In bikurcholim

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Had you asked me four years ago if I knew Hank Rosen, the following dialogue would have followed:

Q: Who?
A: Hank Rosen
Q: You mean Hank Greenberg, one of baseball’s best hitters, played for Detroit but never on Yom Kippurs?
A: No, Hank Rosen.
Q: Who did he play for?

Fast forward four years. Now I know Hank’s birth name, his wife’s name, his street address, his email address and his telephone number. I even know where he buys his bagels. And he knows as much, maybe more, about me.

How did this strange turn of events come about. Two words: Bikur Cholim. Four years ago I might have thought that was a Turkish cigarette. Now I know better. And I see the real Hank Rosen: the family firster, the Temple worshipper, former business tycoon.  And I like what I see.

What do Hank and I talk about when he visits? Well, there’s the NBA and UJA, the CFL, NHL, Isra-el, EMAIL GMAIL and NETANYAHOO.

So my friend best wishes, I’m rushing to lunch, they’re serving gefilte fishes.

Milton.

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