"Tales Of A Village Rabbi"
My son was preparing, endlessly, to become a “specialized” surgeon. Four years of medical school were followed by five years of general surgical residency in NYC, which, in turn, were followed by two years of plastic surgery residency at Georgetown Medical Center, which preceded a one-year fellowship at Beth Israel— Deaconness Hospitals in Boston in hand surgery. That final year was under the tutelage of one of the world’s finest and most famous hand surgeons.
One morning he was seeing patients at the shared Boston office. A giant entered the room. He had blond hair, a blond moustache and stood at six feet nine inches tall. My son recognized him at once as the great Larry Bird, star forward of the Bos- ton Celtics, who had spurred his team on to several NBA championships and who was elected MVP for three seasons. I admired Larry Bird. He was a magnificent, talented, clever, intelligent, charismatic player and team leader. My son knew of my vast admiration for him and thus an internal struggle took place within his soul. He knew it would be most unprofessional to ask for Bird’s autograph, but he also knew how much pleasure it would give me. Professionalism won out; he treated the star’s hand and watched him leave.
The next patient was a nun. She was of the older generation who still wore the traditional habit. As my son was examining her, he mentioned the regret he felt that he had not requested Larry Bird’s autograph, even though it would have given his father great pleasure. At that moment the nun pulled a slip of paper out of her bag. While both were in the waiting room, she had asked Larry Bird for an autograph. He complied graciously, wrote a note and signed it. With indescribable generosity and sweetness she handed the note to my son and said, “Please, please give this to your father.” When my son demurred, she said that she would not be happy unless he took it and sent it along to his dad. By the time my son visited me next, he had framed the note for posterity and with great satisfaction presented it to me. I accepted with enormous pleasure. The autographed note gracing the shelves of this Rabbi’s study reads: “To Sister Mary, Best Wishes, Larry Bird.”
I wrote to Sister Mary. I don’t know if she ever received my letter of warm thanks. I never heard from her. I’ve always wanted her to know that her name and act of kindness occupy a place of honor in a rabbi’s study. I also wanted Larry Bird to know that with one gracious act he accomplished a double “mitzvah” for the servants of two faiths.
