Fast-forward 20 years, and that same man — still brilliant but now frail, his walker creaking as he shuffled — was visiting me in Los Angeles. His body had slowed, but his mind remained whip-smart. His walker and wheelchair were new accessories, but his spirit remained as sharp as his wit.

I wanted to make the trip memorable, so I dragged him to every tourist spot I could think of: Hollywood Boulevard (meh), the Getty Villa (it’s nice), Zuma Beach (an unimpressed sniff). He offered polite nods at best, the way one might react to a child’s third attempt at a macaroni necklace.

But when I casually mentioned a Dodgers game, his entire face lit up. Not just his eyes — his whole face.

This was a man who had grown up outside Ebbets Field, a poor yeshivah boy leaning against the stadium gates, straining to hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. He was a Brooklyn Dodgers man through and through, and though the team had long since traded coasts, his loyalty hadn’t wavered. To him, the Dodgers weren’t just a team, they were a hot dog at Rubashkin’s Deli — perfect, irreplaceable, and best enjoyed with a big crowd.

So off we went. I splurged on seats under an overhang near home plate, knowing he’d need shade. My son wheeled him through the stadium, and Dad clutched his ticket like it was the winning lottery ticket. He beamed, bought peanuts for everyone, and delighted my kids by explaining it was perfectly fine — no, expected — to throw the shells on the floor.

Then they appeared, a quartet of burly men swaggering along the row, arms inked with intricate tattoos, chains clinking with every step. They carried beers the size of small children like trophies. I adjusted my bag on my lap, hyperaware of the weight of their presence and the distance to the nearest exit.

As I clutched my purse tightly, my heart pounded in my chest like a parakeet fluttering wildly against its cage. My dad, however, leaned over to the nearest man — a towering figure with skulls and roses spiraling up his forearms — and said, “Excuse me, young man. Could I borrow your program?”

The man blinked.

“Uh… sure,” he said, passing it over.

“Thank you,” my dad said, pulling out a pencil. “Now, let me show you something. This is how you keep score at a baseball game.”

I sat there, frozen, as my dad launched into an enthusiastic explanation of tracking strikes, balls, and hits. The man listened, nodding with surprising interest.

“See? That’s a strikeout,” my dad said, carefully marking a “K.” “But if the batter doesn’t swing, you write it backward.”

By the second inning, my dad and the crew were thick as thieves. Introductions were made — Ramon, Paco, Jorge, and Mike — and my father made sure to shake hands with each of them. By the third inning, Paco was standing on his seat leading the section in a chant of We Will Rock You while Jorge bought my dad a Dodger Dog. Dad declined it with a laugh, explaining that he only ate kosher food, but Paco still leaned over to say, “You’re lucky to have such a cool dad.”

“We do have the best zeidy in the world!” my kids chirped, their grins as wide as the stadium itself.

I barely watched the game. My attention stayed on my father as he built a bridge between worlds that had no business meeting. He regaled his new friends with stories of the Brooklyn Dodgers, patiently answered their questions about kosher symbols on food packages, and made sure to explain the game in detail to both his grandkids and Ramon, who was scribbling in the program like a child on the first day of school, every letter neat and eager, as if he was trying to impress the teacher.

By the end of the afternoon, the tough guys were high-fiving Dad, the college students behind us were calling him “Rabbi,” and my children were still laughing as they tossed peanut shells, scattering them like confetti.

I’ll never forget that day — when I uncovered a new layer of my father’s personality. As a child, I marveled at his dedication to Talmudic texts. As an adult, I also came to admire his patience and deep love for all mankind.

My father had an extraordinary gift: he saw beyond the facades people build, accepting them exactly as they are, flaws and all.

He loved the world, and the world, in turn, loved him.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 930)