Hapoel Speaks: The Story of Ami Admoni
- Joseph Press IV
- Feb 2
- 11 min read
The sport of football has never been more popular or accessible than it is today. Games in countries ranging from Chile to China can be viewed thousands of miles away, live and in color, with only a Wi-Fi connection, an iPhone, and a ESPN+ subscription costing 15 US dollars a month. The biggest clubs in Europe are, effectively, global brands with millions of supporters spanning every corner of the earth. And the game is practiced and played, both recreationally and competitively, by broad swaths of people from all walks of life in states, cities, and locales around the world.
The steady increase in civilian engagement with football — from television, video games, and social media, to player development programs, practice fields, and futsal courts — has grown the game immensely over the course of the 21st century. And, with more people tuned in than ever before, the drivers of the professional game at the highest level — players, coaches, and owners — have become household names to fans both casual and die-hard alike. Indeed, everyone knows Messi, Ronaldo, and Mbappe, for these men are not mere athletes, but celebrities with millions of followers around the world. And, as the players have transcended “athlete,” so too have the most successful teams transcended “club” — for they are now transnational corporations owned and operated by men that oftentimes have no relation to or interest in the communities they represent.
And so, it must be said that as football has grown in participation and viewership, the burgeoning business of the game has served its sponsors well. In short, players, coaches, and owners at the highest level today are all incredibly rich. So rich, in fact, that they have become overwhelmed by what psychologists call the disease of more — more endorsements, more exposure, and more games, all in hopes of making more money. But, as is the case in almost every walk of life, greater profits do not mean greater quality. Indeed, as the salaries for players, cost of tickets for fans, and profits for owners have all increased — so too has the artistry and soul of the game been diminished.
Alas, things were not always this way. For the lorekeepers and chroniclers tell of a time when the Garden was Eden — before the game had been bought and sold over and again by men driven by commerce over conscience. A time when giants roamed the earth, and legends were built not by their social media followings, but by rare feats of athletic brilliance seen by a relative few yet appreciated by millions due to the gravity of stories passed along from one person to the next by word of mouth. Indeed, footage of legends like Pelé or Eusébio is rare — their most impressive performances survive primarily in the memories of those who bore witness to their splendor — yet their greatness is remembered all the same. The State of Israel, too, has athletes whose best days pre-date live, televised sport and the instant access of social media. These are men whose reputations precede them; whose legacies live on in words recorded by mythographers and storytellers from time immemorial — men like Hapoel Tel Aviv’s Ami Admoni.
Rahamim (Ami) Admoni was born on August 18, 1949 in the small, southern Tel Aviv community of Shapira. Today, Tel Aviv is the metropolitan center of Israel — home to the country’s world-renowned tech industry, and a bustling epicenter of social life, featuring countless restaurants, bars, clubs, and malls. But the Tel Aviv of Ami’s youth was a far cry from what it would become in the 21st century: “there was nothing in Tel Aviv in the 1950s. Our neighborhood was simple and the homes were built out of wooden huts.” While Tel Aviv has certainly grown from its humble beginnings in the mid-1900s, Shapira is as it has always been — a working class community of humble, working class immigrants from across the Jewish diaspora. In the 1950s, many of those immigrants were Mizrahi, hailing from countries in the Middle East and North Africa. Benjamin, Ami’s father, was one such immigrant. Having been born and raised in Syria, he migrated to Mandatory Palestine with his family when he was 13 years old. Ami’s mother, Mazal, was different — for she was a native of Jerusalem; belonging to a 7th generation Jewish family in Palestine.
Benjamin first saw his wife-to-be on a visit to Tzfat from his home in Tel Aviv. They were both remarkably young at the time — Benjamin 20 and Mazal 14 — and for Benjamin, it was love at first sight. And so, Benjamin did what any respectable young man in the 1930s would have done — he told his parents about Mazal and requested that they contact her family to discuss the prospect of marriage between the children and a union of the families. Once they became sufficiently acquainted, the date was set, and the wedding between Benjamin and Mazal unfolded with the quiet dignity and communal warmth emblematic of their time.
