Tag Archives: baseball

YEAR 2

20 Sep

It’s that magical time of year again when children awaken to claw, crawl, and climb from their underground sleeping holes like the zombie offspring of the undead.  That’s right, the 2014/2015 school year has begun, and despite that not being in any way a unit of time provided to us by nature, or having anything to do with most of you, for those of us who work with kids, it is a signal, THEY ARE COMING, like an unstoppable train.  Summer is over.

It also marks the beginning of my 2nd year on this little-known moon of Mars called Israel.  It feels like longer. So much has happened.  And so much is going on.  So much, dear reader, to tell you. I am memorizing all the lyrics of Brooklyn’s Finest by Jay Z and Biggie Smalls.  And I have started the book.  That’s right, Ladies and Geetles, THE BOOK, the whole thing, the whole story, all of it, THE KING OF JEWISH BASEBALL, to be followed by the film, of course.  I will even share some of it with you here, if you promise not to show anyone.  It is a book about a blog about a man about the future about the past about real made-up things that have and have not yet happened.  Ah yes, where does the time go?

The most excting thing, the best news to share with you, is that last week, new European and World rankings were released.  We’re ranked 5th IN EUROPE, and 19th IN THE WORLD.  It is important to note that I do not know if what I am going to say next is “true”, as it’s called, but that has never stopped me, I am, after all, the King of All Jewish Baseball, I say what I want, it sounds good, and it might even be accurate. 5th and 19th are the highest European and World rankings for any Israeli team, in any sport, ever.

And we’re not done yet.  Not even close.  USA, we’re coming for you.  I have heard of this USA before.  THEY ARE NOT THAT GOOD.  “Kershaw”, he is no Lipetz.  Sorry, “Tulowitzki”, we have Fish.  “Adam Jones” has nothing on Weinberg.  On paper, they may be the  better team.  But on a gravel parking lot in Herzliya, I think we have them beat.  Anytime, anywhere, USA, name the makeshift field, and we’re there.

Boom. 19. Come get some, USA.

Boom. 19. Come get some, USA.

And, of course, as promised, an excerpt from the book…

“I was born a Fat Bald Naked Poor Jewish Baby in Vermont, January 2, 1980.”

Boom.  That’s all you get.  The first line.  You thought I was going to give you more?

Buy the book.

 

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SPRING TRAINING

9 Mar

Spring Training for the Premier League started last week.  It is time for another season, time to crank it up, again, one more time.  I have been telling myself I am done for 10 years.  I am dramatic, I know, can’t help it, I am, after all, the King of All Jewish Baseball – comes with the territory.  But, the pain is real, and I know I do not have a lot left in the tank.  Couple years at best.  If I can get to 38, I’ll be lucky, I already am.  Every year, every practice, every game, between every pitch, sometimes, I tell myself, this is it, you’re old, and stupid, you could blow a knee on the next play, and that’s it, it’s over, stay focused, stay lose, anything could happen, a bad hop, broken orbital, this guy could pop-up a ball in foul territory, over the mound in the bullpen, you could trip, crash, slip, some people can’t even walk, they’re in hospitals, better make the most of this shit while you can.  You’d never know from watching me play.  I look like I am having fun.  And I am, sometimes.  But mostly I am horrified.  It is a mix of habit, excitement, and fear.

I try to get to the field early, before everyone else.  Don’t like being only a little early, or late, it’s unsettling.  Practice starts at 7.   Change, in the dugout, or in the bleachers, and get warmed up.  Run from the right field line to the center field fence, and back.  Do your dynamics.  My heart rate is going up.  Shit.  My hip hurts.  Remember to do your hip exercises.  Stretch.  Core.  Band work.  Weighted ball.  Throw.  Get it right.  Every time.  make it feel right.  Keep your effort level down.  It’s early.  Take it easy on your arm.  Be smooth.  Breath.

Time for defense.  Short hops.  Bare hand work.  Take a bucket of ground balls.  Get there.  I’m tired.  Shit.  My legs are heavy.  Breath.

