By the Grace of the Game Read online

  For Mom, Bec, and Sam

  contents

  foreword by Ray Allen

  introduction: what matters most & why

  1. life & the city game

  2. Auschwitz & a spoon

  3. The Garden & beasts

  4. soup & Nazis

  5. seeds & the Farm

  6. Eichmann & Wallenberg

  7. a tic & the clock

  8. gypsies & Transylvania

  9. mind & body

  10. smugglers & icon

  11. pain & progress

  12. death & basketball

  13. an accident & Larry Bird

  14. the store & a beating

  15. Germany now & then

  16. king & Queens

  17. ring & run

  18. mettle & gold

  19. milk & honey

  20. end & the association

  21. now & when

  acknowledgments

  photo gallery

  foreword by Ray Allen

  I’ve been a student of the Holocaust ever since I saw Schindler’s List in 1993, when I was just a young college basketball player at UConn. The movie had a profound effect on me. It wasn’t because I saw Germans killing Jews; it was because I saw people killing people. I was raised to believe that all human beings should be treated with dignity and respect, regardless of their race, ethnicity, or religion. I was shaken by the knowledge that six million Jews and millions more were murdered by their fellow man. From that day on, I felt an obligation to educate myself on what humanity was capable of. I read books about the Holocaust and watched documentaries. I asked questions. I did my research.

  In 1998, as an NBA player for the Milwaukee Bucks, I made my first visit to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. I’ll never forget entering a room at the museum filled to the ceiling with pictures of Jews from a town in Poland. Looking at their faces, they could have been my neighbors, friends, or classmates. They were just like you and me. Nearly 90 percent of them were murdered in Nazi death camps.

  I was a rising star in the NBA, but I walked out of the Holocaust Museum that day feeling insignificant. I had just borne witness to something so much bigger than myself. I knew what I had to do going forward. I was now on a mission. My plan was to use the Holocaust Museum as a vehicle to teach young people in positions of power why it’s important to be inclusive and not exclusive. My hope was to show them that the Holocaust wasn’t just a Jewish tragedy. It was a human tragedy.

  Over my 18-year NBA career, whether I was playing for Milwaukee, Seattle, Boston, or Miami, I’d take someone to the Holocaust Museum whenever we were in D.C. They’d always thank me afterward. I could see in their eyes that their perspective had shifted. After my playing career ended, my education accelerated. I traveled to Poland and visited the site of the Warsaw Ghetto. I moved through the iron gates of Auschwitz and was consumed by the silence. Just stepping foot on that soil was chilling. Imagine walking the train tracks at Auschwitz where prisoners were offloaded. Or touring the barracks where prisoners were housed. Or entering the gas chambers where these innocent people were killed. The heaviness of it all was overwhelming. I can still feel it to this day. When I was appointed to the board of the Holocaust Museum by President Obama in 2016, it was an honor and responsibility I could never have imagined as that young kid watching Schindler’s List in college.

  All this time, despite immersing myself in Holocaust history, I was unaware of any connection between this horrible historical event and the game of basketball that had given me so much. I didn’t realize that a family I’ve called my friends for more than 20 years actually were that connection. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how well you know someone or how much time you spend with someone. There are always things that stay buried beneath the surface.

  My relationship with the Grunfeld family started in 1999, when Ernie was named the general manager of our team, the Milwaukee Bucks. It was roughly a year after my first trip to the Holocaust Museum. Ernie came to the Bucks after having been a longtime NBA player and then the GM of the New York Knicks. He and I clicked instantly. He brought a New York City toughness that our team needed. I can still hear his heavy New York accent as he challenged us to demand excellence of ourselves and each other. I had no idea that English wasn’t Ernie’s first language and that most of his family had been killed in the same death camps that I’d studied over the years.

