Yet Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, had a dream. Well, another dream besides having his team win the Super Bowl every year. Maybe more of a thought or even a notion than a full fledged dream in fact. But the bottom line is that he built the stadium that bears his name in the heart of Jerusalem in hopes of encouraging American football in the holy land.

Now Kraft stadium is not exactly Foxborough. The field is only 70 yards and lacks goal posts. Yet this is real, full contact football. To step onto the sidelines and see a football scoreboard, hear the announcer calling the plays, and feel the roar of a crowd (well, maybe “crowd” is a stretch but we sure did roar) brought back lots of memories. I guess football is one of the few things that I really miss about America (that and insulation).

To say that my son Max was excited about playing his first regular season game would be like saying Lance Armstrong was excited to race in the Tour de France. As one of the youngest players on the team, he is mostly regulated to special teams. That’s okay, because without names or numbers on the jerseys, I couldn’t tell any of the players apart. I just assumed he was the key guy on every play. I think I need to buy him some brightly colored socks before the next game.

Max’s team is coached by a good friend whom Israeli blog readers might recognize as the “Dearly Beloved” from the always uplifting Ki Yachol Nuchal! blog. He inspires the kids and as a former college football player himself, knows what he is doing. The defensive coach is another immigrant from Baltimore, so it is no surprise that the team wound up as the “Ravens.”

The first game was against the Kfar Saba Hawks. Now the Hawks seemed to have brought about twice as many players to the game, and they all looked twice as tall as the Ravens. But the boys were not intimidated. Max was extremely pumped for the game, even getting himself a Mohawk haircut beforehand. (Honestly, I don’t know where the boy gets these crazy ideas from…)

Yet things looked grim when the Ravens fumbled the opening kickoff right into the hands of the Hawks. For a little while, I was sure that I would end up like all parents who attend school plays to show support for an event one’s child is in that is notably lacking in any sort of entertainment value.

But when the Ravens used their next possession to score a touchdown off an amazing pass into the corner of the end zone, I realized that we had a real football game goin’ on. And you know what that means…

Despite sitting on concrete in freezing cold temperatures, there was no way either I or my seven-year old were going home before the final whistle. (Yes, I think I picked up another “Parent of the Year” nomination when I wrapped my scarf around my first grader’s head to try and warm him up as the midnight hour approached.)

The game stayed close with the Ravens staying slightly ahead but unable to finish the Hawks off. What they lacked in size when compared to the giants from Kfar Saba, they made up for with skill and cunning. Mixing passes, runs, and some well executed fakes, they were able to go toe to toe with a team that could rely on a much greater number of fresh players. Max was able to get in on a few a tackles which made both our days.

Only in Israel

So while the referee sported a beard and side-curls, the announcer was way too polite, and they were selling Crembos rather than beer and pretzels on the sidelines, this was an actual, honest-to-goodness American football game.

As the time ran down, the Hawks were trailing by six points but in good scoring position. Three times the Hawks’ quarterback dropped back and put the ball in the air. With receivers streaking toward victory in the end zone, they were literally rap, rap, rapping on the Ravens door.

But quote the Ravens:

Nevermore.

Final Score: Ravens 40, Hawks 34

Now, Israel has everything. (Well, everything cool that is.)

Mr. Kraft, I’m sorry that the Jets beat the Pats this year, but thanks for bringing the ol’ pigskin to Kosher Country.

Go Ravens!

We tried to guess the factors that would determine whether the climb was feasible: The angle of the grade, the condition of the trail surface, the amount of loose rock, etc. As we got closer, everyone stopped talking and began thinking about how much they were willing to suffer to go up without stopping.

This was Day Three of the five day annual bike ride to raise money for the Alyn Children’s hospital in Jerusalem. Obviously, in the larger view it did not matter if anyone was able to ride all the way up this one hill or not. What really mattered is that the ride, with its hundreds of participants, had already raised more money than ever for Alyn. So while we were having fun pretending to be Lance Armstrong, children at Alyn were receiving the advanced treatments that could only be paid for through the money raised from the ride.

One evening we heard the story of a child who was hit by shrapnel from a mortar fired from Gaza. His injuries were so extreme, that other hospitals had already said there was nothing they could do. Then Alyn stepped in and because they cared and had the resources to make a difference, they went to work on this child. Because of Alyn, this young man was there to greet us himself. For a child to go through years of therapy just to learn to walk and talk again takes far more courage than riding a bike up any hill.

