לא בִגְבוּרַ֣ת הַסּ֣וּס יֶחְפָּ֑ץ לֹא־בְשׁוֹקֵ֖י הָאִ֣ישׁ יִרְצֶֽה
.רוֹצֶ֣ה יְ֭הֹוָה אֶת־יְרֵאָ֑יו אֶת־הַֽמְיַחֲלִ֥ים לְחַסְדּֽוֹ
He does not delight not in the strength of the horse. He takes no pleasure in the legs of a man
Hashem takes pleasure in those that fear Him, in those that wait for His mercy.
It’s fair to say that I’d been conditioned since birth to worship Larry Bird. When I was born in February of 1984, Larry Bird was the best basketball player on the planet. Bird’s Boston Celtics were sitting atop the standings in the East the day of my birth. Bird was months away from posting 39 points, 12 rebounds, and 10 assists in Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals as the Celtics eliminated my dad’s Knicks team from the playoffs. Bird would lead the Celtics to the NBA title that year. He’d be named league MVP, Finals MVP, and first-team All-NBA. He even made the NBA All-Defensive second team, an egregious accolade for a guy with the lateral quickness of an elevator.
Growing up, I’d pester my dad for stories about the best players he ever went up against in the NBA. Bird’s name would always be at the top of the list. Dad and I would sit at the kitchen table as he talked about how big and crafty Bird was, about the trash he talked. He’d tell me about how Bird would dip his shoulder, take two slow dribbles, and raise up to shoot effortlessly over Dad’s defense. The shot would go in, and Bird’s elbow would slam into Dad’s face as he was completing his shot. The refs would usually call a foul — on my dad. “I guess my face used to get in the way of his elbow,” was Dad’s response. “No one could guard Larry Bird, including me.” He’d pause a second. “Especially me.”
At the peak of Bird’s dominance, the NBA was a predominantly Black league — the majority of NBA players were Black, and there’d only been two white MVPs since 1959 — yet here was a 6’9” guy from French Lick, Indiana with floppy hair, pasty legs, and unstoppable basketball ability. Everything about Bird’s brilliance defied convention. Before starting at Indiana State University, he’d been employed as a garbage collector in his hometown. He spent his days on the street picking up trash. On the court, as my dad remembered all too well, he spent his time talking it. As a Celtics great, he became a cultural icon, a symbol that it doesn’t matter what you look like or where you come from. I admired Larry Bird before I could even say Larry Bird. Dad always hated the Celtics, but he respected No. 33. Given Bird’s mythological stature in my life, it’s not hard to predict how I responded to the following question when I was asked it at NBA Summer League, 22 years after Bird’s dominance in 1984: “Dan, Larry is having some of the guys for dinner tonight. Would you like to join?” I was lying on the floor of the gym stretching my hamstring after practice. Larry Bird was the general manager of the Pacers, but this was still the last thing I expected to hear. The question was asked by the Pacers’ equipment manager, Corky,
a short bald guy who’d been with Larry since Boston. Dinner with Larry Freaking Bird? Are you kidding me? Who in their right mind says no to that? Not me. Not then. Not now. Not ever. “Yeah, that’d be great,” I said as I switched legs, trying to sound casual because 22 year olds think it’s cool not to care about anything even if they’re secretly flipping out inside. “Just text me the time and place.”
A few hours after practice, as I was napping, I got the info from Corky. “Mo’s. 7:00.” Mo’s was a steakhouse on Maryland Street in Indianapolis, a 10-minute walk from our hotel. I could feel my shoulders tingle with anticipation. Oh man, I thought. I’m eating dinner with Larry Bird tonight. I tried to stay calm, but it was Larry Bird. The championship in ’84. Sixty points against the Atlanta Hawks in ’85. The championship in ’86. An entire childhood talking hoops with my dad. Bird had greeted me on the first day of practice for summer league, but that was the extent of our interaction. This was a whole dinner. A whole dinner with Larry Bird. This was a lot to deal with. I’d been living out of a suitcase for a week, wear- ing basketball shorts, T-shirts, and flip flops, so I rummaged through my bag to find the most presentable outfit I had. I went with a pair of baggy jeans, a bright yellow polo shirt, and a pair of Nike running shoes. It wasn’t my best offering, but I did what I could with it.
