Showing His Stripes

I took up golf when I was 13-years-old. Even though I had spent my entire childhood playing sports, I’d always preferred catching passes or fielding grounders to hitting putts. But with my dad’s passion for the game encoded on my genes, it was only a matter of time, and once I struck my first pure 3-iron shot, I was hooked.

Ever since then, no one’s been able to get a club out of my hand. Not only do I love being out on the course, surrounded by nature in a beautiful setting, the game gives me a special language that I can speak with my father, something that I treasure deeply. And despite Roy McAvoy’s (Tin Cup) warning that “perfection is unattainable,” I enjoy tinkering and experimenting with my golf swing in hopes of discovering that one magic move that will unleash my full potential.

But more than anything else, I am captivated by the individualistic nature of the sport – that I’m out there alone, and it is all up to me to overcome the hazards, the elements, the breaks, and even my inner demons to get that little white ball into the hole.

Each time I tee it up is like taking a long look in the mirror and being put face to face with every facet of my personality. I learn more about myself – my strengths, my weaknesses, my integrity, my spirit – in 18 holes than I ever could on Dr. Melfi’s couch.

The game has this uncanny ability to expose your true character, testing you in every way imaginable. It will deflect a perfectly-executed shot into the water. It will defy you to bounce back from a double bogey that’s completely your fault. It will present you the opportunity to cheat without anyone knowing. And the way you handle all of this – the misfortune, the adversity, the ethics – can reveal who you genuinely are as a person.

Sadly, the exact opposite appears to be true of Tiger Woods.

On the golf course, Woods is the embodiment of a champion, possessing an iconic combination of talent, skill and athleticism that has propelled him to play the game at arguably the highest level ever. With a mental and emotional approach that rivals his physical gifts, he can seemingly will himself and his golf ball to do whatever is needed to succeed (case in point: winning the 2008 U.S. open on a broken leg).

But with the recent revelation that he has been unfaithful to his wife, cheating on her with enough mistresses to field a couple of starting basketball lineups, the public persona we’ve witnessed on the fairways was evidently nothing more than a façade.

When the news first broke, I immediately dismissed it, figuring it was just the work of some tabloid publication scrounging for exposure. After all, I had seen the American-dream portraits of Woods with his family. I had watched the commercial in which he eagerly awaits the delivery of a tiny set of Nike golf clubs for his unborn child. I had witnessed the scene at the British Open, where he fell into his wife’s arms, overcome with emotion from winning his first major title since losing his father.

There was no way he could’ve done this.

“It’s Tiger,” I assured myself.

That sentiment of belief carried a lot of credence, having been built over years and years of Woods being in the limelight. From the moment he walked onto the stage of The Mike Douglas Show at the age of two, he's been a part of our lives. We may have only watched him on a TV screen or from behind a gallery rope, but we got the sense we knew him, and we cheered him on as if he was our best friend.

The personification of hard work and determination, he was the poster child for everything that was right with the world, showing us that true greatness is possible, inspiring us to keep reaching for the stars and going after our dreams.

Several years ago, when I was attempting to play golf competitively, he was the gold standard that I was always striving for. His undying self-belief and bottomless resolve to get better motivated me whenever I struggled to get up those last few reps in the weight room or thought about skipping that extra bucket of practice balls. All I had to say to myself was, “Tiger’s working,” and I was immediately back on track.

And during the tough times, when I couldn’t do anything right, and I doubted that I had what it took, I would wish that I could be more like him.

Now, I feel foolish for ever wanting that.

But beyond his failure as any sort of role model, what makes his infidelity that much harder to comprehend is that he is a golfer. Unlike other sports, where the prevailing attitude is, “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying,” golf is a gentleman’s game, a game of honor, and every player who puts a peg in the ground is expected to uphold that.

That’s why we rake the sand traps and repair the green when our golf ball makes an imprint. We stay quiet while others are hitting. We call penalties on ourselves. And at the end of the round, we sign our scorecard, putting the weight of our name behind the number we post.

