REMories

BS”D

Sixteen or so years had passed since the last time I saw her. She and her family lived on our street in Cleveland Heights, one block down from us, or up depending on how you looked at it. Her father was the principal at one of the local Jewish day schools, and our parents had known each other for a long time. Years before they moved to Cleveland, apparently, our families spent a summer together, while both sets of parents helped run the educational departments at a popular Jewish sleep-a-way camp.

Short hair that wasn’t even a bob-cut, she played hockey in elementary school, and, according to what her father told us over one Shabbat meal at my childhood home, she could terrorize the rink.

“At one game she checked a guy on the other team, stole the puck, and drove it in for a goal. I jumped to my feet yelling, ‘THAT’S MY GIRL!’ and was met by startled looks of confusion,” he would recount.

She was as Tom as a Tom-boy could be. Hanging out with her, we would discuss Charles Barkley’s impending retirement, and then head down to the garage to look at her hockey sticks. In all honesty, back then I was still playing with Barbie dolls. If she had any of those they must have been decked out in hockey pads as well.

Winter of ’96 gave the youth of Cleveland three consecutive snow days. As it grew whiter and whiter outside, with snow eventually piling past the door of our Fisher Price playhouse (at least a foot and a half deep) I spent my free time in her front yard building snow whales, snowmen, and other various sculptures with her and her brothers. Back then I was still innocent. I vaguely recall feeling a slight tingle around her, the tiniest of inklings that she was interesting, or more correctly, that I was interested, but for the most part I was there to hang out with her two brothers. And for all intents and purpose, she was really one of the guys.

It had been sixteen years since that wonderland of a winter. Her family moved to Cincinnati a year later; one more victim of the rabbinic familial lifestyle- the constant hop up the ladder of opportunity and around the map. Over an NCSY Shabbaton a few years later I ran into her sister and father. Seeing them was nice, but there was nothing that I felt that I was missing.

Last night she made a cameo in my dreams. After years of not missing her, of barely remembering of her family, she reappeared. And somehow I recognized her. In this particular eyelid film she grabbed the lead role. For some reason the girl I held in my arms, the one who made me complete until my REM cycle ended and the sun came up, was her. Not once did she mention her name, and her father was replaced by someone with a different face, but her features were unmistakable.

I woke up lost, spending my first morning minutes trying to understand what I had just seen. Angered by the fact that I had once again held her, my one and only, in one of her many forms, only to wake up to a shadow of a memory. I craved her touch and that feeling that I had dreamed of, the one of finally allowing myself to let go, to disregard the restrictions that I took upon myself for all of these years and to finally hold and be held for the rest of my life.

Her name moved quickly from its place in a cranial pocket to the tip of my tongue. Sixteen years it lay there dormant. Sixteen years it sat biding its time. I whispered it, her full name, shocked by the fact that I could place her face so fast and that I had no doubt as to whom I had seen. How did I remember her family’s name, let alone her own name?

“It must be a sign,” I thought in my typical manner.

Before I lay myself down to sleep that particular evening, I had gone out on a blind-date with a sweet girl who was very much not my type. I was ready to move on. The regular cast of characters, the crushes that came and never seemed to go, the names that cause me to sigh with regret of having never taken a shot, had all returned to my mind. Out of all of those girls the one whose basketball cards I had drooled over was the one to haunt me. If all of these years later she had returned with such a force, then this must be a prophecy some kind.

What-ifs rushed through my brain:

“What if she moved to Israel?”

“What if she’s single?”

“What if she dreamed something similar?”

I resigned myself to making contact with her if she was living in the country, and then opened up facebook.

“How did she spell her name? Am I wrong? Did I make a mistake with her last name? I remember the first three letters for sure, let’s see what the search engine gives me. Please Marc Zuckerberg come through, this could be it.”

Quickly I scrolled through the names and faces. Nothing. I typed again, varying the spellings, changing letters, praying silently that this would come through.

Success.

Her face was the same as in the dream, her hair longer than the last time I had seen her and her eyes were brighter than I could have remembered, especially because I never recalled looking into them when I was eight years old. There was no doubt- she was the one who had haunted my sleep last night.

