By Bill Simons

In late August 2004, the American Jewish Historical Society hosted a conference, “A Celebration of 143 American Jews in America’s Game 1871-2004,” at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. At the time, 143 appeared a legitimate count of Jews who had appeared in the major leagues; over the past generation, more than 50 additional Jews have played in the majors. Sportswriters, scholars, former Jewish major leaguers and fans – often accompanied by family members – made for an upbeat and well-attended two-day conference. Although there was acknowledgment that the percentage of Jewish major leaguers has always been modest and that only two, Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax, are enshrined in the Hall of Fame, the tone of the conference was, as its title suggests, celebratory. In the last session, “Who’s In, Who’s Out” – devoted to debating criteria for determining whether a player was indeed Jewish – physician and Little League umpire Rich Cohen asked the key question: “Why do we care about this?”
The “why” may remain elusive, but we that “we care” is indisputable. From 1997-2022, Shel Wallman and Ephraim Moxson edited Jewish Sports Review, a bimonthly publication whose primary purposed was to identify Jewish athletes in all manner of sports from adolescent amateurs to professionals. Scrupulous, obsessive and idiosyncratic, Wallman and Moxson cited Jewish mother or father, self-identification as a Jew and lack of affiliation with another religion as criteria for inclusion in their list. 
Other chroniclers have debated inclusion of ballplayers who converted to Judaism after their playing careers, such as Dodgers catcher Steve Yeager, or those who obscured their identity. New York Highlanders third baseman Phil Cohen, for example, adopted the last name Cooney as protection against antisemitism in early 20th century baseball. And most compilers would not include Johnny Kling (never converted, although supportive of wife and children’s Judaism), Lou Boudreau (Jewish mother, but raised in his father’s Catholicism), Rod Carew (never converted, although supportive of wife and daughters’ Judaism), and Paul Goldschmidt (Jewish father, but an evangelical Christian) on Jewish player lists.
The initial book-length histories of Jewish participation in sports, which gave significant emphasis to baseball, then the undisputed national pastime, were written by and for American Jews. These pioneer efforts were largely exercises in consciousness raising, offering laudatory and uncritical praise of the character and athletic accomplishments of Jewish ballplayers. Through profiles of Jewish athletes cast as ethnic standard bearers, the writings of Stanley Frank, Harold Ribalow, Bernard Postal, Jesse Silver and Roy Silver sought to heighten ethnic pride and identity in their readers. These early works exalted Jewish ballplayers, challenging the then pervasive, antisemitic stereotype of the weak, timid Jewish victim lacking physical prowess. 
During the late 1920s, Jews flocked to the Polo Grounds to watch landsman Andy Cohen, a journeyman second baseman recruited by New York Giants manager John McGraw, for the specific purpose of attracting ethnic partisans. Cohen was overtly marketed as a Jewish ballplayer, and Jews, not far from the immigrant experience, found the infielder confirmation of their Americanization as they ordered ice cream Cohens. 
On the trajectory that culminated in world war and genocide, Detroit Tigers slugger Hank Greenberg, whose 58 home runs in 1938 came within two of Babe Ruth’s hallowed 60, was a superhero to the children of immigrants. As antisemitism surged during the Great Depression, Greenberg, who famously chose synagogue over ballfield on Yom Kippur in 1934, provided a proud retort to the bigotry of automobile mogul Henry Ford, radio priest Charles Coughlin and others of their ilk. 
During his 1960s prime, Los Angeles Dodgers Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax pitched brilliantly for six seasons, throwing four no-hitters, pacing the National League in earned run average five times, setting a single season strikeout record and earning three Cy Young awards, as well an MVP selection. Pitching during a time of declining antisemitism, Jewish upward mobility and the widespread perception of Israel as a strong and democratic state, Koufax, the uber mensch, personified the coming of age of American Jews. His refusal to pitch the opening game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur and then shutting out the Minnesota Twins in games six and seven brought Jewish American pride to an apex. 
Today, baseball is no longer the national pastime, and chronological distance from the immigrant experience and the Holocaust, growing criticism of Israel, accompanied by an increase of attacks on Jews in the U.S. since the onset of war with Hamas, and the continued growth of interfaith marriage have rendered Jewish American identity more amorphous. Nonetheless, Rabbi Rachel Alpert, a scholar of baseball and much else, asserts, “Despite assimilation and cultural connections, Jewish Americans remain anxious about antisemitism and uncomfortable about fitting in.” Thus, as evidenced by Jewish baseball cards, films, books, articles, support for Team Israel, Jewish/Israel, appreciation nights at ballparks, multiple Jewish halls of fame and museum exhibits, the Jewish obsession with contemporary Jewish players continues. Today, many Jewish Americans still feel they must prove that they fit in and baseball offers a venue for so doing. In recent years, a record number of Jews have appeared on MLB rosters, approaching 20 per season. 
I contacted several Jewish friends and colleagues who are baseball fans to gauge their interest in Jewish ballplayers. Some indicated that they followed favorite teams more than individual players and that the players whom they did take a special interest in reflected performance, not ethnicity. And my cousin Robert Benson referenced a negative identification: “Ryan Braun* embarrassed his co-religionists.” (Robert employed the asterisk to signal his caveats about Braun’s accomplishments.)
Most of my Jewish fan correspondents, however, reported a special connection with Jewish ballplayers. Psychologist Stephen Lisman cites “admiration and pride… in whichever Jew has risen to the top of their sport.” New York City social studies teacher David Lonborg appreciates Jewish ballplayers “breaking down stereotypes or preconceived notions that others may have at the shock of a Jew who is a stellar athlete rather than the quintessential bespectacled lawyer, accountant, doctor or finance guy.” Synagogue teacher Roger Chauveron admires those Jewish ballplayers “acting in accordance with a distinctly Jewish value, such as not playing on Yom Kippur.” Retired sportswriter and editor Sam Pollak finds “nachas” in the achievements of “Jewish Nobel laureates, athletes, celebrities, diplomats, scientists… It was and still is a validation that we are a valued part of America.”