So while it may have a (much-deserved) rap for being exclusive and elitist, when it comes to honesty, golf rightfully holds its head high above the rest. And it’s shocking that a man who has devoted his entire life to the game could somehow miss out on its most basic lesson.

Look, I understand that he’s “far short of perfect,” and that everybody makes mistakes. As a young, good-looking billionaire, I’m sure he’s constantly presented with a buffet of women that any man would have a hard time resisting. And we don’t know what went on behind the closed doors of his Florida mansion…he could have a miserable marriage, or his wife could’ve threatened to go Lorena Bobbitt on him if he didn’t win The Masters every year.

There are a million different reasons why this happened, but unless he has a sex addiction – a real, medical condition he needs to be treated for – they all ring hollow to me.

Because when it comes down to it, you either do the right thing, or you don’t. You either act with character, or you don’t. You either stay true to your values, or you don’t. And the allure of forbidden fruit or the actions of others or any other excuse you can come up with should have no effect on the choices you end up making.

Fortunately for Woods, the world will eventually move on from this. We are a forgiving society, and it’s only a matter of time until our what-have-you-done-to-me-lately ADD kicks in. Sure, his first tournament back will be a circus, but once he starts winning majors again, most people will remember why they liked him in the first place – for his tremendous skill as a golfer.

But I will never look at him the same.

While he owes me no apology, he has violated a moral code that I believe in, and I cannot separate his ability as an athlete from the deceit of his infidelity. I see the whole man, and this will forever be part of the picture.

I had never doubted Woods before, whether it was his work as a philanthropist (which I will still applaud) or his capacity to overcome a five-shot deficit. But as more women come forward and more tawdry tales are told, I don’t know what to believe at this point…nothing seems implausible.

And if allegations suddenly pop up that he cheated on the golf course or was involved in shady business practices or took steroids to build his body, I’m not going to be able to automatically reject them anymore.

“After all,” I’ll cynically consider, “it’s Tiger.”

The Stress to Impress

My parents’ friends have always liked me. Maybe it’s because I know when to say “Please” and “Thank you,” or maybe it’s because I was a cute baby with especially fat cheeks they could pinch, but outside of the occasional complaint that I didn’t pass on a phone message, they’ve had nothing but good things to say about me.

In fact, one of my mom’s favorite pastimes is telling me how handsome her female friends think I am. I know that whenever I run into one of them at a wedding or event that it’s only a matter of time before my mother calls to relay their glowing report.

And while I appreciate the confidence boost, I’ve had to explain to her that because her contemporaries are married and have kids who are older than I am, their flattering opinion could never change my dating life from resembling an episode of Seinfeld – a show about nothing.

“Let me know when you start hanging out with Mrs. Robinson,” I’d say.

Last winter, though, the goodwill I had garnered over the years finally paid off. Having just moved to a new city, I barely knew anyone, and I was spending most of my nights driving around aimlessly, hoping to find a Subway where I could pick up dinner.

But that all changed after one of my mom’s oldest friends suggested I get in touch with her niece, Emily, who happened to live in the same area code. We exchanged a few e-mails, and she postponed on me once, but we were eventually able to connect.

As we settled in at the Thai restaurant of her choice, I was still unsure if it was a date, or if she was simply doing her aunt a favor. Not that I cared…she was prettier in person than her pictures I’d stalked on Facebook, and when it took us 45 minutes to open our menus because we were talking so much, I had to smile at my good fortune.

Over the next several months, the chemistry we had that first night continued to grow. She quickly accepted my over-the-top obsession for Texas Longhorn athletics, and I slowly got used to her affinity for singing random dialogue as if she were in a musical. Sharing the same sense of humor, we laughed constantly, and there were very few occasions when I didn’t feel completely at ease.

That is, until it came time to meet her parents.

Because I’ve had fewer relationships than Screech Powers, I have only been “presented” as the boyfriend once, and that was when I was a freshman in college. But being so young, it was a relatively low-pressure experience…I was nothing more than the non-threatening boy their daughter was hanging out with.

This was completely different, though. At this age, you’re not just going to football games or dancing at fraternity formals anymore…there are playoff implications here, and you are only introduced to someone’s family if there’s a chance for bigger and better things.

