Page 85 of Sportsball is for Lovers

She sits on the empty loveseat and I sit close beside her, setting my hand on her knee automatically. It’s how we sit on the couch at her place when we watch The West Wing every night. Well, usually we’re naked, and usually my hand isn’t exactly on her knee—a little higher.

I’m about to take away my hand when she sets hers on top of mine, leaning into me.

“Mom, this is Jared,” Sadie says.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I say. “Properly, that is.”

She nods at me, her flinty brown eyes studying me. “What is it you do?”

Great. She dove right in for the kill.

“I work in hockey. Right now I’m working in the Logistics department for the Grizzlies,” I tell her, matter of fact.

“I like hockey,” Sarah says.

“Me, too,” Sadie says quietly. “My friend works for the team, too. A group of us like to go to the games.”

“Is that how you met?” Talia asks, waggling a finger between us. “At a game?”

I shake my head. “She works with my brother. He set us up.”

Let them think Yoni works at the bookstore. If they don’t know about Sylvie, I’m not about to spoil her secret.

It’s Sadie’s prerogative who she tells about her Sylvie persona. I don’t blame her for not sharing it with her family; they’ve proven to be woefully unsupportive in the rest of her life, I highly doubt they’d be allies to her writing career.

“And where are you from?” Bubbie Myrna asks.

“I’m from Tacoma,” I reply, squeezing Sadie’s knee.

“No, but where are you from?”

Oh.

She’s asking why I’m brown.

“My family is Israeli.”

Myrna raises her eyebrows. Most modern Israelis are transplants from another country, at least prior to 1948 when they could finally return to the homeland.

“I have family from Spain, Morocco, and Greece,” I finally say. “My grandmother’s family settled in Israel, then she brought my dad here when he was a kid.”

Mr. Hershkowitz squints at me. “They left Israel?” Not many people leave the promised land, especially not for the U.S.

“My grandmother worked for the embassy. Moved back when my dad was in college.”

I don’t explain my mother’s immigration story. Her family left Morocco for Gibraltar, then immigrated to Israel. Their families lived a few neighborhoods apart, but they didn’t meet until they were in the U.S. for college.

My grandmother passed when I was in middle school. She was a genuinely kind soul. When we’d visit her apartment in Haifa, she’d take me down to the markets and let me pick anything I wanted from the street vendors. Some of the best summers of my life were spent in Israel in her little apartment.

My parents Anglicized our names given that we were being raised in the U.S. Besides, they had enough difficulty with their own “ethnic” names in the 70s. I’m grateful they gave us the option to assimilate, even though I wish it wasn’t a decision they had to make.

My brother chose to go by his Hebrew name, Yonatan, whereas I kept the Anglicized name of Jared. My grandmother always spoke to us in Hebrew, my parents only occasionally spoke it when they wanted to have a conversation they didn’t want us to be privy to. I’ve lost most of the language now, given that I haven’t spoken it in about twenty years, but I remember a few choice phrases. I know enough to call my brother all sorts of bad names, order off a menu, ask for the bathroom, and explain that I don’t speak Hebrew.

The inquisition continues. Where did I go to college? What did I study? Why did I go into broadcast journalism?

Fuck, I’m surprised they haven’t asked why I’m not married yet.

“Is it serious?” Mrs. Hershkowitz waves between us. “Any plans to go ring shopping?”