Midnight Baseball

I cannot give up baseball. Maybe wearing a Red Sox shirt here blatantly advertises me as an American, but it will always be one of those things I never leave behind in America.

So last night at 10:30 I arrived at the home of a family from my community, and after a brief nap I woke up at 2am to watch game 7 of the American League Championship Series.

At 5:50am, as the Jerusalem sky lit up in beautiful shades of purple, the Coco Crisp snagged the final out. It was nothing like game 7 of the ALCS in 2004 when I was sitting in my sophomore dorm surrounded by a mix of baseball fans. I had to do my little dances silently and after jumping up and down remember that there were three children sleeping in the house.

When I finally started making my way to Nishmat (gotta at least fit in a little Torah) a random kid on a bus banged on the window and yelled something (sounded positive) to me. At Nishmat one of the rebbeim who I don't think even knows my name congratulated me on the win.

Klitah is such an interesting word. It doesn't mean one day we'll speak Hebrew fluently, shove old ladies in line like a pro, and think we know everything there is to know about politics. Only real sabras can do that. There is no "absorption" in klitah for Americans. We'll be lucky if we understand how to control our bank accounts and not get scammed by cellphone companies, and if we learn how to give directions without stuttering like a loser.

I've been told that my klitah will only truly be complete when I stop calling Boston home and decide that baseball isn't the be all and end all of existence. But holding my breath at 6am when I wake up and rush to check the latest game results will never lose it's excitement. Last night when I watched the celebration at Fenway Park and in the streets of Boston it felt as much my home as any other time.

Even with the purplish blue rays bouncing off the stone rooftops of Jerusalem.