  I vividly remember visiting Ernie at his new house once he’d settled in Milwaukee. He walked me past the many pictures of his wife, Nancy, his daughter, Rebecca, and his son, Dan. I had already gotten to know the family and could tell they were a tight-knit group. Ernie was committed to his wife and kids over everything else. Nancy was the rock. Becky was all smiles. Dan was a budding high school basketball player who was always shooting hoops at our practice facility. Whenever I’d give him advice about his game or a pair of shoes out of my locker, he was humble and grateful. They seemed like the quintessential American family. I didn’t know about the history they all carried with them.

  When Ernie showed me around his basement, he pulled out a few bins that contained the artifacts of his long and successful basketball career. There were jerseys, shoes, warmups, and other items. They were all nice and neat. I knew it was a life’s pursuit contained in a few boxes, like mine would be one day. Ernie didn’t say a word about his incredible origins or the tragedy he’d experienced before basketball. He didn’t talk about his past, so I never knew the truth.

  Now, I’m proud to stand with my friend Dan as he tells his astounding family story for the first time. Dan grew up to be a professional basketball player himself, but he is a writer at heart, and you’ll see his gift on full display in this book. Ernie is the only NBA player whose parents survived the Holocaust, and in By the Grace of the Game, Dan is somehow able to make this complex journey from Auschwitz to the NBA come to life on every page. We’re able to walk in the shoes of prisoners in concentration camps, of immigrants in America, and of generations of a family who were improbably saved by basketball. We’re able to feel a son’s unshakable commitment to his father and grandmother. And we’re able to see how the tragedies of our past manifest in the generations that follow.

  There’s pain and heartache in this book, but at its core, it’s about love, perseverance, and hope. This story is the embodiment of the American Dream. It shows why we should never stop fighting and never give up. It highlights why treating people right, taking care of each other, and embracing our differences will always matter most. It will help us remember that everyone we meet has a story we know nothing about. It’s proof that we must continuously fight for the equality of every human being, no matter their gender, race, or religion.

  The goals I used to set for myself in my playing days revolved around basketball. My main goal now is to spread love and human connection. I hope you feel this love as you read this one-of-a-kind story. It’s a captivating and inspiring journey, as moving as it is miraculous, and I’m grateful that you’re finally able to experience it. I know it will teach you a lot about hoops, about history, and ultimately, about the humanity that binds us all together.

  Ray Allen is a 10-time NBA All-Star, a two-time NBA champion, and a Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Famer. Allen previously served on the board of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum.

  introduction: what matters most & why

  On more occasions than I’d like to admit, I’ve become violently ill from my grandmother’s Hungarian food. These unpleasant incidents have had nothing to do with contaminated ingredients or poor preparation. The truth of these mishaps is simpl
e: my grandmother’s cooking is so incredible that I can’t stop eating it.

  When I sense that her food is near, my eyes narrow and my heart soars, my every thought consumed by the impending flood of flavor. I lose all control. My mind goes blank, like an empty tray of her perfect pastries. I ignore that the pot will boil over and instead devote all my energy to feeling the heat. Despite the consequences — and believe me, they can be dire — I’m willing to exceed my body’s capacity if it means I can keep tasting my grandmother’s goodness. I’ve eaten myself sick from her food more than a dozen times, and I’ll gladly do it a dozen more.

  Rántott hús, meggyleves, piros krumpli, káposzta cosca, almas pite. I’ve been eating these dishes since I was a kid, a world away from where they originated. I didn’t rise from the ashes like the rest of my family — I’ve lived a charmed life replete with any cuisine I could desire — but my grandma’s traditional Hungarian food is what’s always felt like home. They’re the same meals her mother made for the family before they were murdered in the Holocaust. I know that by cooking them for me, my grandma feels connected to those she lost. The souls of her loved ones are gone, stripped from the bone in the most unimaginable of ways, but these sacred plates of food will live forever.

  I call my grandma Anyu, which means “mother” in her native Hungarian. She calls me tatele, a Yiddish term of endearment, though she’ll also refer to me as kinchem, kichikinchem, apukum, drago, chilugem, shefele, or budesh kutcha, which translated literally means “smelly dog.”

