by Roger Herst
“It’s just personalities, Gabby. Sometimes they blend, sometimes they don’t. A marriage between people who don’t get along is futile. Many times I’ve heard you tell people in bad marriages to get into relationships that work. Those are your words, almost verbatim.”
It disturbed her to think that she couldn’t get along with everybody, particularly a rabbinical colleague. Dov’s desire to pursue a different career was particularly painful. Had she been that bad of a mentor? At the beginning of her own career, she had looked up to Seth Greer and found in him a friend and colleague. She’d wanted this relationship with her associate, but no matter how hard she’d tried, mutual trust eluded them. Dov’s departure from Ohav Shalom under the current circumstances would be a mark of her failure.
She stepped close to Dov, intending to shake his hand, but reached over to kiss his cheek instead. This was a liberty she’d never take with him before, not even after service or on the High Holidays when communal kissing was common. There had been a barrier between them that she’d hesitated to breach. Now she wished she’d been bolder far earlier. Perhaps, she thought, it might have healed something between them.
Pulling back, she said, “Dov, I can appreciate why a White House Fellowship looks attractive to you. You enjoy government. My guess is that someday you’ll run for office. You have a gift for public service.
“It’s not clear I’ll be accepted,” he said, looking at his watch to check the time before worship services began.
“From what I gather, these fellowships are awarded with an eye to racial and gender balance, as well as occupational experience. I doubt many rabbis are applying this year. I’m sure your contacts on the Hill will put in strong recommendations.”
“At least one senator and two congressmen,” he said in something like his normal, confident tone, as they passed down the corridor to the pulpit. The choir was in full voice, singing pesukay-d’zimrah, the Poems of Praise.
The Shabbat liturgy failed to lift Gabby’s spirits. Rather than the sense of restful peace she usually felt, she was left with a lingering sadness. She hid her emotion from her congregants, both during the service and during the Sabbath reception that followed. As soon as she could without exciting notice or comment, she sought the solitude of her study. The room was dim, even with the bright sunlight outside the windows, but she did not turn on any of the lights. She dropped into her desk chair and stared out the window. Lydia expected her at St. Alban’s Tennis Club for practice soon, but her heart was heavy with sadness and regret. A friendly voice, she decided, would help.
She reached for the phone on her desk. A moment later, Chuck answered.
“Good Shabbos.”
Characteristically, he heard the distress in her voice and bypassed the formalities. “What’s the matter, Rabbi Gabby?” he asked.
“I just called to say hello.”
“You never call to wish me Good Shabbos, so, I’ll repeat my question. What’s wrong?”
“Dov’s applying to become a White House Fellow. I can’t imagine his friends on the Hill won’t see that he gets it.”
“Good.” Chuck was blunt. “That’s perfect for him. He was born for politics.”
“He’s leaving the rabbinate. I didn’t make it rewarding enough for him to stay on the pulpit.”
“If you don’t mind my impertinence, that wasn’t your job. Maybe the rewards he really wants are elsewhere. Just because someone becomes ordained doesn’t mean he must serve a congregation. Dov’s got political ambitions; that’s where his heart has been all along. Why a bright woman like you can’t acknowledge that is a mystery to me. You might ask why he took a job in Washington in the first place, and why, once here, he has spent every free moment hobnobbing around the capitol. He used you and the congregation for an entry into government. I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t pre-planned. Being associate rabbi at Ohav Shalom was just Act One. Getting elected to public office is Act Two.”
“I could have made it better for him.”
“That’s what I love about you, Rabbi Gabby. Always weeping for the other guy. With all respect for his rabbinical title, Dov is a certified asshole, a power hungry egomaniac who never met a microphone he didn’t adore and who, in his next reincarnation, is destined to become a hack politician. It’s his birthright. But you hurt because you think it was your fault. Now gimme a break! Incidentally, I pushed as many of your appointments from next Thursday through the weekend onto his schedule. Lyddy tells me the two of you are going to win the Pro-Am Doubles.”
“Now who’s hallucinating?” Gabby’s chuckle was sour. “We might have won in the women’s competition. But your sister’s got us playing against the men. We haven’t a chance in hell.”