My knack for getting adults to like me was going to be tested like it never had before.

Adding to the pressure was the fact that Emily had recently come home with me for a weekend and met my parents. To say that they liked her would be an understatement. She charmed them with her personality, and – without any hint from me – brought them the perfect thank-you presents. They were so impressed that I think the first thing my dad did on Monday morning was call his lawyer to have her added to the will.

With the standard now set so impossibly high, I had to devise a way to match Emily’s performance. Knowing that her parents were friendly with my parents, I decided to use that to my advantage.

So when it was finally showtime, and we all sat down to dinner, I tried my best to relate as much of the conversation back to my mom and dad. Like a salesman staying on pitch, it was Jeanie-Stoller-this and Joe-Stoller-that. I figured that even though I might sound ridiculous, at least they were consistently being reminded that I came from a good family.

But when her father asked me what kind of job I thought the President was doing, my strategy reached a dead end.

Seeing how I know next to nothing about politics, I had no idea how to answer. I felt as if I was playing Trivial Pursuit and landed on green for a “Science and Nature” question about the intricacies of photosynthesis. And after three minutes of incoherent rambling and Beavis & Butthead “Uhhhs…” my ignorance was proven out.

Had Brian Fantana (Anchorman) been there, he would’ve turned to me and said, “Take it easy, Champ. Why don’t you sit this next one out…stop talking for a while.”

Luckily, her parents were as nice as they could be, smiling and nodding, as if I had made some sort of valid point. But inside, I felt like an idiot.

With my tail tucked firmly between my legs, I kept to myself for the next little while, hoping to not fuel the embarrassing fire. And it was during this period of quiet reflection when I remembered that we often date people who share similar characteristics with our opposite-sex parent: guys seek out girls like their mothers, and girls seek out guys like their fathers. So I was curious to see what I had in common with Emily’s dad.

Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that outside of the fact that we both wore glasses and we were both white, I simply didn’t measure up.

He was very cultured, asking about different wines and how certain entrees were prepared. His intelligence was obvious, as he spoke knowledgably about a wide variety of subjects. He clearly got his news from a channel that wasn’t ESPN.

I started to wonder if Emily had taken me on as some sort of charity case.

Over the next few weeks, though, I licked my wounds and said my daily affirmations. And when I heard that her parents would be in town again, and that I was invited to join them at their favorite Mexican restaurant, I was determined to make a better impression.

The night got off to a good start, and my confidence only grew with each sip of my swirled margarita. But I was still a bit on edge, bracing for the conversation to veer towards something I was utterly clueless about.

Then, out of nowhere, like a gift from above, the discussion turned to…

Fantasy football.

Because Emily is in a league, her parents wanted to know more about it. And having played with my friends for over a decade, this was right in my wheelhouse. I explained the way the draft works and broke down the scoring system. I talked about the effect the internet has had, and how we used to have to wait for the Tuesday paper to see if we’d won or lost. I was on a roll.

And then her father asked me how much I paid to be a part of my league.

Now, I freely admit that I pay a decent amount of cash for my entry fee. It’s not obscene, but it’s not cheap, and it is definitely more than I would prefer to spend. And the moment the figure came out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake by saying it.

I promptly tried to justify it by mentioning how I split a team with a friend, and how it allows me to keep in touch with everybody, and how it makes following the games more interesting, and that if you spread it out over the five-month season, it’s really not a bad entertainment value. But it was too late.

“That’s a lot of money,” he said, shaking his head.

STRIKE TWO!

When I recounted the story to my mother the next day, she calmed my fears, assuring me that Emily’s parents were some of the warmest, most non-judgmental people she’d ever met.

And honestly, that has been my experience with them, too. Despite the fact that I have portrayed myself as an uninformed, irresponsible gambling addict who risks too much change on a make-believe competition, they have been nothing but welcoming and accepting of me.

Their kindness will once again be tested in the coming weeks, as Emily has invited me to go home with her to California to celebrate New Year’s. Staying in their house, on their turf, I hope I can somehow summon the magic that allowed me to charm all of my parents’ friends into thinking I was a good guy.

