Still mired in the states (this first search was back in June or July), I found only the last item pertinent. I sat on the info until the appropriate time. About two weeks before my arrival in the promised land, I sent an email, written first in Russian. I then translated it into English, leaving in the clunkier phrases for effect, e.g. "I was hoping to know if you could help me find a club to train at," or "I would be most thankful". I received a response in email, we went back in forth, and they gave me the phone number again and told me to call when I arrived.
Again, once I got to Israel I did the wise thing and waited. A little more than a week in, I gave them a call. A woman answered. She was kind, and she gave me two phone numbers. One was to a guy named Leo in Bat Yam, and one to a guy named Sergei (I thought) in Ashdod. I would say Bat Yam:Tel Aviv as Brookline:Boston, right down to the large presence of Russians. Ashdod is a little while away, so I thought I'd leave that on the back burner.
I've talked about Bat Yam already; it was the judo club. My experience wrestling in a bunch of random places - dating to my high school summers when my brother would take me to police stations, barns, and unused factories for workouts - has taught me to be prepared for anything. So when I went to the practice the first time and found out it was a judo practice, I was surprised, but not at all shocked.
I went to one practice. It was fine. Still, between the hassle and traffic in getting there, the other things I had to do, and the lack of interest I have in judo itself, I didn't make it back for a couple of weeks.
Upon my return, I met a game of Russian basketball. Russian basketball is what we called it at Duke anyway: it's basically rugby with basketball hoops. The big variation here was that no one could hold onto the ball, so each step had to be followed by a pass. In a way, this was closer to basketball than the Duke version; dribbling not allowed, tackling and general physicality allowed. Also, we all stunk at basketball.
I went to that second practice to work out, but more so to consult with Lior the coach. He is the fat guy who cusses out his kids and smokes cigarettes. Also the director of the freestyle team in Israel. Me and Lior, gonna be good friends.
All he told me, really, was yes, going to the mafia guy is a bad idea; yes, going to see the federation in person is a good idea; no, if you end up getting Israel citizenship, you won't have to give up the rest of your life to the army. Just a few months. Hmmm.
So this past Sunday I went to the federation. It's located in the concourse of a soccer stadium in a northern district of Tel Aviv, relatively close to where I live. I drove in, parked at the wrong place, drove away to look a little farther down the street, then tried the soccer stadium on the rebound. I asked the first guy I saw inside if he spoke English or Russian, and then if he could show me to the wrestling office. Voila.
There I met Adi and Itsi. Itsi was a bald dude in his late 30s who didn't speak much English, and no Russian. Adi was a slightly younger woman who spoke no Russian but plenty of English. So we had a little chat about me and my prospects with the IWF. The big negative garnered from the discussion was that I can't enter the National Championship without Israeli citizenship; something about wanting your national championship to be for your nationals. I mean, whatever. We're looking to see if my visa will be enough.
The big positive garnered was a confirmation on the club in Ashdod - the dude's name is Firgor, not Sergei, but they're one of the big 4 clubs in freestyle in the country - and a new number for a greco club in Tel Aviv. I thought I'd expand my net of styles I'd be willing to work out in, and the level of greco here is higher than freestyle. As Adi explained, "Our greco program has been going for 25 years, while our freestyle has only been going for 10." And by program, I think she meant acceptance of Russian and Georgian Jews.
So the new greco club coach's name was Berhay they said, though he also went by Boris. "He's a good coach. That's a good club," they told me. They also gave me a location, Bet yanim, which was somewhere in the southern half of Tel Aviv, but closer than Bat Yam. And they told me he spoke Russian, not English.
This time I didn't do as much waiting. I got home, shopped along the way, and then decided to supplement my shopping by walking to the local supermarket. On the way, I gave ol' Boris a call. I explained who I was, asked him about his club, and he said, "Sure, we have a practice today, come on down." Unready for this, I agreed. We hung up. I returned to my shopping. It was 2:20.
At about 3:20, I gave Boris a call again. I couldn't understand what he had been saying about where his club was located, so I figured I'd try again while sitting in front of an Israel emap. He explained it again, but seemed a little surprised I couldn't catch it the first time, as if my knowledge of Russian was to blame for not making out the Hebrew names he hacked off over a shoddy cell phone connection. In any case, we sat there until I figured out that Kabir was spelled with an "i" and not an "e", and that Ha Tikvah was actually a section in Tel Aviv. I pinpointed the place, thanked him, and promised to be at practice by 6.