On the walk to dinner, I tried to slow my stride to a reasonable pace. There were about 15 players on my summer league team. I hadn’t talked about dinner with any of them and wasn’t sure how many guys Corky had invited. I assumed that most of the team would be there, but I hadn’t waited around the lobby to find out. Instead, I made the intentional choice to walk to dinner alone. My goal was to get to the restaurant 10 minutes early, before anyone else arrived, so I could scout out the seating and place myself close to Bird. If there were going to be a dozen guys or more at dinner, I didn’t want to get stuck at the other end of the table from the leg- end.
When I reached the restaurant, I took a deep breath and swung open its double doors. As my beat-up Nikes carried me across the threshold, I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the first one to arrive. Larry Bird and Corky were already sitting at a table not far from the entrance. I made eye contact with Bird. He waved me over. A chill shot up my spine. On my way to the table, my pulse was making its best at- tempt to jump out of my neck, not only because I was walking toward Larry Bird, but also because I saw that he and Corky were sitting at a table for four. Not 15. Not 10. Four. Oh boy. After shaking hands and shuffling into my seat next to Bird, I grabbed my ice water to take a long gulp. The water was crisp and comforting. I downed it quickly. I thought of the many nights as a kid I’d stayed up late in my bed to read books about Larry Bird. Now, I was sitting right next to the man. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about this.
As we began chatting, the sweat on my brow started to dry. My teammate Taylor Coppenrath, a former star at the University of Vermont, joined as our fourth. Naturally, our conversation revolved around basketball. Bird told sto- ries about Magic Johnson, Moses Malone, LeBron James. My eyes bulged. What a night. I remember ordering food at some point, but I don’t remember what. To cool my nerves, I worked that water like my life depended on it. I changed the subject from hoops right as our food was set down. “So Larry,” I said, “you golf much?” I had never and have never played a round of golf, but I felt like this was the type of question a guy would ask Larry Bird as they broke bread at a steakhouse. So I asked it. “Not too often,” Bird said, “I enjoy it but don’t do it enough.” “How’s your game?” I asked. “All right,” he said. “I’m about a three handicap.” I shook my head. I knew that pros were generally scratch golfers, meaning they hovered around a zero handicap. At a three handicap, Larry Bird was at the level of a semipro, without playing much. I smiled and took another deep drag of ice water.
This was about the time of the night when the four or five glasses of water started to catch up to me. The pressure in my bladder began to mount. The feeling of having to go to the bathroom settled like a moist cloud, but I was sitting next to Larry Bird. My childhood had been spent dreaming of a moment like this. I pushed the burning sensation to the back of my mind. I loved basketball far too much even to consider excusing myself from the table. How does one cut off a conversation with Larry Bird? My dad had raised me better than that. I’d hold on. It wasn’t an emergency. By the time the dessert plates were cleared, my eyes had begun to lose focus. The pain in my bladder was now searing, but the check would be coming soon, and I was healthy and strong. I’d say a proper good-bye to Bird then head straight to the bathroom. I just couldn’t excuse myself. I was with a childhood icon.
I empathize with my 22-year-old self. I understand why I stayed at the table and continued to down ice water despite the heaviness in my abdomen. “Let’s go grab the car,” Larry Bird said after he’d paid the bill. The sensation had turned white hot. I should’ve just separated from the group to use the restroom. In my mind, though, “grabbing the car” implied that Larry Bird might be dropping me and my teammate off at the hotel. That was not a ride I was prepared to jeopardize. I followed the group out of the restaurant and walked a minute to Bird’s Mercedes. “Thanks for coming tonight,” he said, extending his hand toward me. That hand was responsible for more than 20,000 NBA points. I
gave it the firmest shake I could. That hand was humongous. “Thanks for having me,” I said with a crooked smile. Larry Bird and Corky slid into the car and sped away.
My evening with the legend was finished, and it’d been euphoric. So euphoric, in fact, that I believe it temporarily rewired my cerebral cortex. Instead of telling my teammate about my dire situation so I could find a bathroom and deal with it, I just started walking with him toward the hotel. I inexplicably said nothing. I was drunk on Larry Bird, and I’d never had to pee so badly in my life. With that first step toward the hotel, I’d made a commitment. I’d hold it for the 10-minute walk. There were likely a dozen places I could’ve stopped on the way back, but I was on autopilot. My head was hazy with the sound of Larry Bird’s soft Indiana twang bouncing around my brain like a sweeping lefty hook off the glass. My teammate made small talk as we progressed toward the hotel. I wasn’t listening and couldn’t engage. All systems were occupied. When I eventually saw the hotel a few blocks away, my eyes grew large. When the lobby’s sweet scent hit my nostrils, my spirits soared. I’m gonna make it. The pain was now overwhelming, but our wait for the elevator was mercifully short. Writhing and wiggling, I stepped in and pressed the button for my floor. My teammate pushed his. It was below mine. More time to wait. As we ascended the floors, I stood frozen in place, sweat accumulating on my forehead. I was blatantly ignoring my teammate. When he reached his floor, I waved a quick good-bye. I was finally alone, climbing toward sweet relief. Just a little longer. When my floor dinged and the doors slid open, I burst into the hallway. My room was two doors down from the elevator. My heart was pounding. My chest was tight with panic. I was barely hanging on and couldn’t orient myself. There was too much happening.