Let’s hit.  Tee work.  Mini whiffles.  Flips in the cage.  Concentrate.  Be natural, like a lefty.  Don’t worry about the ball in.  You can cover the inner half, look for the ball away.  Keep it simple.  It’s easy.  Just get your foot down and make sure you’re in a good spot to pull the trigger. Don’t over-stride.  Breath.

I feel good.  Too good.  It scares me.  I feel fast, and strong.  I don’t want to feel good now and feel like shit later, when it counts.  But there is nothing I can do about it.  Just get there and do the work.

It is insane.  The brutishness.  The trying.  I am different on the field.  Get me warmed-up, and I am an animal, playing in dirt, diving face first.  Then, when I cool off, it hurts, all of it, the knees, the shoulders, the back, mostly, and I know, I am almost done.  Don’t hit too much in the cage, save some bullets, like Thome.  And this is what I do– nay, what we do, still, the same thing we have done since we were kids.  I will bleed, it will hurt, not too bad, and I will die a little on that field, over and over again, gladly.

It is, after all, time for another baseball season.  And anything can happen…

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Let’s go.

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THE UMPS

1 Feb

Israel Baseball is growing like Sea Monkeys.  But with more players, teams, and games, you need more umps.  So, 3 weeks ago, we began the official Israel Association of Baseball Umpires Course.  Every Monday night, at Baptist Village, 6 of us gather, the SOON TO BE ANOINTED NEW UMPS OF THE IAB.  The course is lead by none other than, that’s right, faithful reader, you guessed it, Neon Leon Klarfeld aka The Overseer and Protector of All Jewish Safety, Wellbeing, and Barbecues aka Jewish Santa Clause aka Jewish Wizard of Oz, and also, Chief Umpire in Israel.

Neon Leon teaching us in the classroom.

Neon Leon teaches us in the classroom.

Umpires are historically in a category of humanity– nay, sub-humanity, all to themselves.  Who is willing to put up with it all? – The long games? – The abuse?  At best, an ump is invisible.  At worst he is a demon, an idiot, blind, drunk, stoned, taking bribes, favoring the home team, a clown, “horse shit”.  There is no glory.

Anyone available to officiate a youth baseball game on a Friday afternoon holds a certain station in life – broke, unshaven, recently divorced, balancing clumsily on one leg, changing into uniform in the parking lot, hiding behind the open trunk of a ’74 Impala in lose, dirty tighty-whiteys.  Limping slowly to the field, 5 minutes late, feeling around in their pockets for game balls.  What saint can handle all this?  And know the rules?

The love.  The tenderness.  The tears of the ump.

No one knows.

As a player, I have been taught systemic hatred of umps.  They only mess the game up.  Get rid of them.  Replace them with computers, anything is better than this weirdo.  But no– now I am, or will be, one of the weirdos too.  Things have changed.

You still think it’s funny, easy?  I invite you, Dearest Idiot, to see if you have what it takes to know the most, and receive the least, study the rules, and still be called a moron, to eat the shite of the world, and stand strong, stoic, arms crossed, confused, scared, facing scruffy coaches and players, in short, to be an ump.  I present to you, Ladies and Geetles, one question from one homework assignments.  Keep in mind, these scenarios are endless.  Good luck…

  1.  With a runner on first, batter hits a line drive up the middle which deflects off the pitcher’s glove, hits the field umpire and is subsequently caught by the second baseman.  R1 thinking it a catch tries to make it back to first base.  The second baseman, thinking it a catch, throws to first for the “double play”  and the ball arrives at first before either the batter or R1 get to the base.  The first baseman tags the base.  Place the runners.

Whats that? – You have no idea? – Your head hurts?  Yeah, that’s what I thought, you DO NOT have what it takes.  So allow me, King of Jewish Baseball, certified ump, to explain.

