Where a kumzitz fails, an article might work. And the added advantage to this is that the message can now spread far and wide

H

ow I wish I could master the kumzitz scene.

A guitar would dangle deftly from my shoulders, untouched, as my arms lace sweaty shoulders on each side and, in unified song, the chorus swells, “You fall down, you get back up. You fall down, you get back up.”

Then the song would slow and, swaying side to side, eyes shut tight, I’d begin speaking.

“Chevreh, heilige chevreh. A muhl it happens in life that there are shverkeiten, challenges.”

Eyes clench tighter, head shakes with vigor, voice raises slightly.

“Moichin d’katnus… mamash moichin d’katnus. Far. We feel so far.”

Eyes open with a jolt, intense expression fades, replaced by ecstatic joy.

“But you know something, chevreh? You know something? Davka there!” (Bang the base of the guitar.) “Davka there. In the darkness, in the choshech, davka there lies the greatest light!”

Hands now move toward the guitar as if magnetized and the song rolls out in unison — “V’afilu b’hastarah, sheb’soch hastarah…”

But alas, I can do none of the above.

Writers can be strange that way.

We tend to be deeply emotional, so emotional in fact, that we simply can’t hold it in. We take to pen and paper (or laptop) and let the feelings roll, tears sometimes splashing along with the ink as sadness, hope, sympathy, and nostalgia blend in a tapestry of written art.

But that’s the only way it works. Hunched at the desk, protected by the shield of privacy, and the blessing of isolation.

The moment we step into the public, a wall goes up. Emotions melt inward rather than radiate outward, and where thoughts and feelings once soared, a deep sense of discomfort takes hold.

For a writer, a kumzitz can be torture.

Which was why I was so miserable on the last day of winter zeman when I took my 12th-grade chaburah for an outing (farbrengen) in recognition of their hard work and diligence.

We went to a park. The guys brought steak and grilled chicken. One boy brought a guitar. He began to strum and, somewhere deep within, I began consolidating various sentiments. Pride, encouragement, maybe a touch of direction. But halfway through the trachea, it died hard. Fizzled before it was born. I instead took to responding to some sudden urgent texts, the look of intense concentration on my face hopefully obscuring the frustration.

That’s life as a writer making a pathetic attempt as a kumzitzer.

Which is why I didn’t even bother with a kumzitz at the end of the summer zeman. It’s sad, really. The 12th-graders are leaving Cincinnati now, I won’t be seeing them for a while, and I couldn’t even bid them a meaningful farewell.

But Hashem has blessed me with an alternative venue. Where a kumzitz fails, an article might work. And the added advantage to this is that the message can now spread far and wide, well beyond a small group of 12th-grade Cincinnatians.

Which is great because it applies to nearly all graduating bochurim.

Here goes.

Dear Bochurim,

Music is all the rage for you guys — way more than it was in my day.

You talk about singers, compositions, concerts, and new releases all the time.

And that’s fine. Jewish music is a kosher enough outlet, so go for it.

Personally, I’m from a different generation of music, and I can’t say I share your enthusiasm. But, with your permission, I’ll take the mic for a minute. There’s a musical insight I’d like to share.

I grew up on Fried and MBD — with a little bit of Shwekey, who was just starting out.

And then there was Journeys.

Always Journeys.

I can speak about Journeys for days on end — I could probably write a full sefer on it — but I’ll spare you for now.

There’s just one song I’d like to discuss. It’s a song that sings within me always, and, perhaps I should be ashamed to admit this, but I sing it at my Shabbos table as well. Naturally, it has also become my children’s favorite, and they’re all too enthusiastic to join in.

And that is “Joe DiMaggio’s Card.”

For those unfamiliar, a quick review. The song is about two friends. We are not told the name of the narrator — for the sake of this conversation, let’s call him Chaim. We do know his friend’s name — Sammy. The two are closer than brothers and, together, they share a common reverence for the great Joe DiMaggio. One day, they bought a package of Tops and opened them under their favorite oak tree. Lo and behold, Chaim got Joe DiMaggio’s card. He “lovingly hid it deep inside his drawer” and vowed he would keep it “forever and ever.” Sammy was so jealous.