Hashem takes pleasure in those that fear Him, in those that wait for His mercy.
Maran HaRav Hutner ztz"l wrote in a classic Maamar on Purim about two כוחות people have. כח ההילול and כח החילול. The power to praise and the power to do the opposite, namely to put things in their proper perspective when others blow things out of proportion. That is the power of ליצנות - scoffing and cynicism. The Gemara instructs us that all ליצנות is forbidden except for the ליצנות about עבודה זרה. People ascribe great powers to עבודה זרה and we have to use any means we have to "take the air" out of it.
עבודה זרה are idols of stone and wood but other types of idols as well. One example is athletes. At the end of the day - they are just people who run after a ball and their lives revolve around a ball. They could be of sub-par intelligence, spiritually flat, egotistical, of very poor character etc. etc. but if they are good with a ball - they are heroes in our world. Here we must use the כח החילול to put things in perspective. Our heroes are people who are in control of their passions, people who are spiritual, kind, caring, sensitive, giving, self-effacing etc. etc. etc. We have PLENTY of people to look up to and use for them our כח ההילול. Go to your local Jewish bookstore [or visit their on-line sites] and you can purchase many volume detailing the lives and deeds of these spiritual titans. Then we can contrast them with people whom the world worships and understand how little there is to look up to [putting aside our obligation to accord respect to everyone created בצלם א-לוהים].
Ernie Grunfeld came to the US as a young immigrant, child of survivors. He was sent to a Yeshiva day school but later [tragically] went to non-Jewish schools. Sadly, he assimilated and ended up in the NBA. Instead of learning in the great Yeshivos of New York [he was from Forest Hills] and learning Torah bi-chavrusa, instead he went to the University of Tennessee and starred in the "Ernie and Bernie Show" with his "chavrusa" Bernard King. Another sad story of assimilation.
His son Dan recently wrote a book about his family [and appeared on a hundred podcasts talking about it]. Dan is an intelligent guy in addition to being a former ballplayer. Sadly, he never received a proper Jewish education and his "idols" are those oversized men who scamper around in their undergarments in search of a piece of cowhide with hot air inside, trying to get it into a net [where it promptly falls out if it fell in in the first place]. כח החילול.
This is an excerpt from his book describing his meeting with Larry Bird. In his false and misguided personal narrative [our feelings in life are based wholly upon the stories we tell ourselves about our experiences] - Larry Brid is the Gadol Ha-dor. In reality - Larry Bird a garbage collector. That was what he did before he played in the NBA!! [That would explain why he was famous for his "Garbage-Talking"]. And that is probably what he would have continued doing had our culture not worshipped sports. Don't get me wrong - I respect sanitation workers. They do a LOT more for society than athletes. Imagine that nobody would pick up the trash.... I remember a strike of the sanitation workers years back and it was a NIGHTMARE!!! So we owe them a GREAT DEAL of gratitude. But not extending to hero-worship. That is going too far. Athletes? SO WHAT. He runs fast. SO WHAT!! He can throw a ball in a net? SO WHAT!! You want to enjoy a game. ENJOY!! But their athletic talent does not make them people who are worth meeting. If you listen to interviews with them, you will find that any guy you sit next to in shul has far more intelligent and insightful things to say. And if you read about their lives off the court, you will find that anyone you know personally is probably a FAAAAR more quality human being than the average athlete.
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Here is the excerpt:
Growing up, I’d pester my dad for stories about the best players he ever went up against in the NBA. Bird’s name would always be at the top of the list. Dad and I would sit at the kitchen table as he talked about how big and crafty Bird was, about the trash he talked. He’d tell me about how Bird would dip his shoulder, take two slow dribbles, and raise up to shoot effortlessly over Dad’s defense. The shot would go in, and Bird’s elbow would slam into Dad’s face as he was completing his shot. The refs would usually call a foul — on my dad. “I guess my face used to get in the way of his elbow,” was Dad’s response. “No one could guard Larry Bird, including me.” He’d pause a second. “Especially me.”
