S P A M

Line Out

Over the past four season, I have learnt a lot about the game of baseball from coaches I have worked with. New drills, mechanics, warm-ups; all were a mystery to me when I first started coaching baseball. 

Coaching two national teams has exposed me to several of the better coaches in Israel, and one of the best I have worked with is Amit. Amit and I spent almost every Wednesday night together on the baseball diamond, running practices for our Young Cadet (13-15) national team. At 20, he knows more about the game then I have ever known, and is a considerably better player than I will ever be. 

Still, we got along well, and many of the things I learned from working with him I use in my team's practices. 

And now that I am playing baseball, I have integrated many of his lessons into my game. Like leadoffs, and head-first dives back to the bag. Most especially, I bring his hitting approach to each at bat. With no strikes, I am looking for one pitch, or I'm not swinging. As I get deeper into the count, my strike zone expands, from one pitch one spot to protecting the plate and shortening my swing to get the ball in play. 

Amit pitches for his team, and as luck would have it, our first two regular seaosn games were against his Tel Aviv team. He started the game behind the plate, and stayed there until the eighth, when he came in to try and hold a 3-2 lead with runners on second and third. The runners had already come in by the time I stepped to the plate, with a runner on first, two outs, and a 4-3 lead. 

Amit throws hard, harder then anyone I have seen so far, and it was no surprise when he struck me out for the second out of the inning. His pitches move around the plate, and for a rookie like me, getting the bat on the ball is no easy task. 

Which brought us to game two, played last night. This time, Amit was the starter, and by the time I got up to the plate, with one on and two outs in the bottom of the second, we were already losing 9-0. 

I stepped to the plate with a positive approach. He may throw hard, but I wasn't conceding the at bat. He might get me out, but he was going to have to earn it. The first pitch was a ball, low and outside. It's a tempting pitch to swing at; you think you can crush it, but it stays out of reach. The next pitch looked low, and I let it go, but the ump called strike one. He brought some high heat for the third pitch of the At Bat, and I swung badly, my worst swing of the night. 

With a 1-2 pitch coming up, I dug into the box, mentally prepared myself to protect the plate, and looked at the mound. He threw another fastball, toward the outside of the plate, and I swung. 

When you swing a bat at a thrown ball, you want to do more than make contact. You want to connect the fat part of the bat with the front of the ball. And when you make that kind of contact, it feels perfect. The bat, the ball, in perfect sync; the ball torpedoing off for hopefully a line drive hit.

And if you didn't guess yet, it was perfect. The ball shot off the bat down the first base line. The First baseman, who was standing on the line to hold the runner, didn't have to move to catch it. Three outs. End of the inning. End of a solid At Bat. 

Practice

Over the past three years, I have attended well over 100 baseball practices. Morning practice, afternoon practice, night practice. I have woken up for 6 AM practices, and come home eafter 10 PM from the field from other practices. I have taken part in two a days, four hour sessions, and pitched thousands of baseballs in batting practice.

Tonight I went to another baseball practice, but for the first time ever, it was as a player, and not a coach. At 35, I have finally joined a team.

When I was a kid I wanted to play in the Oak Park little league. My parents did not want me to play then. Sometimes I was told that the sport was dangerous, other times the reason was Friday night games. Whatever the reason, instead of playing hard ball with the city little league I played soft ball in the shul league.

I have played, though. A few times. Pick up games. But I never imagined I get to play in a league, with umpires and team shirts and baseball pants and dugouts and all the other things that come with an official league. And then, a few weeks ago, while playing catch between two games of a double header in Arrezzo, I decided it was my turn to play. I was going to give up coaching the national team, and take one year to play baseball.

When I left to practice, my biggest fear was that I would embarrass myself. The fear was heightened when I saw some of the players at practice, including the 20-year old head coach who I went to Italy with last month.