“Wait a second. Have I missed something? What’s this playing against men stuff?”
“The iron maiden has struck. Lydia refused to play in a tournament where men get the big money and women get pocket change. So the tournament committee offered to let us share the prize money, but only if we win the men’s competition.”
He laughed aloud. “That’s Lyddy, all right. Maybe that’s why our parents shortchanged me in the testosterone department.”
“You do well enough. But Lydia’s latest exuberance puts me in an uncomfortable position. For her, the Pro-Am is more than a tennis tournament. She’s using it to make a feminist statement and will stop at nothing until women achieve absolute equality on the ball fields of America. I hope I’m up to it, and I hope this doesn’t misfire. As soon as I manage to control my hurt over Dov, I’m off to practice.”
“Trust me, Rabbi Gabby, there’s life after Dov Shellenberg. Far better than what you’ve got.”
“That doesn’t excuse my mistakes.”
“Only you and your friend, the Almighty, can do that.”
“See you on Monday morning,” she said, breaking off.
“By the way, Rabbi,” he said, squeezing in a final bit of irony, “good Shabbos.”
Anacostia High School: Friday Morning
They say that a worthy cause creates a worthy man. Marcel Clipper took on the Bart Skulkin Tennis Center project with a passion. Once Lydia Browner began coaching the team, he entered them in competitions with other area schools. Becoming a tennis power is not something that happens overnight, and Anacostia was a long way from stardom. But individual players began winning a few matches, and momentum turned in their favor. Marcel learned what motivation could do for young athletes. The moment his teammates stopped playing for themselves and began playing for their team and the memory of their beloved coach, winning became more frequent. They opened each practice session with a brief prayer for Bart.
Word about the team’s new coach soon spread throughout the school, and other students started coming by to check out the action. When they saw for themselves, two second string baseball players and an alternate switched to tennis. Then, suddenly, the sport got an unexpected boost. A handful of girls turned up to watch the sparring matches between Gabby and Lydia, and soon afterward pummeled Dr. Shaboya with petitions for a women’s tennis team. Naturally, the girls hung around the courts to flirt, and Marcel’s team finally started to feel appreciated.
The architects from Pyramid Development produced a set of ambitious and inspiring plans for the Bart Skulkin Tennis Center. Noah’s team learned that Anacostia Park was operated by an unhappy partnership between the District of Columbia’s Department of Recreation and the National Park Service. The Park Service hoped to build a heliport and a new headquarters on the site; a plan aggressively opposed by the District Government which desperately needed urban recreation space for its citizens. Fortunately, neither governmental body had strong objections to the renovation and expansion of the existing nine tennis courts, so long as the development and maintenance costs did not come from their budgets. The Pyramid planners proposed constructing four additional courts as well—two for matches and two for teaching. They provided renderings for spectator grandstands beside the new tourname
nt courts and a 7,000 square foot clubhouse, with male and female locker rooms, showers, a cross-training exercise room, staff offices, and equipment storage.
On the strength of Gabby’s comment that a donor for half the project funds had been found, Marcel promoted the new center at school as if it were a done deal. He posted copies of the architectural drawings on the school’s bulletin boards and assigned his players to carry coffee cans during recess to collect donations. The shy, inarticulate captain learned the first and most important axiom of good public speaking—have something important to say. He gave periodic reports on the team’s progress at school rallies and on the school radio station, and started a blog on the school’s web site. He also invited Gabby to address the student body at an upcoming school assembly, completely unaware that Dr. Shaboya might not react favorably to the invitation.
Before the student body assembled in the auditorium on Friday morning, Gabby entered Dr. Shaboya’s office, to find him buried behind towering stacks of papers. He stood to greet her and she saw concern in his eyes.
“Hello, Rabbi,” he said. “I see you got things rolling with your tennis program. The team is winning these days, something novel at this school for anything but basketball. There’s nothing that galvanizes support like a winning team.”
