Baseball is a public trust. Players turn over, owners turn over

In the words of Peter Ueberroth, “Baseball is a public trust. Players turn over, owners turn over and certain commissioners turn over. But baseball goes on.” These words shine like a torch in the twilight, carrying within them not only the love of a game but the wisdom of permanence, continuity, and the sacredness of what belongs not to one, but to all. It is no idle phrase, no passing remark: it is a declaration that baseball—like all institutions rooted in the hearts of people—is more than mere sport. It is a living covenant between generations, an unbroken chain that ties the present to the past and the past to the future.

The public trust is a powerful idea. It reminds us that some treasures do not belong to kings, nor to merchants, nor to fleeting hands of ownership. Rather, they belong to the people, to the community, to the nation’s memory and spirit. When Ueberroth spoke these words as Commissioner, he echoed the old truth: men may rise, and men may fall, yet the trust remains eternal. The stars of one age bow out, and new ones take the field. The mighty owner may sell, the commissioner may retire in controversy or triumph—but the game itself, resilient and enduring, abides.

Consider the tale of Jackie Robinson. When he first broke the color barrier in 1947, there were many who thought one man alone bore the weight of change. And indeed, Robinson was courageous, enduring insults and danger. But he was also a steward of something greater than himself. His triumph was not only personal—it was for all who loved the game and all who yearned for justice. When Robinson retired, he passed on his role as player, yet baseball continued, now stronger, nobler, and more inclusive. The public trust had grown richer, precisely because individuals had played their parts and yielded to the flow of history.

The ancients would have said: all things mortal are subject to decay, but what is woven into the fabric of a people’s spirit cannot perish. Baseball, like the great myths, is more than entertainment; it is a ritual of renewal. Each spring, as flowers bloom and fields are cleared, the season begins again. Players young and old take their positions, and the anthem rises into the air. The crowd, made of many voices, unites in one purpose. This cycle mirrors life itself: endings, beginnings, departures, and returns.

From this, let us draw a lesson for our own lives. Each of us holds some small part of the public trust, whether in our families, our communities, or the work we give to others. We may think of ourselves as owners of our roles, but we are merely stewards, tending a flame that will outlive us. Just as players pass the bat to the next generation, so must we pass on wisdom, compassion, and courage. The measure of our lives is not how tightly we held our position, but how faithfully we preserved the trust.

And so, what practical actions shall we take? First, let us act always with the awareness that what we build is not solely for ourselves. In work, strive not merely for profit, but for the good of those who will follow. In friendship, give generously, knowing that kindness ripples through unseen generations. In community, honor traditions, not by clinging to them rigidly, but by passing them on with vitality, as players pass the game of baseball itself.

Finally, remember this: when our names are forgotten, when our voices fade, what remains is the spirit we nurtured. Players turn over, owners turn over, commissioners turn over—but life, like baseball, goes on. Live not for your own fleeting triumphs, but as a guardian of what is eternal. In this way, you will join the great procession of stewards who, through humble service, ensure that the flame of humanity never dies.