The boys grew older and left for yeshivah. Sammy did phenomenally well, while Chaim floundered; Chaim watched his friend’s growth with “a mixture of envy and pride.” The two went their separate ways. The years passed and Sammy became a rosh yeshivah. Meanwhile, Chaim kept receiving offers for his magnificent card, some to the tune of $500,000. But he’d always respond, “It’s not for sale.”

One day, Chaim learned that Sammy’s yeshivah burned down and he knew “it just might break his heart.” So he reached into his drawer and “said his goodbyes” to the great Joe DiMaggio’s card.

One day, Chaim’s grandson came home from yeshivah, holding a card that he handed to his grandfather. It depicted an aged Sammy — now known as Rav Shmuel.

Chaim hid the card in his drawer and vowed he would keep it “forever and ever.”

So goes the story of the song. My very, very favorite song.

Chevreh, I’ve been listening to it since my youngest childhood years, and I have so many questions. Allow me to share a few.

When they opened that package of cards, and Chaim noticed his friend’s deep envy, how did he feel? Was he triumphant? Was he thrilled to have bested his friend? Or perhaps the opposite. Could it be that mixed into his elation was a deep sense of guilt? A feeling that he didn’t deserve this card? A hidden wish that it would just disappear and that he and Sammy could go back to their playful life of innocent friendship?

Moving along to their adolescence. They enter yeshivah and, suddenly, a stark divide wedges itself between the two friends. Sammy becomes studious, Chaim has a sharp downturn. Is this a coincidence? Or does it have to do with the card? Could it be that Sammy’s failure to procure the card of his dreams shocked him into the realization of the inherent worthlessness of material pursuits? And what about Chaim? Why did he drift off? Was the card to blame? Did it cement him into a belief that baseball is to be given absolute primacy?

They enter adulthood and Chaim receives numerous offers for the card. He consistently says no. Why? Why not sell the card for a fortune and live the good life? Could it be that he couldn’t do it? He simply couldn’t bring himself to gain pleasure from the thing that had caused his best friend so much envy? Did that inner childhood desire for the card to just disappear continue throughout his adult years?

When Chaim learns that Sammy’s yeshivah has burned down, he sells the card. We are not told how he delivers the money to Sammy. Did he simply mail a check? I don’t think that’s possible. He certainly drove, or flew, to Sammy’s hometown, knocked on his door and delivered it in person. But what did that look like? Was Sammy confused? Shocked to see his friend after all these years? Did he tear open the envelope and gasp upon seeing its contents?

Or not? Perhaps he opened the door and nodded, as if he was expecting this. He took the envelope, and placed it in his pocket. He didn’t have to ask. The two friends just stood there, then embraced. And cried like they never cried before.

Chevreh, I don’t know the answer to these questions, but here’s the takeaway.

You’re graduating mesivta now, after four years together with a core group of friends. Some of you may have even held these friendships throughout elementary school as well.

As you developed in your school years, there were surely ups and downs, happy times, sad times, moments of forlornness, and jolts of motivation.

But what you may not have noticed all this time was that something internal was taking hold.

You were becoming friends. The friendships you develop as children — and, yes, you are just edging out of that phase called childhood — cement themselves into the innocence of your youthful existence. They never go away. For every adult, there’s a child Sammy, somewhere out there. The kid you splashed through puddles with, raced against on training wheels, or traded cream for cookie and held the evidence on both of your shirts.

Or it could be the bochur you turned to when you struggled to chap shiur, the guys who helped you hang up streamers on Rosh Chodesh Adar, the roommate who bound your seforim for free, in exchange for daily use of your Keurig — that kid, or young teenager, will always be your best friend. Because childhood friendships are too strong, and too real, to ever disappear.

The tragedy is that we forget this.

Maturation takes us far, far, away from training wheels and puddles, streamers and roommate barters.

We leave behind its frivolity, but also its innocence, along with its friendships.

Chevreh. Today is your last day as 12th-graders. Many of you will be separated from each other. You’ll move on to different yeshivos, and find new friends. I’m sure these relationships will be wonderful; the door to authentic friendship never closes.

But the door to childhood friendships closes today.

So go on and be matzliach. Get great chavrusas and amazing roommates.

But don’t forget each other. Keep in touch.

The friends you now bid farewell from are the ones who will always be there for you.

Forever and ever.

Shmuel Botnick is a contributing editor to Mishpacha magazine and second seder shoel u’meishiv for the Mesivta of Cincinnati’s 12th grade.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1071)