Disabled Big Brothers Serve as Friendly Example to Boys : Volunteers: Adults and children with similar disabilities are matched, to show youths that despite limitations, they can lead satisfying lives.

Jason Rosenberg, 9, shows off his sanctuary--his room--with the Little League trophies, Nintendo games and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that make up the simple possessions of boyhood.

The truth complicates things. Jason suffers from muscular dystrophy, and may not live beyond adolescence. His mother and father abandoned him soon after birth, leaving the job to his grandmother. And there is no man around.

“He’s pretty much in his own world,” said his grandmother, Iris Fishman, 54, of Sepulveda. “I don’t know if it’s a good world or bad world.”

Soon, it will be a different world. Sometime this month, Jason will meet Hal Cranton, 67, who will become his Big Brother. In 1977, Cranton contracted multiple sclerosis, and he, like Jason, requires a wheelchair. The match, made after a thorough screening process, is part of the deaf and disabled program run by the Jewish Big Brothers agency, which links adults and children with similar disabilities. It was started two years ago by Joel Rice, a social worker who felt something was missing.

“I wanted to say,” said Rice, who runs the program, “that we served the needs of all Jewish children. There is no disability we can’t try to serve.”

Today, the agency--funded by the United Jewish Appeal, which is part of the Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles, by the United Way and by private donations--supervises about 15 matches between Jews made during the past two years in Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley. It also runs a Big Brothers program for youngsters without disabilities.

By pairing disabled adults and children, the program aims to prove to youngsters that, whatever their limitations, they can lead satisfying, progressive lives. While parents may be loving and sympathetic, their normal health still puts them in a distant place, perhaps unable to truly relate to that child who must live under different rules.

“There are certain things that the hearing-impaired people have that others don’t understand,” said David Freisleben, 43, who has been a Big Brother to Doug Siebers, 17, of Canyon Country, for nearly two years, “and it’s nice to be able to talk to people about it. The people in the outside aren’t aware of what it’s like in the hearing-impaired world.”

Freisleben joined the program to give something back. At 15, his parents divorced, and he was matched with a Big Brother he still sees as a friend. For two years, Freisleben slowly overcame his setbacks and built a future. “I wanted to be a doctor and he taught me a lot about how to work for yourself,” said Freisleben, who is now an eye doctor in Long Beach and whose hearing has worsened over the years. “I want to do the same for Doug.”

According to Sheila Snyder, Doug’s mother, the match has worked. Before her son met Freisleben, she said, he secluded himself in his room. “And now, he has self-confidence. He has a direction. He knows what he wants and how to get it. Through David, he’s learned to accept his hearing loss as reality,” she said.

“David is Doug’s friend, not a friend I introduced him to. It proved he could have a friend of his own. Before, every time Doug had a father-like image, the guy always left. Doug would meet someone and get disappointed when the person left. He’d go back within himself, and he’d have to start all over.”

Rice, as the matchmaker, ensures the parents of the disabled child that the Big Brother will be a friend, not a replacement father to run the youngster’s life. Freisleben and Doug go to movies, work on automobiles and talk about girls. They communicate through lip-reading and sign language.

But there is a line. “It’s not their job,” Rice explained, “to discipline them or make them do their homework. That’s why we don’t like them to get together more often than every other weekend. The child will realize he’s not a new father.”

The program doesn’t take just anyone. Rice, who interviews the applicants, seeks someone comfortable with his limitations. “I ask all of them how they feel about their disabilities. If they are angry at the world, that’s not someone we would want. They need to be settled.” Rice requires a one-year commitment, “although we hope it would last a lifetime.”

Officially, the agency monitors the progress of each Big Brother relationship until the youngster reaches 18. After that, they are on their own. Depending on financial need, the agency can reimburse the Big Brothers for whatever they spend on the youngsters. For the physically disabled, Rice sometimes enlists the aid of a third person to assist with transportation and other tasks.

Frequently, Big Brothers join the disabled program, in part, to work out their own psychological issues, Rice explained. That may apply to Cranton. When he was 14, his 16-year-old brother was hit by a car and killed. “It’s been a traumatic thing my whole life,” Cranton said, “and I’m sure it’s part of all this.” Rice added that, through the program, some men overcome their fears of committing to a relationship. “The kid isn’t going to run from them,” he said, “and the adults learn that the relationship is safe.”

For Leonard Weiss, 29, his pairing with Tamir Appel, 14, of Van Nuys has given him an early glimpse of parenthood. “I may get married someday, maybe I won’t have kids, but, with Tamir, at least I’ll have experienced this.”

Weiss and Tamir, who have learning disabilities, get together every two weeks. They go to Pizza Hut, play basketball and talk on the phone.

Tamir’s mother, Ilana, said she placed her son in the program to give him a friend.

Tamir values his friendship with Weiss. “I like being with him,” he said. “We talk about movies and tapes he wants to see.”

The Appels are used to diminished expectations. But surprises do happen. They weren’t sure Tamir would be able to read; he does. They had doubts he’d have a bar mitzvah; he did. So the future is hard to predict.

“The picture I see,” said David Appel, a fur salesman in Beverly Hills, “is of an independent living program where he’d learn how to ride the bus, work for me, be productive. Will it happen? We’ll see. We’ll always have to keep an eye on him.”

Iris Fishman takes a similarly cautious approach. Jason’s mother left him when he was 6 months old; she visits him a few times a year. Fishman doesn’t even know where she or Jason’s natural father lives, “and I could care less, as long as they leave us alone. And they would be in no position to raise a disabled child.” Jason calls Fishman “mom.”

Fishman didn’t notice any problems with Jason until he was 5, when he walked on his toes and couldn’t run like other children. At 7, he was forced into a wheelchair. The disease has begun to weaken his arms. She knows the future isn’t promising, but she won’t accept defeat.

“I take it day by day,” Fishman said. “We don’t know what will happen. I think Jason will enjoy relating to someone in a wheelchair, someone who is handicapped, which is an experience I can’t provide.”