Last Sunday I watched the New England Patriots play Jacksonville. It did not go well. To be blunt, it was a mess, and we lost by a lot. You could pin an error on almost every player on the field. And the one we were waiting and hoping for, the one so justly praised last year, Drake Maye, failed miserably in gut-wrenching slo-mo. This 24-year-old quarterback disappointed every Pats fan in the world.
I admit to a lot of moaning and groaning during the game. I confess to shouting expletives as our team went into its slow, agonizing death spiral. It was like watching an updated version of the Keystone Kops, only I wasn’t laughing.
I am no football maven. I have nothing useful to say about a two-deep zone or a nickel back, and I didn’t understand the commentators’ post-mortem either. But I have been listening to what Drake Maye says when the game is over, and that is closer to my line of work.
After the opener in Seattle, where he threw three interceptions in the fourth quarter, the last one in the end zone with 21 seconds left, he stood at the microphone and said, “I lost patience, and it cost us.” After Jacksonville: “I can’t get out of my own way.” Both times he put it on himself.
He was not looking to blame anyone for what went wrong. A 24-year-old was facing humiliation in front of a zillion people, and as he spoke I could feel his skin crawling. I wanted to reach out to him, to spend a few pastoral minutes in conversation.
So I wrote him a letter.
Dear Drake,
You don’t know me. You’re not a member of my temple, and you’re not Jewish. That’s okay with me, and I hope with you, too.
Last Sunday you said you lost patience. There’s a Jewish teaching about that. In Hebrew, the word for patience is savlanut, and its root, samech-bet-lamed, has nothing to do with waiting. It means to carry. A sabal is a porter, the guy who shleps the boxes and the furniture. Sevel, the Hebrew word for suffering, is built from those same three letters. Suffering is the load, and patience is the carrying of it. So, in Hebrew, a patient person is not someone who sits quietly and waits for things to get better. He is someone with a weight on his shoulders who keeps holding it up.
Most people would panic — I know I would — and throw the ball at nobody rather than get creamed by several men who weigh over three hundred pounds. I’m not here to talk about that. You know far better than I do what you have to work on.
But the other kind of carrying, the hard work of keeping your head up and holding the center for your team and your fans: you are doing that beautifully.
All of us are graded on points. The numbers at work, the report card, the scale, the bank balance, the High Holy Day attendance. But the scoreboard says very little about what we carry, or how. The Hebrew digs deeper. Did you own what was yours? Were you kind while it was heavy? Could you still laugh at yourself?
Drake, you are what we call a mensch — a decent man, which in the Jewish tradition is about the highest thing you can aspire to be. You are young and talented; you are transparent; you care. Every day you shoulder more responsibilities than most people could dare to imagine. You are also struggling. Boston is a tough sports town, and what gets said about you can be cruel and ruthless. So here is what I hope. I hope you stand tough. I hope that, being a sabal, you show us savlanut. Keep reaching for excellence even as you carry the team.
Like so many fans, I believe in you and your humility. Whatever happens, we got you. You’re going to carry that weight a long time. We will honor you for the way you bear up, for your patience, long after the scoreboard goes dark.
Good Luck!
Rabbi keith Stern
