Growing up in the Kingsway Jewish Center community, sports were front and center for our gang of kids – a cohort that featured Marc and Josh Spivak, among a revolving cast of other actors. During Shabbat-afternoon youth groups, which we regularly attended throughout elementary school, the most popular and prevalent activities were (with all due respect to “Steal the Bacon” or “Red Light, Green Light 123”) touch football and punchball. When the Bnei Akiva movement ran the show for a year, the idealistic yet over-matched counselors sought to impose games, like haMapilim, that recounted various chapters in the annals of Zionism. However, the two sports were promptly reintroduced in the face of a pending insurrection and flagging attendance.
 

As winter gave way to spring, the mere end of “groups” did not derail these activities. We would either remain in the shul’s gymnasium or proceed to the outdoor court for another round of athletics. Citing a pre-bar mitzvah exemption from Mincha (the afternoon prayer), these games would usually last until around dusk.
 

The competition could get pretty heated. A dispute over whether a player stepped out of bounds, a tag was applied, or a fly ball was trapped was liable to trigger a vociferous argument, which could entail screams, name-calling, and a player walking off in anger, thereby prematurely terminating the contest. More often than not, though, the issue was resolved with a Solomonic “do-over.” I don’t remember a single incident where Joshua lost his cool. He certainly argued his case with aplomb, but with the neutral tone and reasoning of a learned arbiter. It bears noting that J-Spi’s famous one-handed stab down the line was not subject to any appeals whatsoever. In addition, the vast majority of these altercations were completely forgotten by the next weekend.
 

Even after graduating from youth groups, Josh and I continued to be involved as counselors throughout our undergraduate careers. The two of us shepherded the first and second graders for, if memory serves, at least two consecutive years. We would conjure up all sorts of obstacle-course races in the playground, where we had the kids plow through the sandbox, clamber up the red fire engine-themed bars, swing from rung to rung on the horizontal ladder, before eventually concluding with a death-defying toboggan down the towering, precipitous, and rather rickety slide. Motivated by such grand prizes as a baseball card or a piece of candy, our young charges would hustle their bustle as though an Olympic gold medal was on the line.
 

These afternoon sessions ended with the convocation of all the boys and girls. Throughout the year that Bnei Akiva ran groups, the wrap-up included the singing of the anthems of both the youth movement and the State of Israel. Only kids donning blue or white were eligible for the Hebrew Bazooka. On one occasion, after the short-lived Israeli experiment, Daniel Richter arranged a special concluding event: a massive treasure hunt, with clues hidden in, among other locations, the ground-level foyer by the cloak room, the cluttered storage room, and between the pews of the sanctuary.
 

After groups, some of the counselors and our friends, especially Josh, Marc, Neil Weintraub, Ari and Jeremy Rosenfeld, as well as Moshe and Menahem Fruchter would remain in the gym, where, you guessed it, we would engage in one sport or another. As we got older, basketball became the game of choice. More often than not, I was teamed up with Josh, as his size and rebounding acumen complemented my finesse game. These intense sweaty affairs, in pants and long-sleeve shirts, left such an imprint on all of us that a floater over Neil’s outstretched arms, Moshe’s feathery jump shot, Josh and Jeremy jostling for position down low, a key steal, and Ari’s anguished remonstrances vividly flash through my mind as I type these words. Many of us would also engage in hoops on Tuesday nights, when both the synagogue’s gym and swimming pool were open to the male membership.

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If this were not enough, as the Mets and Yankees headed north from Spring Training, the weekly softball game on Avenue V and Nostrand Avenue, right near the local projects, would swing into action. Besides for Marc, Josh, and the Sokolow boys, the pick-up game involved guys from across the age spectrum and all the Orthodox sub-denominations of Flatbush. The joy of playing ball in the friendly confines of that beat-up, hardtop diamond was enhanced by the participants’ good cheer. The banter and good advice that was always on offer during batting practice and while waiting for one’s licks during the game was nearly as enjoyable as the baseball itself. In contrast to his older brother, Joshua wouldn’t make anyone forget Rickey Henderson on the base paths. However, he was a solid line-driver hitter and capable first baseman with a knack for scooping up errant throws out of the scraggy infield.

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On more than one occasion, playing these games took a back seat to analysis of and debates over all the major sports fields, both professional and collegiate alike. This exceedingly serious enterprise would take place when the kids went down to play during the Torah reading and rabbi’s speech. Moreover, these exchanges would continue when the Spivaks finally showed up to shul just in time for Musaf. During the cantor’s reiteration of the Amidah prayer, Marc, Josh, and I would even host a faux talk show along the lines of Mike and the Mad Dog, recapping the week in sports. At this opportunity, I would like to abashedly implore all the congregants in our section for mechilah (forgiveness) for these youthful interruptions of Cantor Hecht’s melodious, if somewhat protracted, renderings of the supplementary service. As all the aforementioned partners in crime well know, the pleasure of schmoozing S-P-O-R-T-S was simply an insatiable urge – one that has persisted well into our adult lives.

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While certainly knowledgeable in basketball and the gridiron, Josh was a statistical savant of the first order possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of the national pastime. No less importantly, his easy-going manner and eloquence rendered J-Spi a wonderful conversationalist whose sweeping purview enabled him to put sports in its proper historical and social perspective. Sadly enough, my dear friend’s untimely departure will leave us with no choice but to posthumously induct him into both the Fandom and Menschkeit (roughly “Class-Act”) Halls of Fame.

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An abridged version of this article was read during Josh's shloshim (a Jewish memorial service thirty days after the burial of the deceased).