“It’s
for you.” My husband handed me the phone.
I
quickly finished the conversation I was having on my cellphone (ah, the joys of
technology!) and turned my attention to the incoming call.
“Hello,”
I began.
“I see that you you’ve tried calling me
several times today,” said a male voice.
“Oh,”
I gushed, “You must be the madrich l’boxing (boxing instructor). I’m so
happy that you called me back. You’re one person that I really want to speak
with. You can’t imagine how hard I’ve been trying to get a hold of you!”
“How
can I help you?” he asked.
“I
desperately need a madrich l’boxing.”
I
can envision your confusion. Why in the world would an official senior citizen
who is the midst of marrying off her grandchildren and who appears to be
somewhat normal be desperately searching for a boxing instructor? No, I have
not taken up boxing in my old age (although you never know…). But I do run an
organization for people with Parkinson's. We are in process of expanding our
rehabilitation program, and since boxing is an excellent exercise for people with
Parkinson's, we want to offer our men’s groups boxing classes designed
specifically for their needs.
“Okay,”
he responded slowly. “So how can I help you?”
“We
desperately need a madrich l’boxing for our Parkinson's rehabilitation
program. We’re expanding the program and want to include a Boxing for Parkinson's
class.”
“Boxing
for Parkinson's?” I could hear the confusion in his voice. “Why do you need
boxing for Parkinson's?”
“Don’t
you know that boxing is excellent for Parkinson's? I thought you were a madrich
l’boxing?”
“Yes
I am, but…”
“And
you never learned how boxing can help people with Parkinson's?”
Silence.
“Did
you learn to be a madrich l’boxing?”
“Uh..
um, why, yes, of course.”
“But
you never learned about boxing for Parkinson's?”
“No….not
really. Mah hakesher?” (What’s the connection)?
“Have
you ever heard of Parkinson's?” I decided to get down to the basics.
“Why
yes, of course,” I could hear the question in his voice.
Do
you know what Parkinson's is?”
“Yes,
but mah hakesher?”
“So
as a madrich l’boxing who has learned about Parkinson's, I’m sure you
realize that boxing is good for Parkinson's. Boxing improves reaction time,
balance, coordination, exactness, all that stuff.”
“Not
really.”
Now
it was my turned to be confused. After all, I had been told that this madrich
l’boxing was an expert in his field, with lots of experience in working
with the disabled. The conversation was becoming “curiouser and curiouser…”
In
frustration I said, “I don’t understand. You’re a madrich l’boxing,” and
at this point, although “boxing” is the word most commonly used to describe
this particular form of martial art, I decided to add the less-used Hebrew word
to emphasize my point (although I really had no idea what my point was, other
than pure frustration). So I added, “a madrich l’igruf.”
Silence.
Then, “Oh, excuse me. I must have the wrong number.”
Now,
any normal intelligent person would have said, “Oh,” and quickly hang up the
phone before getting into more trouble. But me being me, I blurted out, “Wait a
moment. Maybe this is not a mistake. Who are you?”
“I’m
the madrich l’bochrim at Ponovezh Yeshivah.”
When
I said “boxing,” he heard “bochrim,” and when he said “bochrim,”
I heard “boxing.”
Then
I did something really, really dumb. Instead of saying, “Oh, you’re right. You
definitely have the wrong number,” I said “Oh, this is not a wrong number. You
must be looking for my grandson.”
My
grandson, who had been with us for bein hazmanim, had been accepted into
Ponovezh for his third year of yeshivah. As a new bachur, he was
concerned about finding a suitable chavrusa and now, come to think about
it, he had spent quite a bit of time making phone calls this morning.
The
moment the words flew out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. But
alas, it was too late.
“Who’s
your grandson?” I could almost hear his unspoken question, And which boy in
our yeshivah would have a grandmother interested in boxing?
“Yechiel
Stern.” (a pseudonym)
“Yechiel
Stern?” He sounded surprised. After all, Yechiel's other grandmother is the
scion of a well-known Yerushalmi family. The type that makes kugels and cookies
and sews clothes for the grandchildren. Certainly not the type that would be
excited to find a boxing instructor.
It
was a strange conversation. Eventually he realized that I was not the other
grandmother, and that I was also not a secret fan of martial arts. He also told
me to tell my grandson not to worry, that his chavrusos were all
arranged for the coming zman.
I
hung up the phone and went to the other room to share the story with my
husband. “Do you think,” I asked, only half in jest, “that they would throw a bachur
out of yeshivah because of his grandmother?”
This
story will probably go down in our family annals as a classic Bubby Blunder.
And the truth is, although there’s a lot we can learn from it – the importance
of communicating clearly, of not making assumptions, of being dan l’kaf
zechus, of thinking before blurting– I don’t want to make this article into
a lengthy mussar shmuess. I just want to share it with you because even
bubbies (or perhaps I should say, especially bubbies) need to have a
good laugh sometimes.
It’s
healthy. Just like boxing.
Post
Script: I eventually found a boxing
instructor. Zev is a champion boxer with a heart of gold. Gentle and firm. After
the first session, Rex, a foreign worker who assists one of the men in the
group, came over to me. “Debbie,” he said, “about the Wednesday boxing group…”
Rex
was blushing.
"Well, uhm, ah…”
It
took a few more seconds until he finally blurted out, “In the Philippines, I
was a champion boxer. And because of Eliyahu (the man he helps) I learned all about
boxing and Parkinson. Can I also work with the group?”
So
now we have two boxing instructors!