I was worried that ground balls would go through my legs, that my throws would run wild, and all I would manage at the plate was a feeble ground ball, if I even made that much contact. Fortunately, none of that happened. There was some balls I should caught during infield drills, and some throws I need to put more mustard on to get them to third base, but overall, not very embarrassing. Even a few line drives to the outfield when I stepped up to the plate.

The guys on the team were great to hang out with, and I am looking forward to our first exhibition game on Tuesday, followed by our first regular season game on Thursday.

But before I do that, I have to get ready for Little League practice tomorrow.

Italy Tournament

For those of you who are interested, you can watch as games are updated, and check out everyone's stats at the following website:

http://tuscanyseries.it/2009_ENG/risultati_2009.php#

Click where it says Baseball Allievi in Arezzo (August 3-5) and in Siena (August 6-9). They aren't playing in Grosseto this year.

Good luck to R and D! We are very proud of you both!

My Friend Named Sam

Sam is a nice guy, I suppose. He grew up in Passaic, moved to Detroit, and lives there now. His father was the page number turned at Young Israel of Passaic/Clifton, and had a unique method for changing the magnetic page numbers. As the Chazzan approached the end of the page, he would slide the upcoming number onto the magnetic board, and slowly slide the number upward. As the Chazzan got closer and closer to the bottom of the page, the new page number would creep upwards, until finally, when the Chazzan reached th end of the page, the new numbers would be in place.

He married, divorced, and remarried. I think he has a son from his first marriage, not sure about what has happened in his second marriage. To be honest, I don't remember his wife's name, though I think it is her second marriage as well. And if I was to tell you everything I know about Sam, all I can really add is that I think he is touch older than me, that his mother passed away within the past year, and that he has one sister.

But sometime earlier this week, Sam friended me on Facebook. And being that I have nothing against Sam, I accepted his friendship. There was a time when I was very particular about who I accepted, but my standards have gone way down. There are people who collect facebook friends like baseball cards, trying to amass as many as they can, studying their information and reading their status updates. I am not that kind of facebook user. I like the platform for the games, and friends provide me with opponents to challenge.

So Sam, who is not really a friend, who I have had a complete conversation with him in the 14 years I have known him, and I are Facebook friends. He can see when I play Scrabble, Word Twist, Scramble, and update my status. He has access to pictures, and public conversations I have with other people.

Which brings us to March 15, 2009. Un-Friend Someone Day. The brainchild of Joe Hocheiser, the Ides of March is the day to get rid of your friends you don't really want. He wants you to get rid of at least one friend who you don't want.

So the question is, do I whack Sam, or find someone else who is not adding anything to my life.

For Helen. Or Hilda.

Veev's grandmother on her mother Helen's side was a elderly woman named Hilda. Hilda Minde was a holocaust survivor whose best years for long past by the time I met her. Veev and I always thought it was a funny coincidence that her maternal grandparents, Abe and Hilda, shared the same name as my grandparents, and even more coincidentally, shared the same last four digits of their phone number, 5076. But I digress.

By the time I met Hilda, or Bubbie as we called, her, she was a shell of her former self, but to my surprise, she lasted a lot longer than I thought she would. As too many people do, she made Aliyah in a box in 2006, and can be found about twenty minutes outside of Modiin, in the Young Israel section of one of the cemeteries outside Beit Shemesh.

At her first Yahrzeit, in the summer of 2007, we went to say a few T'hillim, and do whatever it is people do when they remember the departed. We brought the kids, and at least for my littlest, it was her first time going to the cemetery. To make the visit meaningful, we had her and my middlest color a few rocks to place on the headstone.

As Chanukah this year approached, Veev and I decided not to give each other gifts. We haven't really given gifts in a long time, and just for the record, we don't give the kids gifts either on Chanukah. Its not that we don't think the kids shouldn't get gifts, it's just that we are mean.

