The World's Second Fastest Chazan, Part 2 of 2

(See the previous post for Part 1)

Finally, the day of the competition arrived. Ami rose before first light, so that he could down a breakfast of raw eggs without violating the prohibition against eating before davening. Nervous, he put on his tallis and tefillin at home just to use up the time before the showdown. Finally, accompanied by an entourage of family, friends and neighbours, he walked into the door of the Minyan Factory. Ami looked at the chart on the coatroom door, found the minyan with his name, and went to the assigned room. His male allies filled the benches around him; the females had to wait outside, as there was no Women’s Section.

The rules of the competition allowed the competitors to choose their chazan for Pesukei d’Zimra. Ami had his brother, Simcha, for the task. Simcha’s job was to serve as a pacesetter, helping Ami to warm up and build up speed. After the first two years of failure, Ami had thought about replacing Simcha, but at the moment he didn’t know of anyone better. Simcha was a good boy, Ami reflected; he knew how to get the rhythm going, and he had even changed his own pronunciation to match Ami’s newly adopted customs.

Berachos. Ashrei. Hallelukah 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5. Baruch HaShem l’Olam. Az Yashir. And then, there it was, the amud was open. Ami stood up; somewhere in the back of his head, he heard “The Eye of the Tiger” playing. He marched to the front, breathed, and launched into Yishtabach. Kaddish. Borchu. As always, Ami was careful to maintain optimal kavvanah – an awareness of what each paragraph was about, but not so much awareness that he would be distracted from the business at hand.

First berachah. Ahavah rabbah. Shema. After completing Shema, while waiting for the Rabbi to finish, Ami glanced at his friends; they were smiling. The rhythm was there today. His lips were dry enough that there would be no salivary distraction, but not so dry as to be a nuisance. And the pages were turning well; score one for Koren. If he won, Ami would never use Artscroll again.

The Rabbi said "Emes", and Ami was off and running. He used the minyan’s silent Shemoneh Esreih as one final preparation run for chazaras hashatz, just like the gemara (Rosh HaShanah 34b) said he should. Then he watched for the signal – and there it was! Ami sped through the words like he had never sped through them before. Avos. Gevuros. Kedushah. Refaeinu – with a moment’s thought about his sick mother, who couldn’t be here this morning because she was recovering from a heart attack yesterday. Teka b’Shofar. Modim. Birchas Kohanim – and his chevra knew how to respond Kein Yehi Ratzon quietly enough that they wouldn’t distract him. Sim Shalom. And he was done. Ami was out of breath, but he knew it had been a good race; now he just needed to wait for the results from the other minyanim.

The minyan skipped tachanun – the Minyan Factory imported chasanim daily to ensure they wouldn't need to recite this wordy apology for their sins. Ami recited kaddish, took out the Torah, and then he was done. Someone else would mop up, while he waited nervously for the scores.

Ami took off his tefillin, waited for Aleinu and the Yom to end, and then went downstairs to the breakfast room, joining the contestants from the other minyanim. They all grinned at each other, with the camaraderie of men who shared a fierce but fair rivalry. The Yekkie was there; he clapped Ami on the back and said, “I’ve heard you were good!” Ami tried to parse what those words might mean, but dropped it as the Chief Gabbai made the announcement –

- declaring Ami the winner! He had done it! Ami was the World’s Fastest Chazan!

Oh, the joy and jubilation! Later, Ami would face the nervousness that would come with needing to defend his title, but for now, he was the Champion! He hugged his wife and children, called his mother in the hospital, did a prizefighter pose with the golden gartel for the photographers, and sat down for a bagel with cream cheese. Later, he would watch these moments on YouTube and relish the joy all over again.

On the following Sunday, while getting ready to go to shul, Ami overheard his nine year old son David  davening in his room. Or it seemed like he was davening, but he didn’t seem to be saying all of the words. Ami listened outside for a while, and then entered the room and asked, “David, what’s going on? Why are you skipping words?”