  When she speaks one of my nicknames, the words emanate from her gut. Most utterances live in the throat, but Anyu’s tateles and apukums and budesh kutchas emerge from somewhere deep. They come out dripping with love. There’s a gratitude to her affection, a sense that surviving the Holocaust taught her never to miss an opportunity to show her people how she feels about them.

  For as long as I can remember, Anyu and I have talked on the phone every day, at one point or another. Wisdom has flowed freely during our calls, but only in one direction. When I’ve been nervous about where life might take me, Anyu has reminded me to stay focused on the work. When I’ve been disappointed in myself, she’s encouraged me to view things from a different perspective. When I’ve been unable to handle the pressure, a common occurrence during my college and pro basketball careers, she’s told me not to take things to my heart.

  And when I’ve eaten myself sick at her apartment, she’s flashed an easy smile, smoothed back her glowing white hair, and promptly offered me more food.

  Conversations with older people can be limited in scope — the weather, gossip about the neighbors, dinner options, distant relatives, joint pain — but Anyu moves comfortably between politics, sports, her social life, career advice, and current events. The familiar tone of her voice produces a calming effect on me, though I know she’s always been self-conscious about her accent. It’s thick and rich, a melody I don’t register after so many years of hearing it but one that’s distinct and ever-present.

  She’s a Hungarian speaker from Romania, but her son, my dad, became a star in America. If the magnitude of an American Dream is measured by the intensity of the nightmare that came before and the heights of the triumph achieved after, then my dad has lived an American Dream story of unprecedented scale. He took our family from the grips of the Nazis to the top of the Olympic podium, from the cheap seats to center stage at Madison Square Garden, from yellow stars to silver spoons. He’s the only player in NBA history whose parents survived the Holocaust.

  Still, Anyu’s accent serves as a small yet constant reminder of where they come from and the terrible things that happened there. I might not hear the accent, but I receive the reminder. The screams from Auschwitz echo across generations. The smoke still billows. It’s impossible to blunt the realization that my family members were gassed to death and burned to nothing in ovens. They lived lives of passion and purpose but were turned into powder. That knowledge circles the spirit and is impossible to shoo away.

  I was born into privilege, with advantages my ancestors couldn’t have imagined, but I’ve never been able to separate my present from their past. The Holocaust and communism and life as refugees caring for a dying son in New York City are only the beginning. The true improbability of it all lies in the discovery of a game — the game of basketball — that unknowingly held the power to heal past wounds and tie a complicated history together, all the way from them to me. Our story is one of an ordinary family thrust into extraordinary circumstances. There’s been darkness, but by the grace of God, there’s also been basketball.

  1. life & the city game

  My birth was planned around Judaism and basket­ball. It’s an appropriate testament to what I was inheriting. When I was born in 1984, my dad was an NBA player for the New York Knicks. My parents scheduled my C-section delivery to take place between two long road trips so he could be present for both my birth and my bris, the Jewish ritual of circumcision on the eighth day of life. I’m sure thousands of Jews in New York City during the 1980s planned their sons’ bris ceremonies around Knicks games. My dad was almost certainly the only Jew actually playing in the Knicks game.

  With my mom nine months pregnant, Dad embarked on a three-game trip to Texas to play the San Antonio Spurs, Dallas Mavericks, and Houston Rockets. On that trip, he watched his college running mate Bernard King score 50 points for the Knicks on back-to-back nights against San Antonio and Dallas. Dad can be seen on the bench in old videos of that second 50-point game, jumping up and down with his fists in the air and slapping five with his teammates. His shorts end mid-thigh. His hair ends at the shoulder. His mustache never ends. His improbable basketball career was drawing to a close by then.

  After Texas, Dad played one home game against the Golden State Warriors at Madison Square Garden, scoring six points in 12 minutes. He was at the hospital when my birth was induced the following morning. He then hit the road to play in Utah, Denver, and Kansas City, returning from his second road trip eight days after I was born, just in time for my bris. He didn’t rush back for my bris because he was particularly religious. He rushed back because it’s a holy moment for a Jewish family. Besides, Anyu had knitted the yarmulkes — white with blue trim — and there was no way he’d disappoint her.

