

Simple acts of goodness between human beings. And sometimes, if we are paying attention, we get to witness one of those moments. So pure, and holy, that for a brief instant, you can almost feel the world being held together.

Now many of you know, I am a first Chicago Cubs baseball fan. And of course Rabbi Paul is first a Boston Red Sox fan, though for both of us the Dodgers are a very close second. But no matter which team you love, there is something sacred about baseball.

The smell of the grass. The sound of the crowd rising. A parent and child keeping score. A grandmother wearing a faded cap from decades ago. And in almost every section around the ballpark, are countless people dreaming of catching a foul ball.

A few months ago, at a Philadelphia Phillies game, a nine year old boy named Jameson went to the ballpark with this very dream. To catch a ball.

If you have ever taken a child to a baseball game, you know this longing. That magical hope. That belief that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day.

His parents even bought seats along the third base line, near where the ball girl sometimes tosses foul balls into the crowd. And in the fifth inning, it happened. A foul ball came their way.

And Jameson caught it. Can you imagine that joy?

Eyes wide. Heart pounding. Holding that baseball like it was treasure pulled from heaven itself.

He asked his dad, "Is this where the bat hit it?" And his father smiled: "Oh yeah. That's where the bat hit it."

His parents watched as he just sat there cherishing it. And honestly, they thought he would cherish it forever.

But forever lasted only a few innings. Because earlier in the game, Jameson had overheard a conversation nearby. A woman was trying to get the attention of the ball girl, for her mother, Donna, who was celebrating her 80th birthday at the game. She hoped the next foul ball could go to her mother.

You can almost imagine Jameson sitting there, baseball pressed tightly in his hand, looking down at it, then back toward Donna. Part of him surely still wanted to keep it. He had dreamed about this moment. Waited for it. Celebrated it. And yet another part of him was beginning to wonder whether the joy of keeping it might somehow be smaller than the joy of giving it away.

And so, this little boy — who was holding the very thing he had dreamed about and finally received — walked over to a total stranger and placed the baseball into her hands.

Donna was stunned. She asked him, "Why are you giving this to me?" And Jameson just smiled, in a way that seemed to say: some things matter more than keeping the ball.

Only later, when a reporter asked him about it, did he finally put words to what had stirred in his heart: "She is way older, and she can't come to many more games. I can go to more games and get many more balls."

Can you imagine that moment? An 80 year old woman, holding back tears. A little boy, giving away the thing he most wanted. Parents watching in disbelief. Thousands around them unaware that something sacred had just happened three rows up from the third base line.

And when a reporter later asked Jameson, "Doesn't part of you feel bad? You had a ball. Now you have nothing." Jameson answered: "True. But I will leave feeling really good about myself. So does it really matter that I left without a ball?"

My friends, that child understood something many adults never do. He understood that kindness is not losing. It is becoming. That when we loosen our grip on what we clutch most tightly, we make room for something even greater: meaning, connection, holiness.

This is the secret at the heart of gemilut chasadim. Kindness is rooted in seeing another human being, and recognizing that they have a unique story. Kindness is built upon empathy, which recognizes that I have enough. So maybe I can help someone else feel joy.

And perhaps that is why the rabbis taught that the whole world stands upon acts of lovingkindness. Because every day, there are forces pulling this world apart: cruelty, isolation, fear, suspicion, rage. And then, every once in a while, someone chooses kindness instead. And for one more day, the world holds.

Tonight begins a new year. The questions in front of us might be deeper than what we'll achieve, or earn, or resolve to do differently. This Rosh Hashanah, let them also include: Whose joy might we enlarge? Whose burden might we lighten? Whose loneliness might we soften?

And… what foul ball are we still clutching that was never meant only for us? Because somewhere tonight, someone is silently carrying grief. Someone feels forgotten. Someone wonders if anybody sees them. Someone is waiting for one small sign that goodness still exists in this world. And maybe, just maybe, the world is waiting for us to become the kind of people upon whom it can continue to stand.

May this be the year we help hold the world together. Ken yehi ratzon — may it be God’s will.

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Based on the CBS Evening News story “9-year-old boy gives up foul ball to 80-year-old woman at Phillies game.” Thanks to Harry Friedman, our High Holy Day Creative Director, for discovering and suggesting this story.