I looked at one picture of her and then another, and then one more. All with the pure intentions of confirming that this was indeed her.

And then he appeared.

She stood behind his chair beaming, and the comments left by her friends leave no room for mistake. She’s taken by someone else. My eyes scan the information bar at the top. She still lives in the US.

Fist and table meet. One bang then I’m done. The hour is late, and Queen Mab already lies in waiting with her dust. Tonight I will dream again, a bit heartbroken, but one step closer to the truth.

Winter

Winter's chill has moved quickly from my bone's to my mind, numbing my brain and slowing down my reflexes. Day move to night much faster and the accompanying darkness weighs down on me. My animal instincts are attacking every fiber of my body- "SLEEP!"they scream. "Curl into a ball, fetal position, and just close your eyes..."

Yesterday it was summer, or at least fall. Now I am struggling with schoolwork, bar-tending classes, job hunting, and the regular grind of day-to-day errands.

Brown, gray, black. I look around, nostalgic for the yellow, orange, and blue. Morning, afternoon, and evening, when I wake up and before I go to sleep, I scour the Indian's website for my recently-departed summer, frantically clinging to the digital diamond, the green grass and pale brown dirt. When the Tribe offers no news I move onto the MLB site. Highlight reels, historics games, whatever I can get. Baseball diamonds have become an opiate for me. Seeing one calms me, withdrawal depresses me. The boys of summer have gone.

When Jerusalem is lit up she sparkles, shining like the beacon that she is to the world. Winter's early gloom in the holy city cuts even harder. "A few weeks," I tell myself, "in a few weeks you will have gotten used to the idea of long nights and short days. Quilts will once again become a comfort and not a necessity. Your bed will release you from its grip. A few weeks."

For now, my nesting instincts are go. Cooking has become a new joy in my life, a new distraction from the work and responsibilities that I have or am supposed to acquire. Corn bread, onion jam, even a quiche. It can take me hours, but I pull it off in the end, and smile with the realization that I can still learn new tricks.

Maybe I'll learn to let winter's opening days not stew my brain.

This too will pass.

"It's Hard not to be Romantic About Baseball"

"It was really depressing, "he answered me, "they really didn't deserve it. There was no reason for the Cardinals to be champions this year."

There are few people in my Jewish teachers college who I can speak baseball with. For that matter, other than the ex-pat Americans, there is nobody in this country who talks baseball. Israelis can't wrap their heads around the game. Baseball, with its pitch-dependent action, is too slow for the revved up soccer-heads in this country. They prefer the fast paced shell games, where you have to keep your eye on the ball as the clock runs, or is run down; complicated plays thought out to give the team that millisecond of distraction needed to place the ball in its respected net, goal, basket, what have you. American sports, be it baseball with its endless innings or football with its long breaks in between plays, just doesn't make sense to them. And if they had to choose between them, well at least in football they beat each other up while running the clock.

"Baseball's like a social get together. You sit, drink beer, eat junk, schmooze with friends, and once in a while clap your hands for your team," a good friend of mine once commented after his first baseball game.

Of course that was his response. The first time he saw a double play was when we diagrammed it on a pizza pie earlier that day. Israel is a beautiful country, but when you have to give three years of your life to the army and have your bag X-rayed when you enter the mall, you lack the patience to appreciate the thumping but slow-paced thrill that baseball offers.

But how could I not celebrate the Cardinal's incredible victory? How could I not seek out a fellow fan of the sandlot to discuss Freese and Albert? More than them being my second favorite team (I'll clarify: nothing makes me happier than an Indians' win, after which the next best thing is a Yankees' loss, followed by a victory by STL- my grandmother's team- if all else fails I root for the Jays- my grandfather's team) their ride, or more correctly, flight this season and post-season is at the heart of what makes baseball special. Which is why I disagree with one of the few people at the Herzog College in Israel who understood what those three red letters on my blue hat stood for.

Fan-hood is a strange phenomenon. Every jersey that we don makes us a member of the team, secures us a spot on their roster. It gives us the opportunity to be part of something bigger than we are; a member of the "Fenway Faithful", or of any other "Nation." Loyalties are passed on from father to son, or sometimes (as is by me), son to father, or just through the drinking water.