David blushed. “I’m not as fast as you yet, Abba. I’m only the world’s second fastest chazan, Ima says. So I need to skip some words in order to keep up. But when I’m older, I’ll be as fast as you, and then I’ll be able to say all of them.” And he gave his father an admiring hug, and went back to his Koren siddur.

The World's Second Fastest Chazan, Part 1 of 2

The contest ad was released on the listservs of dozens of shuls at 10:00 PM EST after Shabbos Shirah. By 10:02 PM, Ami had texted his wife, married son and five closest friends, “Game On!” He would have Tweeted it, but as a fifty-something who hadn’t noticed Twitter for its first few years he always had the feeling he was missing something about how the platform worked, and he didn’t want everyone laughing at him for some silly error. Better to focus on the competition instead.

And focus is what Ami did; he posted the flyer for the Third Annual World’s Fastest Chazan competition in his cubicle at work and over their desktop computer at home. He put a copy in his tallis bag, and a mini-version in his siddur. Game On, indeed; Ami was going to finish first this year, he could feel it.

In truth, Ami had felt this certain before; he was perennially sure no one could match his strategies at the Minyan Factory showdown. For the first year, he had switched to Sephardic pronunciation in order to take advantage of the split-second benefit of Tav over Sav. (The rules allowed chazanim to compete in their declared mivta; Ami hoped his ancestors wouldn’t mind this switch.) He had lost anyway, by a handful of seconds, to a Yekki from Washington Heights.

For the second annual competition, Ami had tried another change: From now on, he would pronounce every sh'va as a sh’va nach instead of a sh’va na. He was definitely faster, but it still wasn’t enough; his Yekkish nemesis was faster again, apparently without effort.

But after the second year’s race Ami had noticed something – examining slowed-down video footage for clues, he had realized that his all-Hebrew Artscroll included more words per line than his chief competitor’s Koren. What if there was something psychological or neurological about seeing more words on a line? It was counterintuitive – after all, fewer words on a line meant more possibilities for distraction when going from one line to the next – but what if...? And he also wondered about those thin Koren pages; might they turn faster than the softer Artscroll pages? So he would switch to Koren this year, and see if that would help.

Ami spent a great deal of time searching for minute advantages, but he knew that the main thing would be to practice – and did he ever practice. The contest’s setting would be a bona fide Monday morning minyan of Minyan Factory commuters trying to catch a train, and the timed contest would be chazaras hashatz (the chazan’s repetition of Shemoneh Esreih), and so Ami took every opportunity available to recite those words of the liturgy. Sitting in traffic on his morning and evening commutes, riding in elevators, running on the treadmill at the gym, standing in the shower (without stating G-d’s Name or complete pesukim, of course)… his wife Rivkah reported he was even mumbling kedushah in his sleep.

Ami’s regular morning minyan joined the effort; it would be a point of pride, as well as a marketing advantage in the neighbourhood, if their chazan would hold aloft the golden gartel of the World’s Fastest Chazan. Their shul did not have money or a very large membership, but who wouldn’t appreciate the chance to walk, rather than run, to the train after davening? So when Ami began chazaras hashatz each morning, the members of the minyan all looked at the clock, aware of what was at stake. When he finished they all noted the time. But no one mentioned times to Ami; it wouldn’t do to rattle him if the news was bad, or jinx him if it was good.

A month before the competition, one of the regulars lost his father; the minyannaires felt for him, but they also wanted Ami to have his shot, and so they established a breakaway minyan for the avel, where he could also daven for the amud. They all had Ami's back, even the avel. Ami felt like Rocky Balboa running the streets of Philadelphia, trailing a parade of admirers and supporters.

One week before the showdown, Ami asked Rabbi Schwartz for special dispensation to perform extra recitations of the complete repetition of Shemoneh Esreih, with G-d's Name, during his day. “Couldn’t it be like a tefillas nedavah (voluntary prayer)?” he pleaded. “I would have total kavvanah, I always do!” But Rabbi Schwartz explained that this was not a valid halachic option. Ami suspected that he was not a fan of the competition, but it was hard to tell for sure; whenever Ami looked at Rabbi Schwartz during chazaras hashatz, the Rabbi was always reading from a sefer or looking at his phone.

Continued here...