Back in February when I was at the job fair to find a job teaching for this year, the head of the organization hosting talked about the turning point in an interview when the school you're interviewing with begins to sell you on them, rather than you selling them on you. I didn't really notice that turning point in my interview, but somehow I got the job anyway.
The turning point with Boris came at 4:49, when he called me back. He wanted to make sure I would find my way there and make sure I was coming. "We'll have a good team, you compete with us, don't worry." I'm not going to practice tonight, I told him. "Of course not, no problem! It's good to meet, to talk, just come." So it was settled.
My plans for arrival changed slightly when I received a phone call. Former teammate and still friend Dan Fox, as well as a friend of his had just arrived in Tel Aviv, shockingly ahead of schedule at the Central Bus Station. So I flipped the order of my plans and drove in to find them. Finding the bus station was in itself a mess - not dissimilar to Boston, Tel Aviv has signs directing you towards the bus station but then ceases to give you the details when you get very close. Fortunately, some dude on the street directed me, in Russian, to the station, and when I drove by the corner where Dan and friend waited, I heard the familiar "Hey, Shorty!" call. I pulled into the taxi and buses row and added my companions.
Once we found our way out of the balagan around the bus station, we made our way across the major highway (the Ayalon) and into Ha Tikvah. The club was pretty close to the bus station, so even with a few bad turns we got there in short order.
Walking by the local stadium, we found a sign for a judo club (Boris suggested there would be one) and some dudes sitting outside of a building that could have been our spot. We approached and spoke to them.
"Medeber anglit o russit?"
"English a little."
"We're looking for a wrestling club."
"Wrestling?"
"Boris. We're looking for Boris."
"Oh, Boris! He's right over there," and the guy gave us the directions. It appeared Boris was big around these parts.
We went by a little soccer field, down stairs, and into another building. Turning right down a narrow hallway in the basement, we found our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; a blue mat and this fellow, sans trophy:
I never know what to expect from phone calls with these coaches. Lior was more your typical hardnosed wrestling coach, though quite soft-bellied. Boris looked like a wrestler - wide shoulders, a slight hunch in his back. When I walked into the room though, he wasted no time in getting to the greetings, giving me an awkward hug. Apparently that's how they treat top recruits; who said Israelis are cold?
For my first practice on a wrestling mat since July, I got the kid-gloves treatment. "Take a rest, don't do this drill," he told me during one of the neck warm-up exercises. "We don't want you waking up tomorrow and hurting everywhere, thinking, "Why should I wrestle?" Not wanting to disagree, and eager to trust the Russian training methods (i.e. being out of shape and lazy), I sat out that exercise.
Once the warm-ups stopped, I began to wrestle with Boris's son, Alex. Alex was an Israel National Team member in Greco, and had about 5 KG on me. Unlike his dad, he spoke English, which led to a mixture of Russian and English instruction as he explained I should step in on the underhook and not sit on my crappy lat-drop. "That's the only move I have!" I explained to him. Ahh, greco.
After 10 minutes of "push-push" (lazy live) with Alex, I was released to get a drink. Then I went with one of the newer wrestlers as they drilled getting off their back. I went live with this new guy too, and threw him around a little bit, if threw him around suggests avoiding his throws and getting many one-point takedowns.
The highlight of the first workout came when Boris himself came over to roll with me. Boris is a 2-time world champion...in the veterans level. He's also 50, I believe. And he was quite impressed with my freestyle wrestling. As he should have been, because when we went freestyle, I took him down six ways to Sunday. It's unclear whether he wasn't trying, wasn't in practice at freestyle anymore, or was just old. But he was impressed, regardless.
And so after practice he told me, "Don't go anywhere else to wrestle, or do judo, or karate, or anything, just work out here." Before I could respond, he added, "I've signed you up for our club anyway." Settled.
He did say that I might be able to practice for free, as long as I can compete for the club. So I'm a signed and pledged member of Bet Yanim. Go BY! Yeah? No? Well, it's good to fit in somewhere.
Postscript: That practice was on Tuesday. By Wednesday I had spotted at least 3 cases of ringworm on my person. Mmm.
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