The hitter is out at 1st base.  The runner going back to 1st base is safe and remains at 1st base.  The ball hitting the ump was the equivalent to the ball hitting the ground, so it is not a catch.  The force is off once the out on the batter/baserunner is recorded at first, and the runner from 1st, R1, as he is known, is allowed to return to the base.  If the ball had just hit the pitcher, and then the 2nd baseman caught it, it would be a double play, batter-baserunner would have been out on the catch, and R1 would be out with ball arriving to 1st base before him.  But no! Because it hit the ump, no double play, runner on 1st, 1 out.

Now, get out of my face, return to your dugout, place your whole ass on a bench, and make sure next time you come out here, you know what in the hell you are talking about.  Do you hear me?  As a matter of fact, did he go, yes he did, strike three, you’re out, game over, you’re ejected, lifetime ban.

It is not easy, this ump life, the studying, the ridicule.  But we carry on anyhow.  After all, no umps, no game.  We make things official.  We are the judges, upholders and keepers of the rulebook, THE GREAT BLIND AND DRUNKEN GODS OF BASEBALL, and in the end, you will submit to our will.

An angel.

The future umps of the IAB.

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THE SCHOOLS

21 Dec

We have had enough of waiting for people to come to us.  We will no longer stand by quietly watching Israeli children clumsily play imaginary games like soccer or basketball, lonely, in the streets, hoping, somehow, they find out about and sign up for baseball.  No, we will not stand silently witnessing this atrocity, human rights violation, evil.  We will go to the people, to the streets, to the youth, to the schools, and show them what baseball is!

That’s why, Ladies and Geetles, you must know, each week, me and my faithful sidekick, King of Jewish Interns for the Israel Association of Baseball, as he is affectionately known, the recently dubbed Prince of All Jewish Baseball, Sam Friedman, aka Israeli Coach Stevie, aka Shmuel the Brave, aka Shmookie, dutifully ride into the famously unforgiving landscape of the Israeli Elementary School System, equipped only with our bag of equipment, and two genius grade minds, and we deliver, over the day, a POWERFUL JOLT OF JEWISH BASEBALL to several hundred kids and an otherwise downtrodden teaching staff, leaving the school in a kind of hysteria – kids selling baseball cards for 2 shekels in the hallways, chanting “We Love Baseball”, teachers hanging out their classroom windows crying out, “Coach Stevie!  Come back!” as we pull off, sun glasses half way down our noses, honking, a trail of confused emotions and scorched earth behind us.

We arrive at 8am, tired, usually having been lost at least once, and head for the gym, or the court, or wherever the gym teacher tells us to go, and then straight to the teacher’s lounge for coffee.  Who are these Exotic Olympic Athletes, these American Cowboys, these Kings of Jewish Baseball?

Classes in Israel have as many as 40 kids in them.  Sometimes they combine classes so we will have 80 kids who have never seen or heard of baseball, who do not speak English, on a small basketball court, for 45 minutes, and are expected, somehow, using only the power of hologram technology, and comedic timing, to teach them the beauty and insanity that is baseball.

We start with some beat boxing, dancing, a soul clap maybe, Stevie parachutes in on a horse, I get a running start and slide across the gym on my knees holding two flaming hoola-hoops in my outstretched arms, head thrown back, screaming at the sky, “Are you motherfuckers ready for some baseball?”

Then we begin.

I ask if English is OK.  Then I ask if anyone has ever played baseball.  A couple of hands half-heartedly go up.  I ask if anyone has ever seen baseball on TV.  A few more.  Then I say, “My name…”, pause, suspense, all the greats do it, the kids lean in, “… is Fish.  And this is Israeli Coach Stevie.”  The kids burst into ecstatic shrieks of joy.  We’re in.  They love us.

Stevie then leads the 40 or 80 children around the bases 3 times, explaining what each base is called, that you have to touch the base with your foot, and stay in order, or the umpire will call you “out”, and we don’t want to be out, we want to be “safe”, demonstrating the two different gestures umpires use.

