Be that as it may, the book became a bestseller and its title represents at least half of the fantasy of the Jewish American male. How appropriate, then, that the New York Yankees have endeavored this year to fulfill the other half of the Jewish American male’s ideal life by deciding to open Kosher Fantasy Camp, a week-long event where your everyday American Jewish guy can rub elbows with the pros and play ball on the Yankees’ spring training site in Tampa, FL, all while eating his kugel and abstaining from work on Saturday.
The Jewish American masculine obsession with baseball, I think, stems from the realization of every bar-mitzvah-age boy that he has a better chance of owning a major league sports franchise than he does of playing on one, to paraphrase Jewish sports mega-agent Arn Tellem. That idea, combined with the iconic status of Sandy Koufax, the demigod of Jewish athletes who Didn’t Pitch on Yom Kippur, solidified baseball’s standing as the prefered sport of Semitic youth in the US.
Fantasy baseball drafts occured every year at the back of my morning Talmud classes in Jewish high school and we would skip class during the spring and fall to watch the Chicago Cubs lose. During my sophomore and junior years I could name the majority of position players in the major leagues; I’d started following the sport in eighth grade so I’d have something to talk about in high school and after a year I was hooked.
I can’t help but admire the Yankees, then, for capitalizing on this cultural obsession of ours, tapping the gigantic fan base of New York Jewish males frustrated enough by their lack of prowess on the diamond to lay down enough money to pretend to be a Yankee for a week, participating in a strange fulfiullment of their childhood dreams of becoming the next Koufax. It’s a great business idea but a concept that bothers me. Nonwithstanding my disregard for the Yankees, fantasy camp sounds pathetic: I can’t imagine the appeal of playing the game with a mix of A-Rod, Jeter, Sabathia and a bunch of balding Jewish guys whom I see at synagogue every week. What do those men hope to get out of the experience? Do they hope to form a special relationship with a group of overpaid athletes? Do they think that this stint on the diamond will give them a real taste of what it means to play in the big leagues? Do they expect this one-week escape from reality- a week away from their families, friends and jobs- to play any significant role in  their lives when it’s over?
I like baseball: I enjoy watching it, playing it, reading about it and arguing over it. I question, however, why I care so much about a team whose players have no special allegiance to my city, whose owners care little for the fans and whose lineup changes every season. It takes hard work for me to suspend my disbelief enough to act like I have a connection to the team. I can’t imagine detaching myself from reality enough to pretend to be a major leaguer for a week.
When I was younger I wanted to be a fireman, an astronaut, the president and a professional sports player. When those fantasies ended it didn’t bother me because I’ve realized that I need to live my real life. I suggest that these grown men do the same, even if the Yankees offer them Manischewitz on a Friday night.