If you ask me, baseball fans can be divided into two categories: competitors and romantics. Competitors want the W, and nothing more. For them the end-result are the only thing that is important. Number one in the win column or bust. Like someone who guzzles through a bottle of fine wine because of the price tag and the status. They'll grow quickly into front-runners, fast to discard their hometown or familial loyalties for a team that will provide them with more bang for their proverbial buck.

Romantics are the exact opposite. To them the price tag is nowhere near as important as the label on the back of the bottle- the one that explains the process and flavors that were cultivated. As my mentor in wines and spirits once said, "Some people know brands, other people know wine." Somebody who understands wine will pay the price for a good bottle, but they also have the ability to find equal, if not better, wines at better prices. The process is almost all of the fun for the baseball romantic. The means and not the ends.

Which is why I root for Cleveland despite the fact that it is almost always guarantees me heartbreak, and why I believe that the Cardinals deserved the Commissioner's Trophy more than any team that has played since the Cardinals last took it in 2006- and even more than that incarnation! A team must be developed financially. I won't argue this, and hold this against the Dolans and the way they manage the Tribe. However, the Indians' front office, since the 90's, has been responsible for cultivating players, coaching them from the start of their young careers until they mature into the robust players who deserve big numbers on their price tag. Manny Ramirez, CC, and of course, Jim Thome, among others rose to star quality while playing for the Indians. The 1995-1997 lineup was definitely bolstered by some good business moves on the part of Jon Hart, but the heart of the lineup was young talent that was being raised in CLE. Since those days of glory Cleveland has served as a farm team for the entire MLB. Despite the heartbreak of losing the stars because they become expensive, those few seasons watching them break out are incredible. The scrappy taste of hard earned victory is ambrosia for the gods of baseball. Even if it's for only one game.

Of course, a competitive fan doesn't care. At the end of the season, if their team hasn't won, they throw them to the dogs. Star players who are payed millions in order to keep them from leaving, are booed when they screw up (A-Rod, I'm looking at you and smiling real wide). This is a business and their team is supposed to win. Period.

Don't get me wrong, I was disappointed by the poor performance of the Tribe in the second half of this season. But I made a promise that no matter what happens, win or lose, I was going to revel in that first half tromping that the "48 million dollar payroll that could" delivered to the Majors. Because to a romantic, a Cinderella story remains a Cinderella story even after the fat lady sings.

Which brings me to the MLB champion Cardinals. Hard earned, sweaty, seat of your pants wins. Late inning heroics. This is what they game is about. This is what makes it the American past-time. Is there anything that serves as a metaphor for life more than being down to your last strike (twice!) and pulling through? Is there anything more romantic than a come from behind victory? Only when the man responsible for his team's victory cheered for that same team as a kid.

Baseball is all about second chances. There is no clock on this game- it ends when you decide that you can't connect wood to rawhide anymore, when you stop believing that with bases loaded you'll turn the double play to get out of the inning, when David loses to Goliath. As long as you can make the play, you control the fate of the game. The beauty of baseball is in those long innings that so bore the natives of my beloved homeland. You don't need fast action to get your heart pumping. You just need to understand that nothing is guaranteed until the final out is made.

By all logic the Cards should not have even made the postseason. But baseball's not about logic. A team that never says “die”, that claws away until they've used their last breath to take that of another team, which turns from harmless to fierce once September begins to close, deserves the W. What they went through, the story on the back of their bottle, is worth more than the win. This game is not about putting up numbers. Numbers belong on clocks. This game is about gravity defying acrobatics, grass-stains and slides, stolen bases and stolen thunder.

This is what the romantic fans understand that the competitive ones do not. Baseball is not a business- it's life.

1:15 Rant

Sometimes you realize that things don't work out the way they should have. Sometimes the right changes come five minutes too late. You stand outside in the hallway trying to stare through the door, but the X-rays are not working. Hell, who are you fooling, they were never there. You got stuck with the invisible power, and couldn't get a trade in for it. What can you do?