But considering my track record, I should probably pack some of my baby pictures, just to be safe.

A Sticker Price Society

When I was in 8th grade, my friends and I started up a regular poker game that took place every Friday night. There was a revolving group of us who would meet at someone’s house, play into the early morning and then fall asleep for a few hours until it was time to go home.

Lord knows our parents couldn’t have been happy with our new hobby, but I guess they settled for the lesser of two evils: if we were going to develop a debilitating addiction, at least we were doing it in a safe environment.

The whole thing was all in good fun, though, and the stakes weren’t over-the-top, with the highest-valued chip being worth a quarter. But when you’re 14, and your bankroll consists of a $5 bill, it stung whenever you lost a pot.

And I got stung a lot.

Despite my best efforts, nobody was going to confuse me with Doyle Brunson or Mike McDermott. I lost so consistently that I became little more than a halfway house for my allowance on its trip from my dad’s wallet to my competitors’ pockets.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know the rules or understand the hierarchy of hands. My problem was that in a game that required trickery, I was too truthful. I couldn’t pretend to have something that I didn’t, and bluffing to any degree was out of the question. If I bet, I had good cards. If I folded, I had “rags.” And everyone knew it.

With honesty as my default setting, I inevitably had no money to count when the dealin’ was done.

Eventually, I stopped playing altogether, figuring there were more economical ways to spend my weekends. I recognized that I would never thrive in a situation that demanded me to be disingenuous…it just wasn’t in my nature.

Slowly, my gambling days faded into the rearview mirror, and I assumed that I was done with any setting that revolved around dishonesty and deceit.

But as I’ve gotten older, and I have seen more of what the world has to offer, the more I realize that the deceptive dynamic I struggled with at my friend’s kitchen table isn’t all that different from what I encounter in everyday society.

Everywhere I turn, I see it: people taking advantage of others, searching for an edge, trying to get away with something, regardless of the moral implications. Politicians lie so they can get elected to office. Corporations cook their books so their stock will go up. Athletes take performance-enhancing drugs so they can hit a ball farther. Larry David swaps out a 5-wood from his friend’s casket so he can play better golf.

This win-at-all-cost attitude has created a gap between what something appears to be on the surface and what it actually is at its core. Look no further than the sticker price of a car. We all know that only a sucker would pay the listed rate. But if you took a third-grader – an innocent, trusting soul who has yet to be jaded by cynicism and doubt – into a showroom, stood him in front of a car and asked him how much it cost, he’d probably point to the big, bold number that is printed on the window label.

And why wouldn’t he? That’s what the price tag says.

But out of insatiable greed, dealers choose to ask for more than what they deem the car to be worth, using their position of power to extort their customers for every last nickel they can get out of them. Why?

Because they can.

If they wanted to, dealerships could offer their vehicles at the bottom-line, can’t-sell-this-for-less price – a figure that is fair, accurate and would assure the necessary profit. But doing so would force them to sacrifice the opportunity at the few extra bucks they can get from shaking down the unsuspecting mark.

(Besides, every salesman knows this drop-dead figure anyway, so no matter how shrewd a negotiator you think you are, and no matter how much of the rust-proofing fee you convince them to knock off, you are still playing on their terms. You’re not getting a bargain…you’re getting the we’ll-use-Vaseline deal.)

Having to bend over like this all the time has permeated a lack of trust throughout our culture. We have to constantly be aware that someone could be trying to put one over on us, and we worry about being made a fool.

As a result, a person’s word is now worth as much as Kramerica Industries.

About a month ago, I had to cancel my cable service, so I called the 1-800 number and put in my request. The representative walked me through the process, explaining that I would be getting a pre-paid packaging box I was to use to send back my receiver. I asked him if I got a confirmation number, but he said I didn’t need one, assuring me that everything was taken care of.

But a few weeks passed, and the mailing supplies had yet to arrive. I figured it was just the cable company’s trademark inefficiency, but I wanted to make sure.

And it was good that I followed up, because when I finally got through to customer service, I was informed that they had no record of my previous call, meaning I was on the hook for the extra month of service.