Then there is my Mom. As I wrote in my last post, I dedicated my ride to her this year. She is climbing her own steep hill called cancer and must find the courage to keep going when she faces months of horrible chemo treatments. For those who have been following her story, I am happy to say that at the moment she has had a series of “good” days and will resume chemo next week. So, with hundreds of children and my Mom to think of, you better believe that I was going to ride like I have never ridden before.

This year, the smart folks at Alyn made a section of the ride a bit tricky for us folks who plead for harder rides each year. One day we rode through the desert up and down some of the most technical terrain I have ridden. The last few kilometers that day were through a dry river bed where the surface was composed of very lose gravel that made it seem like you were riding through glue.

We then arrived at our accommodations: a tent campsite deep in the heart of the Negev. I had a fun time taking a “shower” while sitting under a tap set up for hand washing. The closest we were to civilization was a few hours jeep ride away. In fact, there was only one man made thing anywhere near our campsite. It was railroad tracks for trains carrying minerals from the desert mines to the coast. By the way, if you ever happen to be near Chava Wadi campsite in the Negev, the train comes through around 4:27 in the morning. You really don’t need to set an alarm. Just don’t be alarmed when you feel the ground start to shake.

Next morning we were up bright and early (easy to do when you are sitting in the middle of the desert) and rode a fast twenty kilometers to join up with those who had felt the need for real beds at night. While we were waiting, a few of us decided to jump in an ice cold spring nearby and get some relief from the desert heat. Not only did it provide a refreshing break from the sun, but riding with wet biking shorts can keep you nice and cool for awhile in the desert.

This was my fifth Alyn Ride and it was by far the best. Part of what made it so great was the trails. But the other part was riding with some of the same people you see every year. Of course, we had five riders from Neve Daniel participating which has to be a record from a yishuv our size. But besides the guys I ride with all the time, there were the other people I see once a year.

My friend Bob has a daughter my age, a bike older than my son, and still can ride with the best. We both started Alyn five years ago and received our yellow jackets (given to those who complete five Alyn rides) together this year. Bob took a couple hard falls that got us all concerned this year. But this guy is indestructible. No matter what happened, he kept coming back. As long as Bob is riding, none of us “kids” can complain that the ride is just too hard.

Unlike last year when storms caused the cancellation of a whole day’s riding, the weather was incredible this year. Yes, it did get a bit hot on the last day. With temperatures going over 90 around the Mata Spring, the organizers decided to cancel the last twenty kilometers which were to have included two serious climbs and a bit of rough riding. So buses were ordered up to transport the riders to the finish at the hospital.  However, it seemed that a pair of riders disagreed with this decision and set off on their own to ride the final 20  kilometers. What a couple of lunatics!

But I think for me, the whole ride could be summed up in those few minutes as we approached the climb in the middle of the Negev. Yes, it can be easy to give up and play it safe by getting off and walking. Many riders did. It may also seem like the right thing to do when you feel your heart beating like crazy and every meter you go up, you slip back a bit on the loose gravel. Yet sometimes, you need to turn off the brain and push yourself like crazy. Then you will be astounded with what you can accomplish.

So what do you think, did I make it up the hill?

The jacket is on the way Mom. I hope it helps.

Put on a pair of sneakers and just run.

Running in Israel is more than just exercise. Every step you take, every hill, every trail has some history behind it.

Get your heart beating fast, it feels good. Gaze out at the views and think how incredibly fortunate you are to be right here, right at this point in history.

Work up a sweat and reflect how many people throughout history longed for every square inch of land passing below your feet. Reflect on how many people made the ultimate sacrifice so that you could live here freely.

Run faster with your arms pumping.  You feel like nothing can stop you as the kilometers fall away one by one.

When I moved to Israel four and a half years ago , if you would have told me that I was about to run my second full distance marathon, I would have thought you insane.

Of course, four and a half years before that, if you would have told me that I would be living in the land of Israel, I would have viewed you as equally insane.

What is it about this place that makes us stretch to reach and pass our limits?

Perhaps the air encourages dreaming. Hertzl was right, “If you will it, it is no dream.” Right you go Ted. Perhaps more than you ever imagined.