After base running, Stevie and I play catch, showing the kids how to put on the glove, catch the ball, switch hands, step, and throw.  And we show off a bit, scare the kids, throw hard, show them ground balls, fly balls, how fast the game is, kids hide behind one another, smiling.  Then they try.  We pass out gloves, helping get them on their hands.  They look at the gloves and laugh.  Everyone gets 2 ground balls, and 2 fly balls.

Then we hit.  Everyone gets 3 tries to hit the ball once.  The kids hold the bat, hands apart, wrong hand on top, standing on home plate, facing the pitcher.  And we say, “Good.  That looks good.”  And then they, smiling, hit the ball, drop the bat, run to third base, or chase the ball, anywhere but the right place.  And we say, “Perfect.  High-five.”

Allow me, dearest, enthralled reader, if I may, to describe one play, in one game, in one class, to give you an idea of what 6 hours of this might be like.  I urge you, throughout, to use your comparatively weak imagination to understand.  The scene…

Basketball court outside the school.  Gym teacher on her phone on the sideline.  Janitor watching from a doorway, mop in hand, curious, disgusted.  Me, King of All Jewish Baseball, alone, in the center, calm, the lone still piece in an picture otherwise blurred by spastic movement, ready to deliver an underhand pitch.  It’s a small class, 20 kids, and older, 5th graders, so instead of simply hitting, we played a game.  A hit.  Shrieks.  The hitter takes off running around the bases, missing every base by several feet– meters, as he goes.  The entire defense, out of position, chases the ball screaming.  One player kicks the ball away from the wall to another player.  She picks it up and throws the ball with her glove to another player who runs the ball to first base, jumps in the air, and spikes the ball down hard on the base just before the runner crosses home plate.  Everyone stops, looks at me.  Have they done it right?  I take my time.  More suspense.  I pump my fist, “That’s an out.  Great job.” More shrieking.

At the end of the 45 minutes, we pass out flyers and baseball cards and tell the kids how they can sign-up for teams in the area.  We pose for pictures, sign some autographs, and that’s it.  Simple as that.  200 new baseball fans.  Of 200, a few come to the next practice in their area, to the field, and join one of our teams.  There are 700 kids registered so far. It is our mission, as handed down to us by the DIVINE SPIRIT OF JEWISH BASEBALL, and several gypsies, of course, to teach baseball to the children of Israel.

If this all sounds too absurd, if you do not believe me because I might be a pathological liar, first, let me say, I do not like you or respect your tiny worldview, then, I offer, take a look for yourself, photographic, scientific, video evidence of the sudden outbreak of Jewish Baseball Fever in Israel, this epidemic of Jewish Baseball, this Love.

The kids running bases to warm up.

The kids running bases to warm up.

Israeli Coach Stevie shows the kids what a home run looks like!

Israeli Coach Stevie shows the kids what a home run looks like!

This young man demonstrates the classic Israeli batting stance, hands apart, on home plate, facing the pitcher.

This young man demonstrates the classic Israeli batting stance, hands apart, on home plate, facing the pitcher.

Hanging tough in the teacher's lounge.

Hanging tough in the teacher’s lounge.

We're in.

Israeli Coach Stevie and the King of Jewish Baseball bringing joy to the kids of Israel.

We Love Baseball (video)

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To keep up with all our school visits and up to the minute updates on all things Israel Baseball, follow us on twitter and instragram…

http://instagram.com/kingofjewishbaseball

https://twitter.com/kingofJbaseball

https://twitter.com/Jbaseballprince

http://instagram.com/israelicoachstevie

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THE STORM

15 Dec

Is it safe to come out?  I have been inside for a week.  Everyone has. It’s been raining, hailing, and snowing, for 40 days and 40 nights.  The worst storm in the history of Israel.  Jerusalem got 24 inches of snow.  All baseball activities canceled.  Our fields are under water, or ice.

