It is a warm, bright afternoon. The sky is a perfect, cloudless blue. You are sitting in a massive, open-air stadium, surrounded by the sensory overload of a classic summer day.

You hear the sharp crack of a bat, followed by the sudden, deafening roar of sixty thousand voices rising in unison. The smell of hot dogs and fresh-cut grass hangs in the air. High-definition screens flash, music swells, and everywhere you look, there is life, energy, and unbridled joy.

It is the picture-perfect image of a peaceful, modern Sunday.

You are sitting there with a close friend. He is a quiet man, thoughtful. He is also the son of Holocaust survivors.

As the crowd slowly settles back into their seats after a home run, your friend doesn’t look at the scoreboard. Instead, his eyes slowly sweep across the towering tiers of the grandstands. He takes in the sheer, staggering sea of humanity—the thousands of faces in the upper decks, the packed lower levels, the lines at the concourses.

He turns to you, his voice barely a........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)