At the moment he was asked to join a minyan, he felt a deep sense of belonging to the Jewish people and to the land of our ancestors.
When the Tide Turned
Today we should say Shehecheyanu. In addition to the Shehecheyanu we recited right after Kol Nidrei, we should also say it for the merit, after so many years, of the Cleveland Guardians making it to the playoffs.
It all began 162 games ago, when one of the synagogue regulars—who comes every single morning to pray—told me that the Guardians were starting their season. He is a very big fan, and it really affects him whether they win or lose.
Each morning when I came to Shacharit, I would say to him: “Nu…” and he already knew what I was waiting for. At the start of the season he would answer each day, with a shining face: “They won.” At first it looked like they had a real chance at the playoffs. They won game after game, night after night. It was remarkable.
But then the wheel turned, and things stopped going so well. I would meet him in the morning with a face like Tisha B’Av, and I already knew the answer. For me it was just sport to ask: “Nu, did they win? Didn’t win?” But somehow, over time, I started taking it more seriously. I began hoping they would win, if only for his sake.
Sometimes when he missed prayer because of a game—and they lost—I would tell him: “If you had come to daven, they would have won! It’s better for them if you sit here and they play there, than for you to go and watch the game.”
This week, since I planned to speak about their victory, I tried to understand the game—what are the rules of baseball, how is it played, and so on. I opened Wikipedia and tried to learn, but the more I read the more I realized I had no chance of ever understanding how it works. It was a complete failure. I am already too old to grasp this game, so I abandoned the plan.
The Story of Shimshon Stock
Shimshon Stock, of blessed memory, was an American-born Jew who knew the Rebbe even before his leadership, before 1950, when the Rebbe became the leader of Chabad. The Rebbe would study halacha with him, and to keep the connection, Shimshon would tell the Rebbe the news—what was happening in baseball and sports in general.
In the early years after the Rebbe assumed leadership, Shimshon accompanied his friend and his friend’s son—soon to be bar mitzvah—to 770 Eastern Parkway. He introduced them to the Rebbe, who greeted them warmly with a handshake and invited them to sit.
The Rebbe gave the Bar Mitzvah boy his blessing—that he should grow up to be a source of joy for his family and for the Jewish people. But before they left, the Rebbe surprised the boy with a question: “Are you a baseball fan?” The bar mitzvah boy answered yes.
“Which team do you root for—the Yankees or the Dodgers?” asked the Rebbe.
“The Dodgers,” the boy replied.
“Is your father also a fan, like you?” – “No.”
“Does your father take you to the games?” – “Yes, sometimes. The last game we went to was about a month ago.”
“And how was the game?” – “Disappointing,” admitted the 13-year-old. “By the sixth inning the Dodgers were losing 2–9, so we decided to leave.”
“Did the players also leave the field when you left?” – “Rebbe, the players can’t leave in the middle of the game!”
“Why not?” asked the Rebbe. “Please explain to me how the game works.” The young fan explained: there are players and there are fans. The fans can leave whenever they feel like it—they are not part of the game, and it goes on without them. But the players must remain and try to win until the end.
“That is exactly the lesson I want to teach you about Judaism,” said the Rebbe with a smile. “You can be a fan, or a player. Be a player!”
Fans and Players in the Jewish World
What is the difference between a fan and a player in the world of Judaism?
I want to share with you an article that appeared in Haaretz. This article was written by the nephew of the publisher.
When he was 11 years old, he looked out the window of his room in Jerusalem and saw an Arab terrorist stab his neighbor, a female IDF soldier, to death. His sister, a Magen David Adom volunteer, tried to resuscitate her—unsuccessfully.
The year Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated, after her army service, his sister predicted that Israel could not remain both Jewish and democratic. She saw no future for a normal life here and left for England.
At that time, like many Israelis, he obtained a German passport and went to study in Holland. After his studies and several years working in China, he returned to Israel. Later he met his partner, and they decided to build a family.
He said: “I am the fourth generation of divorced men, and the only way I can promise her that we won’t divorce is if we don’t marry.” His father, scarred by a failed partnership and divorce from his mother, had taught him that a good partnership is one where, on the very day it is founded, you already know how it will be dismantled.
So instead of a wedding they made an agreement, with a yearly exit date, when they would ask themselves if they still loved each other and whether to continue another year. Like all the so-called “progressives,” they chose home birth instead of hospital birth, refused to vaccinate their children, and most significantly—refused to circumcise their sons.
In the months before October 7, they wandered through Europe searching for a place to live a “normal” life—without “occupying another people,” without “funding the ultra-Orthodox,” and with the possibility of giving their children peace of mind.
At that time he thought the only thing binding him to Israel was his concern for his mother and the family business—Haaretz. So he looked for a place near an airport, so he could easily shuttle back and forth.
On October 7, they happened to be in London. Their flight back was canceled, and suddenly they became refugees. A friend in Denmark invited them, and for four weeks they lived in his tiny one-room apartment in a foreign quarter of Copenhagen, where the street below was filled with Arabic speakers.
They found themselves in a strange city, cold (without proper clothing), waiting for the war to end. Weeks passed, and they wandered from place to place, until eventually they ended up with the Israeli community in Goa, India. After a year they returned—straight to his father-in-law’s funeral.
During the shiva he was asked to join a minyan. He found himself with a kippah on his head, Kaddish was recited and he started wondering: what does this have to do with me? What do I have to do with all the harshness and chaos in Israel?
This Is His People
Yet in the first weeks after his return to Israel, a process that had begun within him years earlier accelerated. He began to feel that his sense of belonging to the land was deeper than he had realized.
The war, the alienation he experienced in Europe, the warmth and help he received at Chabad Houses, the rootlessness of the Israeli community in Goa, the return to Israel’s schools, community, and Hebrew—and the relief that all this brought him—peeled away thick layers of anger, arrogance, and estrangement. What once seemed ugly and repulsive now suddenly appeared charming and close.
Slowly he reached the inner agreement to acknowledge, by choice, an identity that was not of his own choosing. Despite the complexity and the real problems, the truth is—he is a Jew and an Israeli. This is his people. This is his home. Suddenly it was clear. Suddenly he understood that it was not “they and us,” but all of us—one nation—and he was born into it. It was his.
Sometimes a man comes home and starts complaining: why is the house such a mess, why this, why that? And then his wife says to him: “Why are you complaining? This is your house just as much as it is mine. Take responsibility and start cleaning up.”
This was what he realized—that this people are his people, and this land is his land, just as much as it belongs to every other Jew in the world.
And then he writes:
“At the moment I made a covenant with the land and the people of Israel, the dust, the rust, the stickers on the walls, and the inefficiency at Ben Gurion Airport became mine. Along with them, despite all that still needs to be built and repaired, came wonder at how our young country managed to build such an impressive airport in such a short time, and how much beauty, diversity, and color there is in Israeli life.”
And suddenly Israel looked far more beautiful to him. What once infuriated him now delighted him.
What happened was this: until now he had been a fan—watching from the stands. And the moment the team lost (or the country was in crisis), he would walk away. But when he transformed and became a player—he took ownership of his Jewish identity. And from this game there is nowhere to run, nor would it be good to try.
The greatest gift a person can receive is to be born a Jew!
This post is also available in: עברית