Hombo Field at Kibbutz Gezer

Hombo Field at Kibbutz Gezer

There is only one explanation for these extreme weather conditions.  No, dear reader, faithful peasant, it is not what you’re thinking, clearly, it is not god’s punishment for reality TV, or so called “global warming”, no no no, it was me moving to Israel.  Earth was not prepared for the energetic shift from West to East, and it threw our planet off its axis.  Wind patterns changed, oceanic currents reversed, flowers sprouted on moon glaciers, continental plates liquified, birds flew confused overhead, crashing into one another, falling into lakes of bubbling sulfur.

I am sorry.

But, now, finally, the miracle of the universe is alive around us, and in us.  The Earth rights itself.  The sun is out, burning our dilated eyes as we emerge like zombies from solitary confinement, tortured, crazed, skinny, hands outstretched, blocking the light, feeling for sharp objects, hiding our unshaven faces and sunken cheeks.

Jerusalem will thaw.  The fields will dry out.  And, soon, here, and all around the world, it will be time to play ball.  And we will be new again.

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HANNUKAH TOURNAMENT

10 Dec

It is that time of year again, time for the most anticipated event of the combined worldwide baseball and popular science communities.  No, dearest, imbecilic reader, it is not what you are thinking, the so called “World Series”, or the World Baseball Classic, it is not even Haley’s Comet.  It’s the Israel Association of Baseball’s Annual Hannukah Tournament.  Boom!  29 teams in 3 age divisions playing games simultaneously at 7 venues across the country.  Over 350 participants – players, coaches, umps, parents, grandparents, drivers, and fans.

An event of this magnitude, surely, was no easy administrative task, it required the considerable force of 3 of this Earth’s most powerful Jewish Baseball Geniuses, Neon Leon Klarfeld aka The Overlord of All Jewish Safety, Wellbeing, and Barbecues aka Jewish Santa Clause aka Jewish Wizard of Oz, Margo Sugarman, the Queen of Jewish Emails Pertaining to Israel Baseball and All Other Divine Communications, and, of course, me, the One, The King of All Jewish Baseball.

It began with a simple meeting over pizza with Neon Leon.  A great idea.  A Hannukah Tournament.  It happens every year like the changing of the seasons.  What could go wrong with something so natural, so perfect?  Weeks later, 40 different versions of the schedule taped the the wall at international HQ of Israel Baseball, an unsolvable puzzle, a broken man, phone calls at all hours from coaches, travel conflicts, venue changes, there’s no home plate at Baptist Village, Raanana needs baseballs, only half of Jerusalem’s uniforms were delivered, the sun is going down and Shabbat starts early this time of year, forecast says rain in Bet Shemesh, there’s only one ump scheduled for Modiin, can Dan ump, Misgav thinks their playing at 10am in Tel Mond, call them, they’re playing at noon at Gezer, I am getting a call on the other line, write up another schedule, Ginot Shomron has a Bar Mitvah in the morning, 3 of their players can’t make the early game, Rehovot and Tel Aviv have to combine to get to a total of 9 players, write up another schedule, e-mail it to me, we’ll send it out to everyone, hold on, I am getting another call, wait, which copy are we sending out?

It was like the control room at Cape Canaveral, Apollo 13, a rescue mission, Houston, we have a Hannukah Tournament, we ate dehydrated food for a week, didn’t sleep, and when we did, fitfully, awoken by a buzzing phone under our pillow, worried for our Jewish Baseball Brothers lost out in space, or on Route 431, The Hashmonaim Flames have a flat tire.

In the end, it worked, sort of.  The teams got to the fields.  Umps were there.  Pitches were thrown.  Outs were recorded.  Actual baseball games were played.  Scores were even reported.  More schedules.  Day 2.  Week 2.  Still no sleep.  A winners bracket.  A losers bracket.  We’re getting close to the end, the Spacecraft of Jewish Baseball is nearing safe re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere.  Write it up and get it out.  Confirm the umps.

Then… it rained.  Even now, a week later, as I sit here, literary genius, Ulpan dropout, typing, it rains still.  And day 2 of the tournament was eventually canceled due to weather.  It was, even with the rain, the largest Hannukah Tournament in nearly 5,000 years.