Three seconds pass since the music stops, and only then do you begin to dance. Part of you enjoys the sweat dripping from forehead into eyes, splashing the dance floor and shining bright and wet, with nothing external forcing your moves; part of you mourns the fact that you just can't find the groove when the groove was on for everyone. What can you do?

Belief systems fall apart, and somehow you are the only one grasping the straws of what was once so popular. That was then. When you were a child. Now? Come on man, grow up. Times change. Change with them. What can you do?

Blink your eyes three times. Hold them shut on the last blink for 30 second. One deep breath with your picture on your eyelids. Do you get it now?

It's Not Always Black and White

One of the greatest decisions that my parents madei n raising me was to send me to the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland for the first four years (kindergarten through third grade) of my schooling. HAC is a Jewish day school that studies both secular and Judaic studies, but leans towards Ultra-Orthodoxy, or in American Jewish slang, is "black hat." Beginning my education in a more right-wing religious school set a tone for my Judaism. HAC established a strong foundation of belief and put, for better or for worse, practices into place that have lasted until this day, (they're probably also the source for my penchant for food that speaks Yiddish).

Though many might have considered the education a bit close-minded (I'll never forget how my second grade English teacher had to staple together the pages in Dear Mr. Henshaw that dealt with Christmas) I consider it to be the factor in my life that allows me to explore the many aspects and views of this religion freely and without fear. I know that most likely I will come home safely to the house that was built back in kindergarten, but also realize that every once in a while old wallpaper needs to be looked at and changed, furniture replaced.

But I digress. The most important thing that my parents gave me by sending me to the Academy and by living in Cleveland Heights ("Where you're either black or black hat") was the ability to feel comfortable around people different from you.

Or so I thought. I had a bit of a revelation this morning. I arrived at minyan and begin to put on my tefillin (phylacteries) standing above a seat. Before I could finish wrapping and sit down though, somebody had taken my seat.

"Come on man, what's your friggin problem?" I growled in my mind, carefully deleting the expletives out of respect for my tefillin (see what I mean about putting practices in place? I still imagine inanimate objects blushing or getting insulted). "It's pretty clear that I was gonna sit there, jerk."

I often get this way when I'm tired, but after I moved away to a new seat I noticed that in my mind I was preempting anything that someone might say to me. Especially after seeing the young ultra-orthodox guy who once gave me a tongue lashing for the way I wore my gun while praying (that's a different story). My thoughts began to turn, or more correctly, curdle, on the people sitting near me.

They were classic hareidim, ultra-religious to the last stitch in their long frocks. Curly side-locks, hats, scraggly beards in the best case scenario, fuzzy upper lips in the worst. My defense mechanism was running like Usain Bolt.

"Dontchu be taking my seat, ya penguin," it whispered at the man praying next to me. "Why are they taking so frickin long to start... come on already man."

Two 18 year old boys sat across from me shooting glances and smiles at each other. "What do they think they're looking at? Are they laughing at me? For real? At least my moustache doesn't look like a comb-over!" (I know, I know, it's blonde, and my instincts don't actually phrase things this cleverly in person either)

The kicker came at the end. At some point I switched the raggedy siddur (prayer book) that I had picked up with a smaller one that seemed not to belong to anyone in the room, despite having a beautiful inscription on the inside cover. I figured if it was someone's they would tell me. Of course, my brain also defensively snarled, "What, and he'll take it away from me in the middle?" When I had finished davening, I kissed the siddur and put it down. Comb-over-stache picked it up, kissed it and placed it next to him.

"Great, here we go," I thought, "a speech on how I should ask first, probably with some words like 'gezel' (stealing) and a whole lot of blah-blah to nod through while looking at the floor."

And rightfully so to tell the truth. If somebody had taken my siddur without asking, I would have chewed him out in my head for a good 15 minutes at least.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly, and truth be told, I was genuinely sorry.

His lips turn upwards in a big smile, and he enthusiastically motions to me and the siddur and gives me a big thumbs up.

"It was my honor, my merit, for you to use my siddur."

I blush. "Thanks,"I say to him as I leave, "shkoyach"(good job).

Shkoyach indeed, brother. Lesson learned.

