My name is displayed on a banner that hangs in my high school gymnasium. Nearly 20 years ago, I finished my three years of varsity high school basketball in Massachusetts having scored over 1,000 points.

At the time, I was the second-leading scorer in school history. A few years later, after others players had also broken that barrier, the school created a banner for its 1,000-point scorers.

If the high school version of me had known that one day his name would hang on a banner in the gym, he would have been ECSTATIC. I got into basketball because I craved recognition. 

The game had always been fun, but I became totally consumed by it when I became a social outcast. After I finished fourth grade, my parents moved our family a mere five miles, but we went from a blue collar town to a more affluent one. I didn’t fit in, and to make matters worse, I was one of the younger kids in my class at my new school.

By the time I got to middle school, basketball became my refuge. I took my basketball everywhere, often dribbling it to and from school. Many days I would stay after school and sneak into the gym, taking shot after shot, for hours.

I wanted to be like my hero, Larry Bird, who dealt with a tough childhood (poverty and his father’s suicide) by obsessively pouring all his passion into hoops. While playing, a singular thought often ran through my mind:

Nobody likes me now, but someday, when I’m a basketball star, everybody will want to be my friend.

My plan worked. And my plan failed.

Aided by a natural jumping ability, I eventually became one of the best players on my high school team. And that success did bring me some popularity. I became part of the basketball “family” and girls finally started to pay attention to me. Most people in the school knew who I was. Occasionally I would dunk during the games and the people in the stands would go crazy.

My social situation vastly improved since the days of being an outcast. And yet something nagged at me: how come the same classmates who liked me once I became good at basketball hadn’t liked me before, when I was basically the same person?

The obvious answer was that they didn’t really like me, they just wanted to associate with a person who was popular.

Nowadays, I almost never think about that banner (I had actually forgotten about it for many years, until a sibling brought it up somewhat recently). But I do sometimes wonder why I’m no longer in touch with those former teammates who I once believed (hoped?) would be friends for life…

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I finally saw the movie Birdman recently. Excellent movie. Michael Keaton plays Riggan, a washed-up former movie star desperately chasing fame by attempting to star in a Broadway play. The futility of pursuing recognition is a recurring theme of the movie. In one moving scene, Riggan’s daughter, fresh out of rehab, screams at him.

Face it, dad, you are doing this because you are scared to death, like the rest of us, that you don’t matter. And you know what? You’re right…you don’t!

Riggan wants another taste of fame so bad, but the more he chases it, the more things seem to unravel. This is the same phenomenon that eventually brought down the evil Haman in the Purim story. Haman had every reason to be happy: money, power and the ear of King Achashveirosh. Everyone bowed before him, except for one solitary Jew. And that drove Haman crazy…and eventually to total ruin.

The Talmud states:

One who chases after honor will have it flee from him; one who flees from honor will have it pursue him (Eruvin 13b). 

It’s important to remember, in this era of Facebook friends and Twitter followers, that pursuing honor and recognition as an end-game almost never brings true happiness. Genuine simcha (Jewish joy) is obtained by connecting to HaShem, doing mitzvot and helping others. Building meaningful connections, as opposed to those based on ephemeral popularity, is one of the best guarantees of a happy life.

 Photo credit: Seeking Simcha (iPhone)