The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

It was a beautiful spring day in May.

I took a walk and passed the baseball field at Tennyson Place.

A group of yeshiva boys and their rebbe were playing a game of baseball.

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, and the year was 1972.

Our team was down by four.

The bases were loaded, and I was at bat.

I was the potential tying run.

Our captain rallied the boys as they cheered me on…

Yet, before I had the chance to indulge my nostalgia, 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 quickly set aside my nostalgic baseball memories and gave Larry my complete attention.

I have known Larry for a long time, and although he now goes by Leib, I still refer to him as Larry.

I also knew he was going through a tough time. However, I was unaware of the extent of his pain.

"Rabbi, I know you must have heard that my family situation has deteriorated."

I knew that since Larry's divorce, his life was upended. However, I never expected to hear what Larry said next.

"Rabbi, the divorce itself was the right move for me and my former wife. We both agree with that. However, what I never could have foreseen is the alienation and rejection I have experienced from family members who have decided to isolate and exclude me from the mishpocha.

This Shavuos, none of the children are coming to me, nor did anyone invite me to their home.

I will be completely alone for the upcoming Yom Tov.

I know I made mistakes.

And in the heat of the divorce, I said things I should not have.

However, I did not intentionally hurt anyone, and I have reached out and apologized to those I inadvertently insulted.

However, I have been rebuffed, and 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 many years when 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.

Yet, once again, my thoughts took me back to 1972.

I was once again at bat, and our team was down by four.

The bases were loaded, the pitch came, and with a kapitel of Tehillim on my lips, I swung as hard as I could.

I was not at all one of the star players, and the captain was not very excited when I came to bat, so I, too, was shocked at what happened after 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 winning it in extra innings for my team.

I could hear my teammates rooting for me.

I quickly rounded first base and headed for second.

As I neared second, I realized the ball was still in the outfield, and I headed for third base.

As I neared third, the team's captain shouted at me, "Great, stay put at third!"

However, In the excitement of the moment, I ignored the captain's plea for me to stop, and instead, I headed for home.

I could hear all of my teammates cheering me on.

They were screaming, "Go, Ron, go!!!"

I had never felt so much as part of the team as I did at this moment.

Yet, as I rounded third base and was halfway home, I saw the catcher with the ball in his mit waiting for me to arrive.

As I headed home, I was 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, and everyone walked away from me.

I was humiliated, standing by myself on home plate.

I'll never forget the pain of being alienated by those who, just minutes before, were my friends.

Larry's sobs interrupted my memories.

I went over to Larry.

I reached out and gave him the biggest bear hug I could muster.

The loneliness I experienced then was trivial compared to what Larry was going through at the time.

But the hurt I felt back then allowed me a glimpse into the sense of abandonment by those you were once close with.

And then I realized – perhaps that's why it had to happen.

Yes, the pain was different.

Of course, the hurt of losing a baseball game is incomparable to the hurt of being alone on Yom Tov.

However, the feeling of abandonment and the deep pain of being alienated from those who, just minutes, days, or months before, you felt connected to was clearly felt by me in the thirteen-year-old mindset.

I then realized that back in 1972, Hashem was preparing me to be there for Larry today.