Despite our agreement, I wanted to give Aviva a token gift, so I made a mix CD for her, full of country music that I thought she would like, especially since we are half a world away from a decent country music station on the radio. And every fourth or fifth track, I added in a track of fake news. You know, like my brother Yakoff wanting to sue the State of Israel for kidnapping his siblings, nieces and nephews, and mocking my son for being a fan of Everything on Facebook, because he was already a fan of everything else.

And of course, Veev's grandmother's tombstone made it into one of the news sketches. I talked about how police were investigating apparent vandalism of the tombstone, as it appeared that someone had left colored rocks all over the tombstone, and after a recent rainfall, the color had run all over the headstone.

So Veev plays the CD, and skips all the music to listen to the sketches of me poking fun at both of our families. Which she thinks is quite funny. But the she stops, after listening to the report about her grandmother's vandalized headstone, and plays it for me. My voice fills the air, as I, in a most serious voice, report on the vandalized tombstone of Helen Minde.

What, I ask? What's wrong. Is it too far? I did not think it was too far. It's not like I had resurrected her, or done anything to her. Justa silly thing about Veev's grandmother's tombstone. So she played it again. And again, I listened as I reported on the vandalization of Helen Minde's tombstone.

What's wrong, I asked again. Shaking her head, Veev said, "R, you just killed of my mother."

Jeans at the table

They showed up in jeans, three seventh grade girls coming to their first Dati shabbat meal. Each one carried a bag, phone in their purse, and were dropped off by one of their dads, who shouted Shabbat Shalom to us as he drove home. We made the kiddush, and asked them if they wanted to wash Netilat Yadayim.

Two chose to partake in the washing ritual, all three hungrily dug into the fresh-made Challah.

And so we ate. They were surprisingly uncurious about what we were doing. No questions about Shalom Aleichem, Eishet Chayil, or our short conversation about the parsha.

Across the table sat two seminary girls. Religious from birth, I wondered what each group thought about the other. Were our Chiloni students curious about the religious rituals we went through? What did our seminary girls think about the three kids who had no problem reading Birkat HaMazon when we finished eating, possibly for the first times in their lives.

We live in such an amazing place. It was not the first time we have had people who were not religious at our Shabbat table, and not the first time we had seen people with almost no connection to religion have no trouble when it comes to Birkat HaMazon.

It is certainly a fry cry from our experience in the US, when our irreligious company sat in respectful silence while we bentched, or tried to read the transliteration in the NCSY bentcher.

Back to School

I teach an after-school class, called a חוג in Hebrew. I teach English reading and writing to First Graders in order to bring them up to English-speaking level for Second Grade. I taught them twice before the Chagim and today we had a review on what we learned. We also reviewed the two songs I taught them: "Little Rabbit Foo Foo" and "B-I-N-G-O". At some point one of the boys started to sing "B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, I love Aviva!" In the next round of the song, all the kids joined in.

I guess that's a good sign.

I Shudder to Think....

I started teaching in a non-religious public middle school a couple of weeks ago. My first time in a non-religious environment - boys with an earring and gelled-up hair, girls with shorts so short, you wonder why they bother, and one 8th Grade student who yesterday walked in from her Hafsaka with cigarette breath. (Allowed, by the way...)

Later this morning I have to tell a young lady that she didn't pass the requirements of the English-speakers' class. In fact, she failed. Her English language is passable in most Israeli circles, even superior, but, compared to the kids who have spent several years abroad, or have an English-speaking parent, she's no where near.

She had been in an English-speakers' class in elementary school, probably because her father insisted. And probably because in elementary school the admissions standards are not as high. But we have an entrance exam that every incoming 7th Grader was required to pass in order to make it in. And she didn't. Simple as that. But is it?

It should be noted that she has gone through the following procedure:

1. She was turned away by me, as per the rules, a week after school began, when she walked into my classrom and announced that she belonged there. She was on no such list and hadn't shown up to take the admissions test, in the summer, when the rest of the students had. I had been told the day before, by a senior English-speakers' teacher, that registration was closed. "Try again next year," I was to tell the ones who tried to get in.

