Other sports play once a week but this sport is with us every

In the halls of sport, where games rise and fall like the seasons, the voice of Peter Ueberroth, steward of the national pastime, rang with both awe and reverence. He declared: “Other sports play once a week but this sport is with us every day.” These words were not idle comparison, but a recognition of the sacred weight of baseball, a game unlike any other. For while other contests strike like storms and vanish, baseball lingers like the steady sun, present in the lives of the faithful day after day, a companion as constant as breath.

To say that other sports play once a week is to speak of scarcity, of events that erupt with fury but then recede into silence. Football, with its thunderous collisions, comes but rarely; each game is an event, yet each is fleeting. But baseball is daily, woven into the rhythm of life itself. The crack of the bat, the arc of the ball, the quiet duel between pitcher and hitter—all return again and again, like the rising dawn. It is not spectacle alone, but habit, endurance, and ritual.

The ancients, too, understood the difference between the sudden clash and the daily march. The Olympic Games in Greece were grand spectacles, occurring in rare intervals, drawing crowds in frenzy. But the true training, the daily contests, the endless practice of wrestlers and runners—those were the labors that shaped the spirit. Baseball is the heir of such daily striving: it is not merely a sport to be seen, but a rhythm of existence, a steady test of patience, resilience, and constancy.

Consider the tale of the Brooklyn Dodgers of 1951, who through a long season fought and faltered, only to face the New York Giants in the deciding playoff. Day after day, they battled, their fates rising and falling like the tide. And though Bobby Thomson’s “Shot Heard ’Round the World” ended their quest, it was not the single blow that defined them—it was the accumulation of countless games, countless days, that carried them to that moment. This is the essence of Ueberroth’s truth: baseball is not built on rare spectacle, but on the endurance of everyday struggle.

There is also profound symbolism in his words. For life itself is daily, not weekly. Our triumphs and failures are not measured in rare explosions of glory, but in the small choices we make each morning, each evening, each hour. Baseball mirrors this truth more than any other game. Its slow pace, its length, its endless schedule—all remind us that greatness is not the product of one moment alone, but of perseverance across many days. To love baseball is to love life as it truly is: continuous, patient, demanding.

And what of the burden? For to play each day is to invite weariness, to be tested not once but endlessly. Many falter under such weight, for the grind reveals weakness as surely as it reveals strength. Yet therein lies the lesson: the one who endures daily labor with discipline becomes unshakable. Just as the ballplayer must rise for game after game, so must we rise to the daily tasks of living, refusing to despair when victory seems distant, trusting the process of repetition and faith.

So let Ueberroth’s words be preserved as wisdom for the generations: do not live for the rare spectacle alone, but embrace the discipline of daily striving. Other contests may come in bursts, but the true measure of greatness lies in the long season, the repeated act, the constancy of devotion. Live your life as baseball is played: one day at a time, with patience for failure, with joy in small victories, with courage to endure the endless season. For in the end, it is not the once-a-week storms that shape the soul, but the daily light that never fails.