My first inclination was to yell and ask to talk to a supervisor, but I determined that my best course of action would be to prove that I had, in fact, already submitted my cancellation. So I told the agent the exact date I had originally called, and I recounted the instructions I’d been given. I reminded him that at the beginning of our conversation – before I learned my service was still active – that I’d said I was checking to see if the packing materials had been sent. Why would I say that if that wasn’t the case?

When that got me nowhere, I pled with the guy, promising him that I was being honest, that I wasn’t just making this up to get out of paying my bill.

I asked him to have a little faith in me.

Not surprisingly, he wouldn’t. And as mad as I was, I couldn’t really blame him. After all, he probably fields countless calls from countless customers with countless excuses.

To him, I probably sounded like another boy crying wolf.

But I guess that’s just the way it is right now. We are all leery of one another, and we cast a suspicious eye towards everyone and everything we deal with. And until we stop collectively proving the notion that trust is something that needs to be earned – not given – that’s the way it will be.

Hopefully, though, we’ll one day be a sticker price society, where things will be what they seem, where there will be no need for the cliché “too good to be true.” People will mean what they say, and they will do the right thing.

That’s a world I could get with. Not only would it be a more pleasant place to live, but it'd probably help me hold onto my allowance for a little longer than usual.

B.O.H.I.C.A.

There are certain, unpleasant tasks in life that we all have to do at one time or another. From going to the dentist to showing up for jury duty to bending over for a colonoscopy, these chores are such a hassle and can be so agonizing that the only thing we can do is smile, bite our tongues and hope it doesn’t hurt too badly.

So that’s exactly what I tried to do on my recent trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Having relocated to a new state nearly a year ago, I decided it was finally time to switch my driver’s license and car registration to my current residence. And while I was not wild about severing these ties to my home state of Texas, the nostalgic disappointment I felt would soon be dwarfed by the mental and emotional anguish I was about to experience.

When I told people what I was attempting to do, they inevitably responded with a laugh and a sucks-to-be-you shake of the head. And I couldn’t disagree with them. Dealing with the government is never fun. They’re slow. They’re apathetic. And even though your tax dollars pay their salary, they would rather serve as a speed bump on their driver’s test course than go out of their way to help you.

Knowing this, I did everything I could to be fully prepared for my impending mission. I pored over their website like I was trying to crack the Da Vinci code, making sure that I had the correct type and adequate amount of each of the required documents. I wanted to be ready for any question or problem that might arise.

Once I accumulated everything – my passport, my social security card, my W-2 and two documents that proved residency – I set out for my neighborhood branch. Unable to go first-thing in the morning, I decided to show up in the mid-afternoon, hoping I could avoid the crowds by slipping in that window of time between the lunch and after-work rushes.

I mean, how many people could possibly need a license at 2:30pm on a rainy Thursday afternoon?

A lot, it turns out.

After checking in at the information desk – where they confirmed I had the proper paperwork – I took my ticket and sat down in the waiting area. I stared at the hanging TV screens, attempting to make sense of their system of jumbled letters and numbers to determine how many people were in front of me.

Ten minutes and a headache later, I estimated that I was approximately 80th in line.

Seriously.

After reading just a few pages of the book I’d brought, my eyelids began to get heavy. Because I had so much important personal information with me that could easily be stolen – and because I didn’t want to fall asleep on the scuzzy biker chick one seat over – I figured it’d be best if I came up with a different way to pass the time.

So I started observing my surroundings – the employees going through their motions, the mopes seated around me, the half-conscious security guard – and one thing became abundantly clear: nobody wanted to be here. It was a miserable environment.

The only ray of sunshine came from the 16-year-old who was about to get her license for the first time.

Slowly, with time dragging on, I got sucked into this void of negativity. My positive, do-what-you-gotta-do attitude gave way to frustration and anger. I reached the point where I hated everyone and everything in sight. Every time a person took exceedingly long at a window, every time someone disrupted the flow of the operation by asking a question when it wasn’t their turn, every time a clerk got up for a break (which was every 20 minutes), every time the automated announcer called a number that wasn’t mine, I felt like taking the “Now Serving” monitor and slamming it over my head.

