The Epitome of Schizophrenic Judaism

I always claimed that my era of growing up a Jew in America in the 1950s was definable as "schizophrenic Judaism".

Jerry Auerbach highlights that here:

In 1934, the Detroit Tigers were in the heat of a pennant race, with a chance to go to the World Series for the first time in twenty-five years. As Rosh Hashanah approached, Hank confronted the choice that American Jews dreaded. Was his place on the field with his teammates, or in synagogue? Hank was not religiously observant and never had been. But as the son of Orthodox Romanian immigrants, he was hardly indifferent to Jewish religious observance, especially on the holiest days in the Jewish calendar.

Hank's dilemma received intense media scrutiny. There was evident bewilderment that any sane person could experience conflict between a pennant race and religion. With precisely nuanced ambivalence, the chief rabbi of Detroit conceded that "from the standpoint of Orthodox Judaism[,] the fact that ball playing is his means of livelihood would argue against his participation" in a baseball game on Rosh Hashanah.

On the rabbi's other hand, however, "it might be argued quite consistently that his taking part in the game would mean something ... to his fellow players and, in fact at this time, to the community of Detroit." It is hardly surprising that one Detroit newspaper joyously proclaimed, "Talmud Clears Greenberg for Holiday Play."

With his Delphic pronouncement, the rabbi shifted the burden of decision to Hank: "Mr. Greenberg, who is a conscientious Jew, must decide for himself whether he ought to play or not." Hank resolved his dual loyalty dilemma as any patriotic American Jew would have wanted: he went to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah morning, and that afternoon, he hit two home runs, propelling the Tigers to a crucial 2-1 victory. It was not difficult, according to the Sporting News, to attribute Hank's heroic contribution to divine approval.

Ten days later, when Hank arrived in synagogue on Yom Kippur, his fellow worshipers interrupted their prayers to give him a standing ovation. But with the pennant virtually clinched by then, the pressure was off. Hank decided not to play that afternoon. His decision not to choose between American and Jewish alternatives, but instead to embrace both has inspired American Jews ever since. He affirmed his commitment as a player on the American team without diminishing his identity as a Jew. It was, by any measure, an iconic moment in American Jewish history.

Many years later, intrigued by Hank's choices, I wrote to him for clarification. "Since you are a historian," he promptly replied, "I'll set you straight on my playing on the holidays." He recalled: "The Chief Rabbi of Detroit was consulted. He claimed that it being New Years day and he found in the Torah that there had been playing ball in the streets of Jerusalem, that it was okay for me to play on Rosh Hashana but not on Yom Kippur." (The rabbi, in his convoluted textual interpretation, doubtlessly was thinking of Roman, not Jewish, children.) Hank's reply perfectly preserved the ambiguity of his decision. Even after fifty years, he still cited rabbinical authority to justify his decision to play baseball on Rosh Hashanah.

Now you understand?

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