  The ceremony was held at our home in northern New Jersey. The Carnegie Deli, New York’s famous Jewish eatery, provided the corned beef and pastrami sandwiches on the house. They also threw in gefilte fish, pickles, chopped liver, the works. When a Jewish guy is a New York City basketball legend and an NBA player for the hometown Knicks, the Carnegie Deli will comp whatever the family noshes on for his son’s bris. In New York City, that’s a guarantee.

  Family and friends gathered around, kibitzing quietly as they watched me get my penis snipped. Apu, my grandfather, held me as the mohel did his work. Anyu and Mom cried. The men cried, too, moved by the spiritual nature of it all. I’d entered into a covenant that Jewish parents had bestowed upon their sons for 3,000 years. Even the Holocaust couldn’t break this tradition.

  At the time, my dad wore No. 18 for the Knicks, a symbolic number in Judaism representing the word chai, which means “life” in Hebrew. New York City has the largest Jewish population in the world outside of Israel. My dad is the only Jewish player ever to wear No. 18 for the Knicks. One of my favorite pictures from my childhood involves that No. 18. It was taken at the end of my dad’s playing career, after one of his Knicks practices. He’s standing on the court wearing a white No. 18 practice jersey and blue Knicks sweatpants. He’s barefoot, his thick ankles exposed, his size-16 feet planted onto the hardwood like tree stumps. He’s 6’6”, 235 pounds.

  I’m standing on the court a few feet away from him, tiny and unassuming, a toddler dressed in jeans and a red sweater, a dark turtleneck underneath. I have miniature Nikes on my feet. My clothes are small enough to fit a large doll or a small human. I happened to be the latter.

&n
bsp; The hoop hovers directly behind us. The basketball I’m holding is as big as I am. My arms and legs are tensed, as if I’m attempting to shoot the ball into the basket perched so high above me. I’m not yet two years old, but the basketball had been placed in my hands. From the very beginning, it felt important that I learn how to do something with it.

  After his retirement from playing, when Dad was broadcasting games on the radio for the Knicks, he’d be invited to do shooting clinics at basketball camps around New York. Kids would ask where he was from. He’d always say New York City. Forest Hills, Queens, to be exact, right off of Continental Avenue, around the corner from the Austin Street Playground. It was impossible to tell that he’d fled a communist regime under duress and that English was his second language. He had no accent whatsoever. No one could have known that he still dreamt and counted in Hungarian.

  During these clinics, Dad would teach proper mechanics on a jump shot — shoulders squared to the rim, elbow in, ball on the fingertips — before demonstrating himself. As he swished shot after shot, he told the crowd how easy shooting could be if you focused on the fundamentals. “I bet the smallest person here can shoot the ball like this as long as the technique is good,” he’d say, peering into the throng of cross-legged campers. He’d point to the one kid who was tinier, skinnier, and sadder looking than the rest. “How about you?” he’d say to the runt. “Why don’t you come up and demonstrate how to shoot the basketball the right way?”

  I was scrawny and pale with a jagged bowl haircut and a cluster of misshapen freckles on each cheek. My protruding ears and rashy skin tied the unfortunate look together nicely. Just think about the boy in the movies who gets his head stuffed in the toilet by the older kids at school. Then think about the boy whose head that boy stuffs in the toilet. That was me.

  Standing up and straightening my shorts, I’d weave through the pack and make my way up front. I wasn’t part of the camp and had been planted in the crowd by my dad. I was roughly five years old. The real campers were 10 and up. I’d hear laughs and whispers as I approached the basket, being so frail and dorky compared to the bigger kids. Dad would flip me the ball and remind the crowd of the correct mechanics he’d displayed. There’d still be snickering as I positioned the ball in my hands. The instant my wrist snapped forward and the ball glided off my fingertips, arching and spiraling through space in precise harmony, its trajectory fixed on its destination, that snickering disappeared. That’s when I learned how satisfying it could be to shut people up.