The pitch came, and with a kapitel Tehillim on my lips, I swung as hard as I could

IT was a beautiful day in May.

My walk took me past the baseball field at Tennyson Place. A group of yeshivah boys and their rebbi were playing. I heard the crack of the bat and saw the ball sail into the outfield.

Suddenly, I was no longer in Passaic. I was back in Brooklyn at Prospect Park. The year was 1972.

Our team was down by four. The bases were loaded, and I was at bat, the potential tying run. Our captain rallied the boys as they cheered me on…

With a jolt, I remembered my upcoming appointment. As I headed back to shul, my mind was still back in 1972.

When I arrived, Larry was already waiting for me. I placed my nostalgic baseball memories on the back burner and gave Larry my complete attention.

I knew he was going through a tough time, but as I would learn, I didn’t know the extent of it.

“Rabbi, I know you must’ve heard that my family situation has deteriorated.”

I knew that since Larry’s divorce, his life had been upended. However, I never expected to hear what he said next.

“Rabbi, the divorce itself was the right move for me and my former wife. We both agree on that. But I never could have foreseen the alienation and rejection I’ve experienced from family members who decided to isolate and exclude me from the mishpachah.

“This Shavuos, none of the children are coming to me, and no one invited me to come to them. I’m totally alone for the Yom Tov.

“I know I made mistakes. And in the heat of the divorce, I said things I shouldn’t have. But I didn’t intentionally hurt anyone, and I’ve reached out and apologized to those I inadvertently insulted.

“However, I have been rebuffed. The loneliness is the greatest pain of all. Rabbi, some of these relatives were so close to me for so many years. How can they justify their alienation from me after all the years I cared for them? Is there no forgiveness?”

With that, Larry went silent and began to sob. I closed my eyes to feel Larry’s pain.

Once again, my thoughts took me back to 1972, when I was at bat, and our team was down by four with the bases loaded.

The pitch came, and with a kapitel Tehillim on my lips, I swung as hard as I could.

Surprisingly, I made contact, and the ball sailed into the outfield.

As I ran around the bases, I had dreams of tying the game and my team winning the game in extra innings.

I could hear my teammates cheering for me.

In the excitement of the moment, I ignored the captain’s plea for me to stop at third base. Instead, I headed for home… only to be easily tagged out by the catcher.

The game was over. we lost by one. Suddenly, no one was cheering for me. My team abandoned me.

I was humiliated, standing by myself on home plate.

I’ll never forget the pain of being ostracized by those who, just minutes before, had been my friends.

Larry’s sobs interrupted my memories.

I went over to him and gave him the biggest bear hug I could muster.

The loneliness I experienced back then was trivial compared to what Larry was going through. But the hurt I felt allowed me a glimpse into the acute pain of abandonment Larry was going through.

It was then I realized — perhaps that’s why it had to happen to me over 50 years ago.

Back in 1972, Hashem was preparing me to be there for Larry.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1063)