At the peak of Bird’s dominance, the NBA was a predominantly Black league — the majority of NBA players were Black, and there’d only been two white MVPs since 1959 — yet here was a 6’9” guy from French Lick, Indiana with floppy hair, pasty legs, and unstoppable basketball ability. Everything about Bird’s brilliance defied convention. Before starting at Indiana State University, he’d been employed as a garbage collector in his hometown. He spent his days on the street picking up trash. On the court, as my dad remembered all too well, he spent his time talking it. As a Celtics great, he became a cultural icon, a symbol that it doesn’t matter what you look like or where you come from. I admired Larry Bird before I could even say Larry Bird. Dad always hated the Celtics, but he respected No. 33. Given Bird’s mythological stature in my life, it’s not hard to predict how I responded to the following question when I was asked it at NBA Summer League, 22 years after Bird’s dominance in 1984: “Dan, Larry is having some of the guys for dinner tonight. Would you like to join?” I was lying on the floor of the gym stretching my hamstring after practice. Larry Bird was the general manager of the Pacers, but this was still the last thing I expected to hear. The question was asked by the Pacers’ equipment manager, Corky,
a short bald guy who’d been with Larry since Boston. Dinner with Larry Freaking Bird? Are you kidding me? Who in their right mind says no to that? Not me. Not then. Not now. Not ever. “Yeah, that’d be great,” I said as I switched legs, trying to sound casual because 22 year olds think it’s cool not to care about anything even if they’re secretly flipping out inside. “Just text me the time and place.”
A few hours after practice, as I was napping, I got the info from Corky. “Mo’s. 7:00.” Mo’s was a steakhouse on Maryland Street in Indianapolis, a 10-minute walk from our hotel. I could feel my shoulders tingle with anticipation. Oh man, I thought. I’m eating dinner with Larry Bird tonight. I tried to stay calm, but it was Larry Bird. The championship in ’84. Sixty points against the Atlanta Hawks in ’85. The championship in ’86. An entire childhood talking hoops with my dad. Bird had greeted me on the first day of practice for summer league, but that was the extent of our interaction. This was a whole dinner. A whole dinner with Larry Bird. This was a lot to deal with. I’d been living out of a suitcase for a week, wear- ing basketball shorts, T-shirts, and flip flops, so I rummaged through my bag to find the most presentable outfit I had. I went with a pair of baggy jeans, a bright yellow polo shirt, and a pair of Nike running shoes. It wasn’t my best offering, but I did what I could with it.
On the walk to dinner, I tried to slow my stride to a reasonable pace. There were about 15 players on my summer league team. I hadn’t talked about dinner with any of them and wasn’t sure how many guys Corky had invited. I assumed that most of the team would be there, but I hadn’t waited around the lobby to find out. Instead, I made the intentional choice to walk to dinner alone. My goal was to get to the restaurant 10 minutes early, before anyone else arrived, so I could scout out the seating and place myself close to Bird. If there were going to be a dozen guys or more at dinner, I didn’t want to get stuck at the other end of the table from the leg- end.
When I reached the restaurant, I took a deep breath and swung open its double doors. As my beat-up Nikes carried me across the threshold, I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the first one to arrive. Larry Bird and Corky were already sitting at a table not far from the entrance. I made eye contact with Bird. He waved me over. A chill shot up my spine. On my way to the table, my pulse was making its best at- tempt to jump out of my neck, not only because I was walking toward Larry Bird, but also because I saw that he and Corky were sitting at a table for four. Not 15. Not 10. Four. Oh boy. After shaking hands and shuffling into my seat next to Bird, I grabbed my ice water to take a long gulp. The water was crisp and comforting. I downed it quickly. I thought of the many nights as a kid I’d stayed up late in my bed to read books about Larry Bird. Now, I was sitting right next to the man. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about this.