Whether a product of luck or fate, it must be said that Benjamin and Mazal Admoni were made for one another. They were a picturesque couple: young, beautiful, and popular. Everyone knew the Admonis, and everyone loved them. In Ami’s own reverent words, his parents were larger-than-life and radiant — the stuff of movies and fairytales. Mazal was a powerful, brilliant woman — “she easily could have taken Golda’s place as prime minister,” said Ami of his mother. Mazal was a socialite of the highest order — a Renaissance woman who cooked, cleaned, entertained an endless stream of guests, raised Ami and his 3 siblings, and spoke 7 languages fluently. Benjamin, not to be outdone, was a self-made man — an entrepreneur who used his ingenuity and his hands to literally build a business from the ground up as a refrigeration engineer, designing the freezer rooms of ice cream trucks. When he wasn’t working to provide for his wife and children, he was helping his wife hold court in their home. Together, they were both the hosts of the party and the life of the party; as Benjamin’s infectious joy, sense of humor, and unerring conviviality always lifted the spirits of those in his company.
The Admoni household’s warmth and vitality made it a microcosm of the broader community of Shapira. And, just as Ami loved being a part of the Admoni family, he loved growing up in Shapira: “We were all close — physically, mentally, and socially. Shapira was my whole world.” Due to the closeness of the families in Shapira, Mazal did not feel the need to be an overbearing mother. “She did not stand over our heads,” said Ami. “She was always there to support us, but gave us a lot of freedom.” While other mothers in the neighborhood kept a watchful eye on their children to ensure that precious time was not wasted on what they perceived as useless frivolities, Mazal took a different approach to parenting — one that embodied the old American adage: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” And so, at a time when playing football as a child was frowned upon by many, Ami was encouraged by his mother to pursue his passion and play without restraint.
Whereas football fandom has historically been something of a religion for many Israeli families, with Hapoel serving as the idol of choice for the working class of Tel Aviv, the game enjoyed far less importance in the Admoni household when Ami was a child. His father, Benjamin, was decidedly not a Hapoel supporter. Instead he followed Bnei Yehuda, a club founded by Yemeni Jewish immigrants in the Hatikva Quarter, a neighborhood in southeastern Tel Aviv. Ami grew up as a Bnei Yehuda supporter as well, and, when he first fell in love with playing football at the tender age of 6, he aspired to be like the stars of his favorite club — namely Yaakov Grundman and Yosef Mahalal. Ami’s natural talent for the game would have made his heroes proud — he had the rare gift of ambidexterity, equally proficient with his right and left foot, and the ball practically stuck to his feet when he dribbled. In fact, Ami’s skills were so prodigious that children and adults alike flocked to watch him play in recreational games he participated in with his friends.
Eventually, when he was 12 years old, he tried out for Bnei Yehuda’s youth team and made the cut. But, after only two practices with the club, he was spotted by a Hapoel Tel Aviv youth development coach who convinced him to join the Reds. “The coach saw me play at the first practice with Hapoel. And after one workout, he told me to bring my father and my ID card. The next day he signed me up — I was a player for Hapoel Tel Aviv.” The decision to leave his favorite club and move to Hapoel was an easy one for Ami. For, in those days, structured club organization was a luxury reserved only for the top teams in the land: “Truthfully…” said Ami, “…there was a lot of chaos at Bnei Yehuda. There were only two clubs worth talking about — Hapoel and Maccabi. Everything was much more professional when I went to Hapoel.”
After joining Hapoel, it did not take Ami long to make his name known on both the local and national stage. “Every season I played in the youth league with other teenagers I led the league in scoring — I was the King of Goals. And, when I played for the U18 Israeli national team, I was the top goalscorer as well.” While Ami’s undeniable talent laid the foundation for his immediate success, it was the incredible work ethic he inherited from his father and the visionary guidance he received from youth development coach Rehavia Rosenbaum that turned him into an elite player of the highest caliber. In his day, Rosenbaum was a great footballer in his own right, but as a coach he was transcendent. He taught young Ami the tactical and strategic nuances of the game, drilled into him the proper technique to strike the ball with precision, and showed him how to read the pitch and make the right decision at the right moment. Ami spent hours upon hours of work on the practice field honing his skills and applying the teachings of Coach Rosenbaum. In fact, Ami’s entire life revolved around his work with his father’s refrigeration company and his burgeoning career as a footballer — for when he wasn’t working, he was playing football, and when he wasn’t playing football, he was visualizing every move and play in his mind.
When the time came for Ami to make the leap from the youth division to the professional game, he was joined by Rehavia Rosenbaum who was promoted to first team coach in 1968. What should have been a joyous occasion for Ami quickly became a sobering one, for he was immediately faced with the most challenging period of his young career.
“The first time I went into the adult team there were only two serious clubs worth discussing — Hapoel Tel Aviv and Maccabi Tel Aviv. Every player in those teams played for 10 years straight — that was their career. That being the case, it was almost impossible to displace an older, established player on the team; but that is what you had to do if you wanted to play.” For Ami, the player he had to beat out for his spot on the team was Haim Nurielli. “It wasn’t easy,” said Ami. “He was the captain of the team, and the coach was afraid of him! But I had to get him out.”