I can, as you know, faithful reader, continue on like this for some time, with these words, peeling back the layers of time and thought, lingering, going deeper, to a place where there is nothing, to the center, but I will spare you the full power of my descriptiveness…ness, for now, instead electing to show you this new piece of technology, by Queen Margo, a collage slide show music video mixed media installation.  We are, after all, inside of a blog, if you have forgotten, a forum for this kind of thing.  I warn you only, before you begin, do not stand and punch something due to the rush of adrenaline you will surely receive from the song alone, at least not with your throwing hand.  Here it is…

But we did not stop there.  No, the insanity of the tournament was not enough.  So between rounds of the Hannukah Tournament, we had Israel Baseball All Star Day.  West Coast scouting supervisor from the Cincinnati Reds Rex De La Nuez came to see 20 of our best 14-18 year olds, there were skills competitions for younger players, a free barbecue, we lit the Hannukah Candles outside the 1st base dugout, and then the grande finale, the Greatest Jewish Baseball Show on Earth, the 1st ever Premier League All-Star game, under the lights, in front of the ever-growing IAB extended family.  Hundreds of friends, family, and kids in their uniforms stayed to watch 2 teams, 24 players in total, battle for the right to call themselves the best, in Israel, that night.

And then, it was over.  The phone calls stopped.  The inbox returned into a manageable flow.  The schedule stopped changing.  And I can now say, Ladies and Geetles, without further frothing and rambling, using only the power of my technicolor coat, and 2 modern day royals, we did it.  And we continue to do it.  We may have been rained out, but we will not be rained on.  Israel Baseball, lift off.

 

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SCIENCE FRICTION

20 Nov

We started our Strength and Conditioning Program this week.  I am in pain.  Every day at 7am, THE GREAT AND NUMEROUS MEMBERS OF THE ISRAEL NATIONAL TEAM unite at CrossFit Tel Aviv (http://crossfittelaviv.com/) and become one unstoppable and exhausted force of supernature.  CrossFit is the Scientology of exercise, it is its own world, with its own language.  This week alone, we have done 1.3 million neuro quad boosters, 400,000 lateral quazi skeletal laser thrusts, 4 galactic squat break downs in dual orbital sets, a one legged space-time hold, and infinite explosive negative zero cleans.  My time on the 93 million mile velocity techno moonbeam circuit is already down to .00000066565655522111 nano light years.   And so we have officially begun, the Israel Senior National Team, between our regular practices and training, our collective push to win the European Championships this summer, to ultimate victory, to once and for all extinguish the flame of desire that burns in each of us.

Orr Gottlieb, aka Israeli Babe Ruth, demonstrates perfect form on his poly quasar squats.

Orr Gottlieb, Israeli Babe Ruth, demonstrates perfect form on his poly quasar squat thruster dianetic boosters.

When you think of me, dear reader, which is often, I know, late at night, sleepless, looking into the darkness, you think of of me as a genius warrior-poet, the greatest exaggerator of all time, perhaps, or the most important conceptual artist/novelist/dancer of the 21st century, or, maybe now, as the Cross Fit Middle East Regional Champion, but forget not, I am also a REAL BASEBALL PLAYER.  So, to prove it, I leave you with this piece of moving picture and sound from THE VERY FANTASTIC ISRAEL BASEBALL INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO SERIES OF THE NEW ISRAEL BASEBALL YOUTUBE CHANNEL, magically created using only a single white dove, and a video camera, of course, and a lifetime of carefully crafted knowledge, with the overall production quality of a local access cooking show.

Here it is…

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Oh, almost forgot, the GREATEST HOUR OF RADIO EVER RECORDED…

http://tlv1.fm/episodes/2013/11/17/rogel-alpher-with-nate-fish-journeys/

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BRAD

4 Nov

Big news…

Brad Ausmus, our manager from last year’s World Baseball Classic Team Israel, has been hired to manage the Tigers.   I can see only one reason this happened considering he is TOTALLY UNQUALIFIED to manage a Major League Baseball team.  He only caught 18 years in the Major Leagues, played the most games ever of any Jewish Major Leaguer, has a degree from Dartmouth, and was trusted enough to be given control of the Los Angeles Dodgers, for one day, the last day of his playing career, by some guy named Joe Torre.  The only explanation as to why the Detroit Tigers have hired him to manage… is…. clearly…. that…. Brad Ausmus is trying to take my title as King of All Jewish Baseball.  There, I said it.