Finally, after two hours of seething, I was summoned to window No. 4. Despite all of my research and preparation, a sense of uneasiness came over me as I laid my papers on the table. I couldn’t help but expect the worst.

Sure enough, the clerk examined my documents…then got up to go talk to her supervisor.

“Is there a problem?” I asked when she returned.

“Your passport has the name ‘Brent J’ and your driver’s license has the name ‘Brent Jason’,” she said. “Therefore, we can’t accept your passport as valid proof of identification.”

WHAT???

Every corner of my body became charged with rage, as homicidal visions swirled in my mind. The attendant’s blank, unsympathetic stare only fueled my fire, and I was so flustered that I could only manage a “Thanks a lot,” before storming out of the building.

But had I been able to construct a coherent thought, I probably would have asked why this discrepancy hadn’t been caught at the initial check-in, before I flushed two hours of my life away…or why my social security card or W-2 form didn’t count for anything… or if she was worried that my middle initial “J” stood for “Jihad”…or why MY PICTURE on the “conflicting” documents was not proof enough that I was who I claimed to be.

Not that saying any of that would’ve made a difference. Expecting the government to use common sense is like trying to convince Cialis that it’s impossible for a 65-year-old couple to carry two bathtubs into a meadow…it’s just not going to happen. Everything is black and white, and you’re completely at their mercy. If they think there’s a problem, no matter how miniscule, there’s absolutely nothing you can do to change the situation. All you can do is meet their ridiculous requirements.

In order to do that, I had my dad over-night my birth certificate to me, and I returned to the DMV the next day. As I waited in line, brimming with confidence, I was certain I would be successful. After all, I had the original document. It’s what my parents received on the day I was born. It had imprints of my feet on the back, for heaven’s sake.

They couldn’t say no to this, could they?

But that’s exactly what they did. Because the document was issued by the hospital – and not the state of Texas – the DMV had no use for it. I thought about taking off my shoe and slamming my foot on the counter for comparison, but I resisted the urge.

So now, I’m left to await the arrival of the certified copy of my birth certificate that I ordered from another government agency – the Department of Vital Statistics. I think I filled out the form correctly, and I think I made my check out properly, but the instructions weren’t very clear, so who knows if it will ever get here.

Not surprisingly, when I called to see if my request had been processed, nobody could tell me anything.

Over the two-and-a-half hours I have now spent at the DMV, I’ve seen an endless stream of people get called to a window, smile for the camera and get issued a driver’s license, while I’m still left out in the cold. I guess they were smart enough and prophetic enough to fill out every application, every official document – middle name included – in a uniform manner.

I understand the government has these rules in place to protect us, and sometimes, they can be extremely intrusive and inconvenient. And that’s okay. After 9/11, I’m willing to put up with whatever measures are deemed necessary to keep us safe.

That’s why I believe the President should deputize the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration to oversee the Department of Homeland Security. They’re deliberate, they’re unflinching and absolutely nothing gets by them.

After all, if they can protect their citizens from a hardened criminal like me, Al Qaeda shouldn’t stand a chance.

Oh, Brother

When I was a kid, there was nothing more I wanted to be than my older brother, Brian. Four years my senior, he was my image of cool, and I did all I could to serve as his “Mini-Me.” I listened to the same music. I played the same sports. I mimicked his hairstyle. I even dressed like him.

(Of course, that was partly due to the fact that my wardrobe rarely consisted of much more than his hand-me-downs, but still.)

As I got older, I naturally individualized, developing my own set of interests, but I never strayed far from the course Brian had set. Sharing the same values, morals and sense of humor, I figured our lives would always track in a similar direction.

That is, until Brian made a life-altering move that I simply could not duplicate:

He became a rabbi.

It’s now been over six years since Brian gave up his prestigious post as Press Secretary for a U.S. Senator to go to rabbinical school, yet I haven’t fully grasped that he is a “Man of the Tallis.” Hearing him identify himself as “Rabbi Brian Stoller” on his outgoing voicemail message still makes me laugh in amazement.