Gabby was uncertain about Shaboya’s direction and replied, “The boys have been wonderful, especially Marcel. They’ve done more than I have to make this dream real. And, of course, Lydia Browner has helped; she can be unexpectedly good with kids. They didn’t know what to make or her at first, but now they work like Trojans to reclaim their honor. It doesn’t hurt that she encourages them to hit balls as hard as they can.”
Shaboya rubbed his hands together. “The way I see it,” he said slowly, “you’ve only got a pledge for half of what your pipe-dream is going to cost. I’m uneasy about this, mighty uneasy. And I must warn you, Rabbi Lewyn, don’t entertain any thought that the Board of Education will bail you out in the final hour. The word’s descended from the Heights of Zion, way up yonder on the Big Hill, if you catch my metaphor, that the Board hasn’t got a single penny for tennis at Anacostia. So I’m pleading for your good judgment. I beg you not to disappoint my kids. We have enough disappointment around this place.”
He looked at her and there were years of disappointment in his eyes. In the silence between them, she caught a glimpse of the long struggle that had consumed his youthful idealism and enthusiasm. In that instance, her own uncertainties vanished. She would find the funds.
“I won’t disappoint them,” she said. They both understood it was a pledge of honor.
On the auditorium stage, two enormous easels displayed architectural drawings of the proposed tennis complex. Though they were too small for kids seated in the rear to see them clearly, it didn’t matter. Copies were posted all over the school, and the students knew them by heart. They were demonstrative with enthusiasm. Many recognized Gabby, seated on the stage with the faculty, from Bart Skulkin’s memorial service. Others recalled her from the cafeteria.
Dr. Shaboya opened the assembly, and the student body president spoke. Then Maxwell Tieg, popular head coach of the basketball team, introduced Gabby as though she were member of the faculty. He spoke of her as a close friend of Bart Skulkin, whose image around the school had grown considerably since his death. Gabby, never shy about speaking in public, took her place at the lectern and without notes explained how family and friends had come together to celebrate Bart Skulkin’s memory. She praised Marcel Clipper and his teammates, who were bringing to fruition his dream of a winning tennis team. She took the time to explain to the students what the Zentner Foundation was and why it had pledged only half, rather than the full sum needed. They would need to raise a lot more money, she emphasized, before the first shovel could turn soil. She closed with a famous quotation from Theodore Herzl, the 19th century visionary of the Zionist State, “If you will it, it is no dream.”
After a series of questions from the rear of the auditorium, a girl in the ninth row stood to ask in a strong, assertive voice, “Is it true that you’ll give your prize in the Pro-Am Tournament to the center?”
“If we win, absolutely. My partner, Lydia Browner, and I have already declared our intention to do just that. Every penny will go to the center. But there’s one big, big problem, friends. We have to win not just against excellent women, but against many top-ranking men. I’m hoping other winners will contribute. We’re talking to all the contenders this week. Ms. Browner, the acting coach of your tennis team, carries a lot of influence. Some players have already said they will support us. Others have told us they like the idea but need to study it. Unfortunately, the majority have commitments to other worthy charities. We must be realistic here. Our chances of getting all the needed funds from the Pro-Am are small. We’ll get some, but I fear, not all that’s needed.”
“You’ll win,” the girl declared with absolute conviction, as though by articulating her belief in words she had created a fact.
“We’ll do everything in our power.” Gabby replied.
“Good, because we’re coming out to see you win on Sunday. You need a rooting section. Anacostia ain’t always got the best teams, but we got the best rooting section in the whole city. We’re gonna help you win.”
Cheers of approval erupted. The tennis team, sitting a dozen rows behind the speaker, suddenly stood, clapping encouragement. A snare drum roll and a staccato bang from a kettledrum lifted the school band to its feet. The auditorium was suddenly filled with jumping kids, their hands high and clapping, their voices raised. In the confined space of their seats, they move vertically to the drumbeat.
Gabby attempted to calm this enthusiasm by raising both arms, but the chanters refused to stop. She smiled, looked sheepishly over to Dr. Shaboya sitting to the side in the front row, then shrugged her shoulders – indicating that there was nothing to do until the kids quieted down.
