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The following account (translated from
the Hebrew weekly Kfar Chabad) is told by a man who met the
Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson as a young barmitzvah boy.
The first time I met the Rebbe we discussed baseball. It
was a month before my bar-mitzvah, and my grandfather, a devout
Jew and second-generation American, wanted me to meet the
Rebbe and receive his blessing in preparation for my attainment
of Jewish adulthood. My parents had all but abandoned religious
practice of their faith, so it was Grand-father who assumed
the primary role in my Jewish education, giving me lessons
in the rudiments of Yiddishkeit several times a week and taking
me to the synagogue on Shabbat.
My first surprise was the Rebbe’s youthful appearance. I
had expected a chassidic sage with a long white beard, but
the Rebbe, who was in his early fifties at the time, had the
appearance and manner of a man 15 years younger. My second
surprise was the Rebbe’s first question to me: “Which is your
favorite sport?”
“Baseball,” I replied.
“How do you most enjoy the game,” asked the Rebbe, “when one
team plays or when two teams play against each other?”
“Rabbi,” I said, “you can’t play baseball with only one team.”
“Why?” asked the Rebbe
“Rabbi,” I patiently explained, “the entire point of the game
is which side is going to score more runs than the other.
You must have two teams.” I was relieved to see that the Rebbe
understood.
“So who usually wins?” the Rebbe pressed on.
“Whoever plays best,” I said, proud of my inspired reply.
I don’t know what Grandfather thought of our conversation,
but the Rebbe continued to direct all his attention to me.
“Tell me,” he now asked me, “do you and your friends play
much baseball?”
“Sure. We play a lot.”
“Do you also go to watch the baseball games at the stadium?”
“Sure.”
“But why do you have to go watch others play, if you know
how to play the game yourselves?”
Again I felt the frustration of needing to explain the obvious.
“Rabbi,” I said, politely suppressing my smile, “when we play,
it’s just a bunch of kids playing. With the Major League teams,
its the real thing.”
“Joseph,” said the Rebbe, a warm smile illuminating his face,
“your heart is a baseball field. There are two teams competing
there: the ‘good inclination,’ the yetzer tov, and
the ‘evil inclination,’ the yetzer horah. But up until
now, it was a kids’ game. Now, with your bar-mitzvah, the
real game begins. G-d is giving you a special gift—a major
league yetzer tov, with the skills and talents to beat
the yetzer horah and guide you through a righteous
and constructive life. Remember, Joseph, just like in baseball:
whoever plays best, wins...”
***
Grandfather repeated the Rebbe’s baseball analogy at my bar-mitzvah
and I fondly remembered my visit with the young personable
rabbi. Beyond that, I do not recall the Rebbe’s words making
much of an impression on my 13-year-old self. But as two events
in my young adult years were to testify, the Rebbe’s words
affected me far more deeply than I was aware at the time.
The first event took place three years later, the 16th year
of my life and my second in High School. My class had won
a school-wide competition and was awarded a weekend trip to
a luxurious resort in New Orleans. I came home that evening
bursting with excitement and joy; my parents, however, received
the news in uncomfortable silence. Finally, mother said to
me: “Joe, there’s a problem. Yom Kippur is that weekend. As
you know, we’ve always observed Yom Kippur. We fast and we
attend services at the synagogue. We have never desecrated
the holiness of the day, and we expect the same of you.”
“Mom,” I protested, “you don’t understand. This is an opportunity
of a lifetime! All year we’ve been dreaming of winning this
prize. I’ll never forgive myself if I miss it!”
The arguments at home continued all week. My parents said
they understood how important the trip is for me; nevertheless,
they maintained, there are certain hallowed values which one
must set above all else. I countered that I’ve always kept
Yom Kippur and I shall continue to do so all my life, but
nothing will happen if I made this one exception for a once-in-a-lifetime
experience.
In the end, my parents, who prided themselves with their
liberal approach to child-rearing, said to me: “Joe, you know
that we never forced our convictions on you. We’ve told you
how we feel about the matter. Now, the decision is yours.”
The “decision” was easily made: New Orleans, here I come!
The night before the trip I was watching a baseball game
at a friend’s home. The game ended with a breathtaking comeback
in the last inning by the team that had been trailing by several
runs throughout the game. Over the cheering of the crowd we
heard the broadcaster say: “Well, after all is said and done,
there are no two ways about it in baseball: the team that
plays best, wins!” Suddenly, I remembered my conversation
with the Rebbe. I stayed home that Yom Kippur.
***
The second event took place five year later, during my college
years. The year was 1962 and everyone on campus was searching
for “meaning to life.” Two friends, who had fallen in with
a group of Mormon missionaries operating on campus, invited
me to a lecture and discussion. Soon I was attending regularly.
My meager Jewish education was no match for their sophisticated
presentation; soon I began to see my own faith as shallow,
bourgeois and devoid of spiritual content, and theirs as inspiring
and rejuvenating. The more involved I became, the more I felt
that, for the first time, my life had meaning and direction.
My only problem was how to break the news to my parents.
I knew that, liberal views notwithstanding, they would be
extremely upset by my conversion. I decided to say nothing
as of yet and wait for an opportune time to tell them of my
new life. I even harbored hopes of eventually bringing them
to see the light themselves.
Shortly before I was to be baptized as a Christian and Mormon,
I played shortstop in our weekly baseball game on campus.
We played atrociously and lost badly. As we left the field,
I found myself walking alongside the captain of the winning
team, slapping him on the back, and saying: “Well, there are
no two ways about it in baseball: the team who plays best,
wins!”
I was barely able to finish the sentence. I’m sure my friend
wondered why I suddenly turned white. As did my Mormon teachers
as to why I suddenly severed all contact with them.
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