I first met him in a crowded, balmy northern Jerusalem pizza parlor called “Borough Park”. He, Asher Nesher, was working behind the counter, gracefully fielding all incoming orders from the virtually exclusively Haredi (ultra religious) clientele. Over a sea of black hats, through a jungle of beards and accompanied by a cacophony of Yiddish-tinged Hebrew, I elbowed my way through. After all, while these good people of the Book rhythmically debated the virtues of mushroom versus onion toppings, I had to hustle on back to the Jerusalem Post building, to resume and complete the night shift as a fast typing monkey, paid monthly in peanuts and promises.

We bonded over baseball. Wearing my “Think Blue” Dodgers t-shirt one bright, clear spring day turned out to be the precise brand of social lubricant that set Asher’s tongue in motion. Not that he knew a thing about the Dodgers specifically or baseball…