2. Her father called the school and spoke to the head of the English department who knew of no such rule and GAVE HIM my phone number, since it must be some kind of mistake! He then called me to ask why his daughter was turned away. I got more of her story and found out she was in English-speakers in elementary, she had been away for the summer, she was sick for the first week, etc. So I had pity on the kid and told the dad I would reconsider her. After all, why should red tape keep a viable candidate from her appropriate English education? Especially if she qualified....

3. She took the test during the next class period, but not until her father met me in person outside the school office. He wanted to be there while his daughter took the test. I told him that was out of the question. I reminded him that if she didn't pass the written section, she wasn't entitled to an interview. And we would leave it at that. Then he remembered "one more thing" he had to tell his daughter before her test and asked me where my classroom was. I don't know. I figured he would have asked a random kid in the hallway and found out anyway. So I told him. He then went to pressure her and remind her she had to do well.

4. She failed the written test, and I should have left it at that. But I called to tell that father that she failed. I also reminded him again that I did not have to interview her. But I knew he would pressure me to interview her anyway, so I pre-empted him. I told him that, although she had failed, I would test her verbal skills to see if she would Wow me. Could I please have his home number? He told me he wants me to meet with her face to face, and I told him that since we were beyond the test-dates, he would have to settle for a phone interview. He went on to say his daughter was extremely busy with after-school activities and couldn't possibly be reached until 8 PM. I only found out why later. He'd be home then... He also asked me to show him her test papers. Completely out of the question, I told him. We never do that, and don't even share the exact results. That much I knew. He tried to persuade me, but I wouldn't budge on this.

5. I called the girl at 8 PM and her father picked up the phone. Needless to say, she didn't Wow me. At the end of the 10-15 minute interview, I told the child I would let her know in school tomorrow. Jeez, I'm such a coward. I keep delaying the inevitable. We hung up, and two minutes later Dad called me back. He wanted to know the results. I told him I would let his daughter know tomorrow. He said, "You know I was listening to the interview on the extention." I guess I could have figured that out. (Ma Zeh Chutzpan!!!!)

6. I decided to call the head of the English department and ask her advice. Something about this guy doesn't sit well with me. She told me to tell the kid in school that she failed and call the dad from school to tell him, too. That's the procedure. I really believe that the principal should call the dad so it doesn't become personal. It should be explained as "school policy" and not MY personal policy. Truth is, I don't care either way. I can teach anybody.

I was once in a position similar to this one in Detroit. A kid was on probation and was in my class. When I asked him at picture-taking day, outside the classroom, where he got that thumbtack, he slammed it into my hand and broke skin. He was kicked out that day. And I was scared of his dad, too.

And it should also be noted that anyone who wants to can carry a gun here. And also that it's 2 AM, and everything freaks me out at this time of night. Maybe I'll have one of the guards escort me to class tomorrow. There are FIVE!

First Grade Prayer

My baby asked me to write a note to her teacher. She said I could write whatever I wanted, as long as I wrote it in her notebook. Oh, and it had to be in Hebrew. Which wasn't happening. But I wrote the letter anyway, in English. And because I can't send it to the teacher, I am putting it here.

Dear Teacher,

N is my beautiful, sweet daughter. She has been blessed with love, health, friends, happiness and a love of learning. And this week, we put her education in your hands.

I hope you can give her the keys to unlock the alphabet and teach her to love reading. Unravel the mysteries of numbers for her, and teach her the value of math. I hope you build onto the foundation of Judaism which we have constructed for her.

Tell her stories about the world and pique her curiosity about her environment. Transmit to her a deeper love of Israel, of God, of Religion.

Push her, but don't knock her down. And when she falls, gently lift her back up and send her on her way. I have three children, but only one daughter, one baby. And I am entrusting her to you for this first year of formal education.

N's Daddy