New Year's Resolution: More Bloggin

Morning hits hard when you're unemployed, but not hard enough to knock me out of bed. Herzog, the teacher's college I attend, kicked off the semester yesterday, and with it I returned to my old ways of recuperating from the ten hour school day with hours of computer-sponsored brain-rot. Which meant that starting the big job hunt early was going to have to wait until after the later minyan (prayer service).

-Fix the guitar

-Supplies for school

-Pick up Horatio, my Sig-Sauer, from the range

-Blah

-Blah

-More important blah

Something about the "to do" list weighing down my backpack threw me off. Breakfast and in-house chores dragged on, while the seconds and minutes left the house, only to return as hours passed. The guitar had been sitting to long with a broken neck and strings and now needs a fret-board fix as well. Signs in restaurants declaring openings made me simultaneously hopeful and depressed.

But there was a success. After about 15 minutes of being snowballed and convinced that I was being given a deal (Ï'm sorry for the wait, but I was arguing with my supervisor about getting you a discount, which I was able to...."- Wow, just for me?!) and a little bit of schedule dancing, I began my first steps to the bar (The one you stand behind, not the test).

Bar-tending class cut my day short, but at least was an easy check for the list.

"Hey, you must be Yoni!,"Dor, the well-dressed instructor greeted me with a smile, Ï've been waiting for you to come."

What a change. Yesterday I was taking notes on a laptop in a yeshiva classroom, today-a notebook on the bar itself. A quick glance around the room:

Dos (religious guys) count: 2 others besides me ("What is a religious guy like you doing in a course like this?"- true quote from one of the girls)

Girl count: 3

Dosot (religious girls): Nope, too bad

"Let's talk about brandy and Cognac."

Yes, please do.

"Now let's taste them."

For the record, I held off because of the kashrut (dietary laws) issues with grapes. But school where you drink as part of the lesson- does it get any better than that?

After two hours on the production, difference between, and grading of the two, notebooks became shakers, we hopped over to the other side of the bar. There's an episode of "How I Met Your Mother" where Robin forces her way behind the bar for attention, and is dragged away while screaming "But I was somebody back there."It's like that. The timid persona that I adopt in a new environment quickly fell away once my shoe tread in that holy space.

"What'll it be?" I asked, smiling to the peers who would coach my mixology for two drinks.

Ice in the shaker!

Fill the jigger!

Other side!

Close with a bang!

And shake it here, shake it there, dance to the music bar-man!

The bar, it would seem, is a stage, or at least a dance floor. Alright, so I used an orange wedge to salt the margaritas, but man are the lights back there bright. Shine on please! I'll need it tomorrow when I try to kick things into gear.

You Say You Want a Revolution? -A personal reflection on yesterday's terror attack

Well You Know, We All Want to Change the World

In Washington, the leaders of the United States are trying to mediate peace talks between Israel and Palestine. In Israel it is 10:15 am. Seder boker, the morning learning period, has reached mid-session, and the entire Beit Midrash (study hall) has quickly and completely emptied of both students and staff. Outside everyone is reaching down to tuck in their tzitzit (the fringes worn ritually by Jewish males) in deference to the dead who can no longer perform this commandment.

Only yesterday I found myself performing the same ritual as I toured Chevron with a group from Herzog, my teacher's college. Throughout Chevron (Hebron) are various graveyards filled by settlers of Chevron who gave their lives in order to maintain a Jewish presence in the city of our forefather. Yesterday, in the Hebron Hills area that surrounds the historic city, Palestinian terrorists killed four more innocent civilians, in an effort to "torpedo" the current peace talks.

Otniel, the yishuv (settlement) that I learn in provided the service of the tahara, the ritual "final cleaning" of the body before it is returned to the ground, for last night's vicitims. Throughout the day, students and other volunteers held half hour shifts next to the deceased, reciting tehillim (Psalms) and serving as an honor guard. Mid-morning, we all left our respective places of learning to escort Yitzchack and Tali Ames, Kochava Even-Chaim, and Avishai Schindler out of Otniel to their final resting places. All four lived fifteen minutes from Otniel, in the neighboring yishuv of Beit-Chagai.