Every day, Israelis turn dreams into reality. Sorry to all the post-Zionists, but we have never been and never will be a nation like all the others. A tiny spit of land with very little natural resources continues to produce miracles every day.

Every day you can read about breakthroughs in high tech, agriculture, medicine, you name it. From innovative start-ups to Nobel Prize winners (I mean the ones awarded for actual accomplishments), we produce more than our share by far.

In a few years, when you are driving your electric car around and watching how Saudi Arabia is trying to find an export market for sand, you can thank this tiny and often maligned little land.

And yes, despite what you may read, it is the Israeli “war machine” that has done more to safeguard civilians than any other army in history. By the way, that was said by a Brit, not an Israeli. Don’t believe me? I don’t care, the facts are out in the open.

This is the land where the difficult becomes the average and the impossible becomes possible.

We can do whatever we dream. All it takes is will.

Now get some sneakers and join me in Tiveria for a little run around the Kinneret next week.

No limits.

Isn’t Chanukah a time of miracles?

“CROSSING THE CONTINENTS”
By Yarden’s Mom

Having just returned from a trip to see my children and grandchildren in Neve Daniel, I find myself full of thoughts that are so overwhelming I must put them to paper (even though it’s now e-mail). When my children decided to move to Israel, I was very angry and sad. They would no longer be close enough for me to enjoy the everyday experiences of life and the growing moments in my grandchildren’s life. Like the gymnastics shows, dance classes, and games: soccer, baseball and any other sport the grandkids would choose to try. And, of course, those music concerts when you wished your ears would shut down!!! They would forget who their grandparents were and would miss having incredible family knowledge passed on to their generation.

Yes, I still miss them desperately, but I see how they have found a life that is so right for them I must salute their choice. They live in a community that enhances all they believe in (even though it does have some quirks). The grandkids are doing well: despite the normal prejudices they encounter – not so different than the ones I encountered when I was growing up in South Wales. The house they have built is so perfect for them – it truly is their home. And in a few days, we managed to catch up and reminisce enough to keep us going till the next visit.

I have tried to think about what went into their decision to make this incredible move. My parents’ generation struggled to make sure their children got the education they would need. My father used to call education the Jewish life insurance. My generation worked hard to succeed so that our parents could be proud of us and not worry about our future. But my children’s generation did not have to worry – we provided for them to the very best of our ability. We gave them the great life insurance policy – a first rate education. But, without meaning to, we depleted their drive to achieve. That is what they are now doing in Israel. They are driving to achieve a land where all Jews can go, if they wish. A land where our people will always feel safe and secure. Will this ever be achieved – who knows? But my children are trying to ensure that it will happen. And so, Jordan and Stella, I salute you.

With much love and respect, Mom

Anthea Frankl lives in San Mateo, California when not visiting Neve Daniel.

Since the subject of this column is about mothers, I am dedicating this column in memory of my friend Paul’s mom, who in his words “made everyone she spoke with feel truly special.”

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

Welcome home!

This morning I went to the airport to greet the latest Nefesh B’Nefesh flight bringing Jewish “refugees” from America to Israel. It was not all that long ago when we were stepping off that plane into such an unknown life. I remember feeling physically and emotionally exhausted as we stepped out into the bright sunshine of our new lives.

I felt so wonderful that day because we were about to start living our dream. A dream that had started as a crazy thought and grew to a full fledged plan over many years of careful nourishment. It was an amazing feeling because, let’s face it, how many times do people actually get to live their dreams?

Back then, we felt on top of the world at all the attention lavished on us. From the cameras and microphones pushed in our faces to the hugs of our friends who were already living the dream.

Yet what I realized today was that the arrival of new immigrants to Israel is much, much bigger than any one person’s dream. It is the shared dream of a nation, of a people. As we started waving our flags and hollering like crazy when the Olim started getting off the airplane, I realized just how big this was.

Israel, the Jewish State, does not exist without Olim. How many of our brave soldiers in Lebanon are Olim or the children of Olim? How many of the courageous people who live in places like Hevron, Tekoa, or the dozens of small “outposts” are from Olim families? How many of our Rabbis, teachers, and doctors are Olim?

Olim have come from Europe, Russia, Africa, America and all over the world to share the effort of building a Jewish State. We are the doers not the talkers. We are prepared to defend our new homes and continue to settle the land of our ancestors, no matter what the situation.