Shaboya directed a frown at her. She knew this demonstration was exactly what he didn’t want, but how was she to stop it? A chill of dismay surged through her. She hadn’t anticipated that the disappointment he feared could come so suddenly. Perhaps she should have. These were kids. How would they react when Lydia and she were trounced at the Fitzgerald Center? Or if the champions refused to contribute their winnings to Bart’s center?
After the students quieted down, she added words of caution. “We must be realistic, friends. There’s still a long way to travel. It’s only a dream to raise money from the Pro-Am. But don’t give up hope. Who knows what the good Lord has in store for the future? Right?”
Chanting resumed before she could conclude her remarks. If the kids were listening to her caution, they barely showed it. Dr. Shaboya kept rubbing his hands nervously and shaking his head. When it came time for Gabby to leave the school, he kept his distance. The job of thanking her for keeping Bart Skulkin’s memory alive fell to a female gym teacher.
***
In the first round of the Pro-Am Tournament, Lydia and Gabby drew a bye and were not required to compete. Most players would have seen this as a windfall, but Lydia Browner didn’t. She suspected shenanigans and confronted the Tournament Committee, only to learn that she and Gabby were the only females who had elected to compete against men. The committee had granted them a first-round bye as a courtesy. Male chivalry or not, Gabby was delighted; the fewer the matches she had to play, the less the burden on her still healing gastrocnemius muscle and the better her chances. Lydia, on the other hand, went ballistic, roundly condemning the committee’s condescension. She railed that women would never achieve equality in sports if they relied upon male handouts. Naturally, this behavior didn’t win her any friends among those who had thought they were doing her a favor. She compounded the ill will by airing her grievance with journalists covering the tournament.
Sponsors of the three-day Washington Doubles Pro-Am Tournament flocked to watch nationally ranked professionals team up with entertainment celebritie
s and high-profile government officials. The organizers ran the initial four rounds on Friday and Saturday morning, leaving the quarterfinals for Saturday afternoon, and the semifinals and finals for Sunday morning and afternoon. In the early rounds teams were unevenly matched, making for rather spotty competition. Celebrities, many of whom were weekend players, made obligatory appearances on the courts and, when defeated, quickly retired to the stands to chat on camera with attractive female television personalities. The mood was convivial; everyone felt good about supporting charities in the metropolitan area.
On Friday morning, a fine mist, destined to burn off with the mid-morning sun, hung over the tennis center in Rock Creek Park. The temperature was already in the mid-seventies and heading upward. Lydia and Gabby met their second round adversaries on Court 15, just about as far from the major tournament court as you could be. Professional player Carl Chambers, who ranked 121 on the world Men’s Single Circuit, joined with Kevin Morrow, a television anchorman from NBC with blow-dried hair and a potbelly. During the brief warm-up, Lydia spotted Morrow as flatfooted and lethargic and instructed Gabby to keep the ball at his feet. Lydia used her power to move the famous broadcaster from his toes to his heels and eliminated the pro from significant participation. In a quick huddle behind the service line, Gabby suggested that this violated the spirit of the tournament, but Lydia would have none of it. Time after time, she forced Morrow into errors until he became discouraged and began sabotaging his own game, a spiraling process that the experienced Chambers was powerless to arrest. The two set match ended with a 6-2, 6-2 victory for the women. The four lost games had been the result of Carl Chambers taking revenge with blistering serves that Lydia and Gabby could barely control.
They were scheduled to play their third round at 2:00 p.m. on Court 2, adjacent to the Tournament Court. By then, word had circulated that two women were competing in the men’s event, and curious spectators gathered in the grandstands to see how they would acquit themselves. Upon entry to the court, their opponents, Republican Representative Howard DiJetto from New Jersey and British pro Nigel Cuthbertson, were greeted with a fanfare of cheers. DiJetto paused to tell a TV newswoman how important this tournament was for the community and how much he was enjoying the day. During preliminary warm-ups, he made a point of waving to admirers, a habit which revealed to Lydia a fatal flaw. She whispered to her partner, “He needs to be politically correct and deep down doesn’t want to beat two women. He’ll torpedo himself. All we have to do is give him some assistance.”