As we began chatting, the sweat on my brow started to dry. My teammate Taylor Coppenrath, a former star at the University of Vermont, joined as our fourth. Naturally, our conversation revolved around basketball. Bird told sto- ries about Magic Johnson, Moses Malone, LeBron James. My eyes bulged. What a night. I remember ordering food at some point, but I don’t remember what. To cool my nerves, I worked that water like my life depended on it. I changed the subject from hoops right as our food was set down. “So Larry,” I said, “you golf much?” I had never and have never played a round of golf, but I felt like this was the type of question a guy would ask Larry Bird as they broke bread at a steakhouse. So I asked it. “Not too often,” Bird said, “I enjoy it but don’t do it enough.” “How’s your game?” I asked. “All right,” he said. “I’m about a three handicap.” I shook my head. I knew that pros were generally scratch golfers, meaning they hovered around a zero handicap. At a three handicap, Larry Bird was at the level of a semipro, without playing much. I smiled and took another deep drag of ice water.
This was about the time of the night when the four or five glasses of water started to catch up to me. The pressure in my bladder began to mount. The feeling of having to go to the bathroom settled like a moist cloud, but I was sitting next to Larry Bird. My childhood had been spent dreaming of a moment like this. I pushed the burning sensation to the back of my mind. I loved basketball far too much even to consider excusing myself from the table. How does one cut off a conversation with Larry Bird? My dad had raised me better than that. I’d hold on. It wasn’t an emergency. By the time the dessert plates were cleared, my eyes had begun to lose focus. The pain in my bladder was now searing, but the check would be coming soon, and I was healthy and strong. I’d say a proper good-bye to Bird then head straight to the bathroom. I just couldn’t excuse myself. I was with a childhood icon.
I empathize with my 22-year-old self. I understand why I stayed at the table and continued to down ice water despite the heaviness in my abdomen. “Let’s go grab the car,” Larry Bird said after he’d paid the bill. The sensation had turned white hot. I should’ve just separated from the group to use the restroom. In my mind, though, “grabbing the car” implied that Larry Bird might be dropping me and my teammate off at the hotel. That was not a ride I was prepared to jeopardize. I followed the group out of the restaurant and walked a minute to Bird’s Mercedes. “Thanks for coming tonight,” he said, extending his hand toward me. That hand was responsible for more than 20,000 NBA points. I
gave it the firmest shake I could. That hand was humongous. “Thanks for having me,” I said with a crooked smile. Larry Bird and Corky slid into the car and sped away.
My evening with the legend was finished, and it’d been euphoric. So euphoric, in fact, that I believe it temporarily rewired my cerebral cortex. Instead of telling my teammate about my dire situation so I could find a bathroom and deal with it, I just started walking with him toward the hotel. I inexplicably said nothing. I was drunk on Larry Bird, and I’d never had to pee so badly in my life. With that first step toward the hotel, I’d made a commitment. I’d hold it for the 10-minute walk. There were likely a dozen places I could’ve stopped on the way back, but I was on autopilot. My head was hazy with the sound of Larry Bird’s soft Indiana twang bouncing around my brain like a sweeping lefty hook off the glass. My teammate made small talk as we progressed toward the hotel. I wasn’t listening and couldn’t engage. All systems were occupied. When I eventually saw the hotel a few blocks away, my eyes grew large. When the lobby’s sweet scent hit my nostrils, my spirits soared. I’m gonna make it. The pain was now overwhelming, but our wait for the elevator was mercifully short. Writhing and wiggling, I stepped in and pressed the button for my floor. My teammate pushed his. It was below mine. More time to wait. As we ascended the floors, I stood frozen in place, sweat accumulating on my forehead. I was blatantly ignoring my teammate. When he reached his floor, I waved a quick good-bye. I was finally alone, climbing toward sweet relief. Just a little longer. When my floor dinged and the doors slid open, I burst into the hallway. My room was two doors down from the elevator. My heart was pounding. My chest was tight with panic. I was barely hanging on and couldn’t orient myself. There was too much happening.
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At the end of the story [please excuse me] he was no longer able to hold it in and did not reach a bathroom on time. ודי למבין. This is just a sad, pathetic story of false-hero worship. If it were me - I wouldn't even be interested in having dinner with Larry Bird [certainly not in a treif restaurant]. What would i talk to him about? I couldn't care less about silly games and he is probably not interested in, let's say, the Rambam on Hilchos Melachim [please listen to the shiurim!!!] or the philosophy of R' Yehuda HaLevi vs. the Rambam [please listen to those shiurim!!!]. I would MUCH RATHER have dinner with ... you.
Anyway - let me give Dan a bracha that he return to the faith of his forefathers and that he understand that there are two ways to destroy the Jewish people - one is by killing our bodies and the other by destroying our souls and detaching us from Hashem and His Torah.