So let me take this momentous occasion, as we are gathered, here, on this internet, Ladies and Geetles alike, to say, IT AIN’T HAPPENIN’ , Brad, if that is your real name.  I see what you’re doing, and I don’t like it, not one bit.  I will not be dethroned.  You’re always saying, “Fish, you’re the best player I have ever played with”, “Fish, you’re such a good writer”, “Fish, I wanna be like you”, “Fish…”– yeah, yeah, yeah.  You know what, Brad, sssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh.  I see now, you were just softening me up to eat me.  All part of your sick plan.  Hear this, I, and only I, am the King of Jewish Baseball.  I will ride through Detroit on horseback, lead by my torch and mediocre sense of direction, searching each of the plentiful deserted corners and abandoned houses of that sickly midwestern city until I find you, cowering in a corner of a boarded up methadone clinic, with Miguel Cabrera, pleading for mercy.  Which brings me to Detroit.  Do not think, Detroit, you are not going to be held responsible for this, contempt, conspiracy.  That is right, Brad Ausmus and the City of Detroit are trying to oust me from power.  But I see you, Brad, Detroit, I see everything.  I should have cut your head off with the sword I wear down the left inseam of my uniform when I had the chance…

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I could have cut your head off here

Brad Ausmus, from Israel Baseball and the Kingdom of Jewish Baseball,  Congrats– nay, Mazal Tov!  Oh– and I expect a job, bench coach sounds good.  Lamont is totally lost out there, no idea what he’s doing.

And I shall leave you with this, as if the humiliation has not been enough, a short film about Brad by Team Israel teammate and fellow creator of Genius Jewish Baseball Media, Triple-A Padres Superstar, the Anti Hero, Cody Decker…

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THE TEAMS OF THE IAB

2 Nov

Shabbat Shalom.

There is a lot going on.  We had a meeting of QUITE POWERFUL JEWISH AND NON-JEWISH WIZARDS at Leich Cream’s.  Leich, naturally, was there, Miri, wife of Leich, was there as well, Jewish Jackie Robinson, as she is known (http://www.timesofisrael.com/a-landmark-baby-step-to-religious-pluralism/), Destroyer of the Rabbinical Gender Barrier and All That Is Unjust.  And a smattering of other friends and family– Oh, and Ron Cey.

Ron Cey

Ron Cey

For those of you who are very, very dumb, which is ALL of you, I will tell you, here and now, using only the power of lasers and magnets, and and my computer, Ron played 3rd base for the Los Angeles Dodgers from 1971-1984, The King of All Los Angeles Dodgers 3rd Baseman, if you will.   He hit 316 career home runs.  He was the MVP of the 1981 World Series.

What, I assume you are wondering, considering how little you know, was Ron Cey doing at Kibbutz Gezer?  To which I answer… and allow me to take a moment to acknowledge this rare unnatural phenomenon, I do not know.  All I know is when someone calls and says Ron Cey is at their house, you go there.  When Shlo called and said he was with Prince, I simply grabbed whatever gold jewelry and brimless leopard print hats were in arms reach, got on my Segway, and floated down the street like I was on a conveyer belt screaming, “Get the fuck out of my way, I am going to find Prince.”  I realize, as King of Jewish Baseball, Things of Such Magnificence happen to me OFTEN, and happen to you NEVER, so I will tell you, it is just how these things work.