Had Ami risen through the ranks of professional football today, it is likely that he would have received support from older players — especially the captain — to ease his transition to the senior team. But, in the 1960s, he was — for all intents and purposes — on his own. Undeterred, he called upon the resolve, tenacity, and self-belief that drove him to the heights of the youth game and eventually overcame Nurielli’s resistance to earn a place in the starting 11. “I was mentally and physically strong. I did not consider anyone else, I knew my goal — I wanted to play. I refused to give up on this, and I continued to compete until I got him out of there. I was a fighter.”
The day Ami finally replaced Haim on the pitch was one he would never forget. “The game started when Haim was playing on the field…” said Ami, “…and he didn’t play well. He wasn’t good, but the coach was afraid of him so he didn’t tell him anything. Instead, he told me to go get him out! So, I went on the field and I told him with my finger to get off the field — but Haim refused at first. In the end, he went to the sideline and I played.”
Such conflict between an 18-year-old amateur and an established veteran would have been too difficult for most athletes to take — as the saying goes, pressure busts pipes. But Ami was not “most athletes.” Instead — to borrow a phrase from world renowned football coach Jose Mourinho — he was a special one. For Ami Admoni never felt pressure — not to establish his position on the Hapoel first team, not to replace Haim, and not to prove his worth on the pitch. No matter the size of the stage, the stakes of the game, or the ferocity of the competition, he remained unfazed and undaunted. Indeed, no moment was ever too big for Ami. His remarkable composure in the face of adversity and hardship was, perhaps, the greatest gift given to him by his phenomenal parents. Their unwavering positivity and optimism, regardless of the situation, shaped Ami into a man wholly unflappable and self-assured. And those traits allowed him to play his game with freedom, creativity, and precision, in every arena.
“It’s not in my character to feel pressure. I’m a happy person — I smile, I’m optimistic, and I don’t take anything personally. I played football because I enjoyed the game — I loved to play — so I didn’t allow myself to experience any pressure.”
Just as Ami’s career as a professional footballer was gaining momentum, another development was taking shape in his personal life. In 1966, roughly two years before he made his professional debut with Hapoel’s senior team, Ami saw the girl of his dreams — and future wife — on an otherwise mundane autumn day in Tel Aviv. He was 17 years young at the time, and was visiting the home of his teammate and friend, Avraham Cohen, to pick him up for the day’s game. By chance, he spotted Avraham’s younger sister babysitting a child — and from there the story began. Her name was Yafa — Hebrew for ‘beautiful’ — and, as her name suggested, she was breathtakingly gorgeous. As the two grew acquainted, it quickly became clear that they were perfect for one another. Much like Ami’s parents, he and Yafa are social, kind, funny, easy-going, and incredibly hard-working. Five years after their first meeting at the Cohen family home they got married in Tel Aviv — Ami was 22; Yafa, 20 — and they’ve been together ever since.
Just as the 1970s marked the beginning of Ami’s life as a married man, it was also the decade that saw him become an elite professional footballer and an indispensable part of Hapoel Tel Aviv’s first team. Over the course of his prime he played in 129 games for the club, serving as a key pillar of a historically great midfield that included Hapoel legends like Ronnie Calderon and Moshe Mordakhovich. He loved playing on the biggest stages against the toughest opposition, and his most unforgettable games were those with the highest stakes and the most electric atmosphere; derbies against Maccabi, battles against Beitar — “It was like going to war” — and Asian Cup games against the continent’s finest all etched in Ami’s memory. During his time with Hapoel he played in a friendly against Bayern Munich in Germany, and, as part of a special combined 11 of Maccabi and Hapoel, hosted Manchester United at Bloomfield — a game in which he was tasked with marking the legendary Bobby Charlton.
In 1979, at the age of 30, Ami Admoni ended his tenure with Hapoel Tel Aviv. His was a career to remember — one spent in dutiful service to the greatest club in all of Israel. To this day Ami continues to watch Hapoel games, and his children and grandchildren count themselves among the most passionate members of the Hapoel faithful. While scant footage exists today of his exploits on the football pitch, his star shines bright in the memories of all who had the privilege of seeing him at the peak of his powers — scoring spectacular goals from improbable angles, dictating the rhythm of the game, and playing the perfect pass at the decisive moment — carving his name into the rich tapestry of Israeli football history.
Comments