Arms crossed, lips moving in prayer, and eyes welling with angry tears, I waited with my friends for the bodies to be moved to the escort vehicles, and began to think back to my second year in yeshiva. That year Yossi Shock, a father of three, was shot on the same road while driving home to Beit Chagai. I was reminded of the infamous question of the Angels to G-d upon witnessing the deaths of the asara harugei malchut ("The Ten Righteous Martyrs"- a prayer said on Yom Kippur detailing the death of ten of Judaism's greatest rabbis) "This is Torah, and this is its reward?". Innocent people slaughtered on their way home. When will we know an end to these deaths?

Last night, PA president Mahmoud Abbas condemned the shooting stating that he " condemns all acts that target Palestinian and Israeli civilians," and that the attack was meant to "disrupt the peace process and can't be regarded as an act of resistance." True, the murders last night were not sanctioned by the Palestinian Authority, but that only makes it even more disturbing that we are still trying to arrange an agreement. The murders last night were carried out by members of Hamas, a terrorist organaziation that doubles as a leading political party in the Palestinian world. If they refuse to adhere to the lines set by the PA, then what difference does it make if we manage to strike an agreement with Abbas and co.? The Palestinians will have received their state, which we will be "at peace" with, while terrorists roams free and independent of their government. What then have we accomplished?

When it Comes to Destruction, Don't You Know that You Can Count Me Out

The close range drive by shooting left the six Ames children orphaned. Kochava Even Chaim's eight-year-old daughter is motherless, her husband is a widower, and her kindergarten class is without their teacher. Avishai Schindler's young wife is alone in their new home in Beit Chagai.

With regards to the PA and their response, Yarden Frankl of HonestReporting wrote in his blog this morning (http://www.crossingtheyarden.com/2010/09/lives-not-statistics/):
"When you can look at this act with same gut wrenching horror as a six year old who just lost his teacher, you will be ready to make a real peace."

I echo the sentiments. I am a peacenik, meaning that I believe in peace. But not the peace that they are discussing in Washington. The concept of peace that we have been fed for all of these years is nothing more than conditions for a large-scale cease-fire.

Golda Meir, Israel's only female Prime Minister, once said:
"We can forgive you for killing our children, we cannot forgive you for turning our children into killers."

When both sides can feel this way, when both sides are looking for a solution so that they do not have to kill anymore, then we will be ready to have peace. Until then, Israel is merely looking for a way to protect her children from being killed, and the Palestinians are looking for a way to advance their cause for an independent state. At best, both sides are looking for security.

It's Gonna Be Alright?

For the reasons stated above, I cannot believe in a land for "peace" trade anymore. The Palestinian side has once more proved itself divided, its leadership unreliable. Negotiations in my mind can only end in a loss of land for Israel with nothing to gain.

What is the price of security? Or, for that matter, the saying "Im eshkachech Yerushalayim tishkach yemini?" ("If I forget thee, oh Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill"). Is a secure Israel without her holy sites and cities truly Israel?

Yesterday's victims and Yossi Shock, along with those in Chevron whose murders I learned about yesterday, died while settling the land. Nobody believes that this side of the "Green Line" is completely safe. No tremp (ride) leaves a yishuv without reciting tefillat ha'derech (the traveler's prayer) as soon as it reaches the main road. The act of hitchhiking is approached with caution and warning. Many, if not most, of the settlers are armed, and well trained in the use of a firearm. Every yishuv has a kitat konnenut, an emergency response squad, ready for any emergency. We are all aware of the dangers of living here, yet people continue to settle here. The stories that exist in the ground and the brick, the character that walked on the streets of Chevron and her surrounding hills- Kalev ben Yefuneh (Caleb the spy), David Ha'Melech (King David), and of course, our forefathers and mothers buried in Chevron- are the foundations of our religion. This land is priceless.

I do not confess to have a solution. It is clear to me though that the price being set in Washington is too great. Is it going to be alright? Will this be the last time that my friends and myself abandon our learning so that we may honor the deceased? My heart prays yes, but logic tells me no. And as much as I know that family and my friends worry, for now all I can do is increase my precautions; travel by armored bus, increase my vigilance, and pray, because the alternative in my mind is far worse.

May we know only smachot and a new year of happiness,
Yoni