The King of All Jewish Baseball and Ron Cey

The King of All Jewish Baseball and Ron Cey, King of All Dodgers 3rd Baseman

But I, as is my habit, have been distracted, for I did not come down from the Heavens to tell you about Big Leaguers, I came to tell you about Little Leaguers.  That’s right, Ladies and Geetles, our season has begun.  Each week, across the country, coaches and players unite– nay, teams unite, soccer fields become baseball fields, carpools form, and for 2 hours each Friday, the Eternal Flame of Jewish Baseball burns bright.  Without further ado, I now, belatedly, using only a serpent, and my camera, of course, proudly present, THE TEAMS OF THE IAB…

The Tel Aviv Comrades, The Raanana Raiders, The Lev Hasharon Nationals, The Zofit Warriors, The Ginot Shomron Hawks, The Bet Shemesh Comets, Blue Sox, and Mavericks, The Modiin Miracles, The Hashmonaim Atzec Flames, The Jerusalem Lions, The Gezer Bats, Team Misgav, and The Rehovot Raptors.

But, as we’ve discussed so many times, there is no need, considering I am a professional blogger, to bore you any longer with old fashioned “words”, I will show you with the new and exciting technology of photography.  It rained this Friday, but some of our teams still practiced.  I went to Modiin and Tel Aviv.  Meet them now, for the first time, your favorite new baseball teams…

Modiin Miracles, 8-10 year olds

Modiin Miracles, 8-10 year olds

Modiin Miracles, 12-14 year olds

Modiin Miracles, 10-12 year olds

Modiin Miracles, 12-14 year olds

Modiin Miracles, 12-14 year olds

A Miracles pitcher throws in the "bullpen'

A Miracles pitcher throws in the “bullpen”

The Tel Aviv Comrades, 8-10 years old

The Tel Aviv Comrades, 8-10 year olds

Tel Aviv Comrades 10-12 year olds

Tel Aviv Comrades 10-12 year olds

Tel Aviv Comrades, 14-16 years old

Tel Aviv Comrades, 14-16 year olds

 

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13 Oct

I am in the air, in a plane, somewhere high above the Atlantic Ocean, between New York and Rome, where I switch planes, back to Tel Aviv.

I like being on the plane.  There’s nothing to do but sit here, and fly the plane, of course.  Faithful reader, you must know, being a King of Jewish Baseball can be busy, but, briefly, here and now, I sit alone.

I left Israel a week ago, left my new home for my old home.  What, I am sure you are wondering, was the occasion that could pull me away from the glorious ranks of Elementary-Level Hebrew Speaker?  My niece and nephew were born, two future geniuses, the Duke and Dutchess of Jewish Baseball…

The Duke and Dutchess of Future Jewish Baseball

The Future Duke and Dutchess of Jewish Baseball

So just three months after saying goodbye to everyone and everything in New York, forever, I was back.  New York, surprisingly, still stands, sturdy, wide roads, comparatively high sidewalks, steel, brick, a mountain.  I drove past the Baseball Academy where I used to work, I ate salad, listened to the new Drake record on 97.1, picked up baseball gear to bring back to the kids here, I used a flip phone, I was jet-lagged, I slept on different couches and beds each night, I was tired.  I am not used to Israel yet, but, I know, too, I am not a New Yorker anymore.  I am between worlds, ghostly, in the world, but not of it, a King without a Land, exile.

Jewish Baseball Santa Clause

Jewish Santa Clause is coming

And then, suddenly, it was today, time to leave.  I have 10 hours until we land in Israel, and it’s back to Raziel 11, to life as leader of the Free Jewish Baseball World.  I will get back to the Raze and go through e-mails.  I tried to keep up, but failed.

This morning, be fore I left, Danny and Callie gave me something, a well-timed gift to remind me who I am.

IMG_3767

I have a job to do, for everyone back in New York, for everyone in Israel, for Luca and Leo.  I may just be a poor Jewish kid from Cleveland, and you are almost certainly just an unwashed mental patient, reading a blog in your underpants at 2 in the morning, but we are somebody!

It’s time to hit the ground, and hit the grind.  There is work to be done.

—-

http://www.haaretz.com/news/sports/.premium-1.550355

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