And while I have seen him co-officiate our cousin’s wedding, listened to him talk in-depth about the Torah and heard him chant at our grandmother’s funeral, nothing could have completely prepared me for my recent trip to his congregation for high-holiday services.

From the very beginning, I felt as if I was in an alternate universe. When my family and I pulled up to the temple and identified ourselves as relatives of the rabbi, the security guards went scrambling to accommodate us, directing us to a special, coned-off area of the parking lot, only a few steps from the front entrance.

Once inside, you would’ve thought we were royalty, as numerous members kept stopping us on our way to our reserved seats in the VIP section to gush over how wise and well-respected Brian was.

I guess they hadn’t heard that he used to run around the house in Superman Underoos.

But as the service got going, all of the complimentary things they had said about Brian were proven to be accurate. He was self-assured and confident. He was an outstanding speaker. He was a commanding presence on the pulpit.

He was…a rabbi.

Sitting in the audience, watching him lead his congregants in prayer, I was impressed – though certainly not surprised – with what my brother had become.

But I was also struck by how drastically our paths had diverged. I mean, here I was, in synagogue for maybe the fourth time since the Clinton administration, and there was Brian, standing in his white robe, giving the sermon on one of the holiest days of the Jewish year.

I couldn’t help wondering how this had happened. Where did Brian find this motivation? How had he located this road to soul-saving enlightenment that I had missed?

After all, we had grown up in the same house, where Shabbat dinner consisted of saying the blessings over a Domino’s pizza. Sure, we both had Bar Mitzvahs, and the Jewish Community Center often served as our second home, but our religion was not an integral part of our day-to-day existence.

Yet Brian somehow ended up developing a hunger, a yearning to seek out and learn about our heritage. Maybe it was because he was rejected by a girl because of his religion, or maybe it was because he had spent so much time as a kid at his best friend’s home, who happened to be the son of our rabbi.

Whatever it was, I apparently didn’t get the memo.

Judaism has just never engaged me. Like many kids, my parents made me attend religious school, hoping that I would embrace the faith I was given at birth. But I got absolutely nothing out of it. The subjects that were taught were uninspiring, and the song sessions made me cringe with annoyance. When I wasn’t misbehaving with my friends or watching the clock to see how much longer I had left, I was waiting for the cute girl two desks over to finally make eye contact with me.

Going to services was just as tedious – and much more confusing. With all of the Hebrew and sophisticated English being spoken, everything went way over my head. I didn’t know what I was praying for or rising to my feet in honor of.

How can you connect with something that you can’t understand?

So I’d bide my time until an opening presented itself – typically, right before the sermon – to take an extended bathroom break.

Practicing Judaism felt like something that I was being forced to do, so once I was out from under my parents’ jurisdiction, I put an end to the charade. I did not see the point in going to synagogue or reciting prayers or celebrating traditions if I wasn’t getting anything out of the experience.

Instead, I’ve chosen to express myself spiritually in my own way. I pray more than I ever have, but I do it whenever and wherever I feel the need, regardless of what the calendar reads. I say prayers that make sense to me. I express my thanks to G-d in a manner that resonates with who I am.

Despite my lack of formality, I do consider myself to be Jewish, and I still fast on Yom Kippur and attend the family Seder on Passover. If I ever have kids, I plan on raising them with a Jewish background.

But once they reach an age when they are informed and educated enough, I’ll encourage them to make their own decision about their faith, and I will honor whatever they choose. Because no matter what any biblical law says, I believe that what truly makes a person a Jew – or a writer or a golfer or anything that is part of one’s identity – is what is in their heart and mind, not their family tree.

I realize that there are those who look down on me for not being more active, that some see me as a catalyst for the demise of the Jewish religion. And maybe I am. But I’d rather be viewed as a “bad Jew” by my peers than stand in temple as a fraud before G-d.

Besides, if not practicing Judaism on a regular basis earmarks me for a not-so-pleasant after-life, I figure my brother can make a few calls to negotiate for my eternal salvation.