The late Rabbi Louis Finkelstein famously quipped, “You can’t be a success in the American rabbinate if you can’t talk baseball.” It wasn’t just a throwaway line. It was a recognition that for Jews in America—especially rabbis—baseball isn’t merely a pastime. It’s a shared language. A cultural meeting point. A sacred thread in the fabric of Jewish-American life. Even Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, the philosopher-poet of modern Jewish thought, appreciated the game’s meditative pace and contemplative silence. Baseball, for Heschel, had the structure and sanctity of a ritual. And for many of us, it did more than entertain—it taught us how to connect, how to reflect, and even how to pray.
For me, baseball was how I spent cherished hours with my grandfather. I learned to keep score before I ever learned to lead Ashrei. Our pencils would trace every play onto a paper scorecard, and I’d ask questions with the curiosity only a child can muster. But the most sacred moments weren’t spoken. They were the quiet ones: just sitting beside him, my hand resting on his arm, sharing time and breath between pitches. It was, in every way, a ritual. So why is baseball part of our Jewish spiritual DNA?
Judaism is a tradition obsessed with details. Every vowel in the Torah, every comment in the Talmud, carries weight. The way two rabbis interpret a law from a single phrase—or even a single word—is the essence of our tradition. Likewise, baseball reveres detail. A swing just milliseconds off, a pitch a fraction too high, can change the course of a game—or a season. Baseball fans analyze stats, parse plays, and debate decisions with a Talmudic fervor. Judaism and baseball both ask us to slow down, to look closely, and to find meaning in the minute. Both reward patience and offer layers of depth to those willing to pay attention.
Baseball and Judaism are also rituals of memory. We remember Sandy Koufax sitting out the World Series on Yom Kippur as we remember Moses atop Sinai. We tell stories—of miraculous comebacks and bitter losses—just as we recount the Exodus and the flood. The Passover Seder teaches us to see ourselves as if we personally came out of Egypt. Baseball, too, pulls us into stories that transcend our lifetimes. When I watch a game, I’m not just watching players on a field—I’m sitting again with my grandfather, pencil in hand, scorecard open. Both baseball and Judaism create continuity through narrative, turning history into living memory. They remind us who we are by telling us where we’ve been.
Few traditions believe in hope the way Jews do. After every exile, every tragedy, we’ve rebuilt. We’ve prayed for better days. We’ve believed that renewal was possible. The Jewish calendar is cyclical, not linear: we return, we revisit, we begin again. Baseball is no different. Every season starts with the same hope, no matter how last year ended. Even Cubs fans believed—until one year, they were right. Baseball, like Judaism, believes in redemption. And every spring, just as with the Torah reading that begins anew each fall, we step back into the familiar rhythms, ready to experience renewal and fresh beginnings. Opening Day and Simchat Torah share more than timing. They share a theology of hope.
For American Jews, baseball was also a bridge. In the early 20th century, it offered a way to feel American without abandoning being Jewish. Hank Greenberg, who wouldn’t play on Yom Kippur, became a hero not in spite of his Judaism, but because of it. Sandy Koufax followed in that sacred tradition. They didn’t check their identity at the clubhouse door—they brought it with them, proudly. Baseball gave Jews a place on the American stage, and we repaid the favor with loyalty, love, and a spiritual reading of the game that only a people trained in commentary could deliver.
Baseball is also a sanctuary in time. Rabbi Heschel called Shabbat “a sanctuary in time.” Baseball is that, too. In a culture addicted to speed, baseball forces you to wait. There is no clock, only rhythm. There is space between pitches to breathe, think, connect. It is a sport that honors quiet, as Judaism honors silence between words, between prayers. Stadiums become sanctuaries. Just as Jews gather at synagogue for the holidays, families gather in the stands, year after year, sharing food, stories, and emotion. The seasons of baseball follow their own liturgical cycle—spring training, Opening Day, All-Star break, the playoffs. It is a sacred calendar for many, punctuated with rituals as powerful as any holiday meal.
And finally, when you root for a baseball team, you enter a covenant. You sign up for heartache, for glory, for the long haul. You join a community. Judaism is no different. To be a Jew is to commit—not to perfection, but to presence. To show up. To stay in the game. To be accountable not only for yourself, but for your team—for your people. Baseball teaches you to live with failure. A great hitter succeeds only a third of the time. A great Jew, too, knows that life is messy, and that grace lives in the return—the teshuvah—not in the perfection.
Baseball and Judaism are not parallel by accident. They speak to the same human needs: for rhythm, for memory, for redemption, for belonging. They give us permission to hope. They give us structures within which to love one another across generations. And when they come together—as they did for me and my grandfather—they create moments of holiness. Rabbi Finkelstein was right: If you can’t talk baseball, you might miss a chance to talk Torah. Because for so many of us, the ballpark was a beit midrash. And the season—like the cycle of Jewish life—is just one long invitation to begin again.