As I watched those people come off the plane, I realized that despite the war, despite the bizarre desire of some to abandon parts of our home, despite the strange way taxi cab drivers quote fares, Israel is still the place that some of the best and the brightest want to live. Every person that came off that plane is a reinforcement of the quest to build something good and just, even while under attack from something evil and corrupt.

You know what I remember the most from today’s welcoming ceremony? It wasn’t the awesome sight of the El Al jet taxing to the hanger where thousand of us stood cheering (although that was very moving). It wasn’t the flags, speeches, music, and tuna sandwiches. It wasn’t even the great hugs with our friends who have now joined us in this never ending exciting journey (although those were unforgettable moments).

What moved me the most was the sight of a few kids, looking just a bit overwhelmed by the whole ordeal of making Aliyah. These kids looked tired, anxious, and maybe a little scared. I knew right away what they were going through because my own kids had looked like that just one year ago. These kids gave up almost everything familiar. They left friends, and schools, and baseball teams. Suddenly, it is Hebrew, the language of prayer, that they hear in the street. There is not that much snow, no Sundays, and even the hot dogs taste different. They have heard something about a war and see lots of people carrying around rifles as if they were umbrellas. They wonder what exactly Mom and Dad were thinking when they told them that they would love it here.

These kids will undoubtedly wake up in a strange house, with not so much furniture, and get confused as to why the refrigerator is “on a lift” and not “in the kitchen.” People they have never met before will keep knocking on the door and saying with a smile “Kol HaKovod!” I have no doubt that one or two tears will be shed while clutching blankets and teddy bears and missing their old homes.

But then, after a good night’s sleep (and maybe a pizza), they will open their eyes to the wonder that is Israel. Gradually they will see that far from being intimidating to kids, Israel can be a giant playground. They will make new friends, their house will get put right, and they will see that in America, they never got to eat chocolate on bread and call it a meal.

They will have trouble in school at first, but at some point, all of them will start to “get it” and realize how much fun it can be to be asked to translate their own report cards for their parents. They will experience Jewish holidays like they have never known them before. They might see their parents cry from sad news, but will definitely see them cry with pride as they sing Hatkiva on Yom Hatzmaut.

And then maybe, with G-d’s help, one day they will turn to their parents and say, “Daddy, Mommy, I’m glad that we moved to Israel.” And that moment, makes all the parent’s pain vanish.

New Olim, don’t worry. Your kids will be all right. It will take time, but you will be surprised at the strength of children.

Yeah, it’s worth it.

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

“Today is the Tomorrow that We Longed for Yesterday”

The words from one of my favorite songs could not have been more appropriate as we waited to disembark from the Aliyah flight. After years of longing, we were finally about to step off the plane as citizens of Israel. I thought of all the pain of leaving the family and friends we loved. I was anxious about what our new life would be like. At the same time, I felt so proud that we had finally taken this step – that we had done what we talked about so often.

The flight had been like no other. The plane was an all-Aliyah charter sponsored by Nefesh B’ Nefesh. Exhausted but proud, we listened as we were welcomed “home.” Just hearing the word “home” brought tears to my eyes.

We stepped off the plane into the sunshine and heard our friends screaming for us from the other side of the barricade. They had made Aliyah the year before and had inspired us in our decision. I cannot relate the feeling of joy as I ran over and jumped the barricade into their welcoming arms. Our new lives in Israel had begun.

September 20, 2005

It felt strange. Just two months ago, I was living with my family in the Maryland suburbs, driving carpools, coaching baseball, watching football. Now, I was standing in an Israeli army base holding an M-16 rifle.

My family had made Aliya to Neve Daniel. A requirement of living here is that you do shmira twice a month. One Wednesday evening, I was approached in the Bet Knesset and told to come for training the next morning.

I had never fired a gun in my life, so it was a bit intimidating that my first experience would be with an assault rifle and that my instructor did not speak English. I do not speak much Hebrew yet (I am in Ulpan Aleph), and I had to figure things out by watching the instructor and getting occasional translation from a fellow Oleh. The sun was hot, and the guns were loud.

Yet this is Israel. The beautiful land I live in has never come cheap. Doing shmira twice a month is a very small price to pay to live here, yet it is a connection to all those whom I admire so much who have shown the world just how valuable the land of Israel is to the Jewish people.