My younger brother, David and I
have had our differences over
women, religion and politics,
but the thread that has held us together
is our shared love for the Mets
and deep hatred for the Yankees.
We would get together regularly
over beer and baseball out at CitI Field
and would scream our heads off
when the Mets dramatically won.
Those were the best times with him.
But he suddenly found religion
and moved himself, family and work
to a suburb of Tel Aviv where
he quickly found a job in technology
and developed a quick ear for Hebrew.
We would talk on the phone once a week,’
but it wasn’t the same thing.
Then the bombs began to fall.
I was constantly worried and scanned
the news for reports of damages.
Exhausted one recent night after a tense
Mets game, I fell asleep at 11, early for me.
The phone suddenly flooded in light: “David”
“What happened?” he asked frantically.
“What happened where?” I said, my voice equally raised.
“Do you know what time it is?” I shouted.
“Are you all right? Sarah and the kids?”
picturing him bleeding on some hospital gurney.
“The game, man, tell me the score.
The Israeli sports feed went out in the 9th.
I was up all night. Did they win?”
“The Mets won; David; calm down.They’re in
the series against Philly. If they win they
get the Dodgers, tough team.”
We were back together at Citi Field,
just like in the old days.
“Good night, David, glad you’re all right.”