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How Arnold Horween, an unsung Jewish Harvard hero, changed American sports
(JTA) — Decades before Sandy Koufax sat out the first game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur, and 18 years before Greenberg chased Babe Ruth’s single-season home run record in the late 1930s, a college athlete made some overlooked Jewish sports history.
Arnold Horween, a burly Chicagoan, became the first Jewish captain of the Harvard University football team in 1920 — an achievement that sent ripples through American culture.
Horween, who would later play and coach in the early years of what would become the NFL, was born to Jewish immigrants from Ukraine. He became a star player at Harvard, helping the Crimson go undefeated in both 1919 and 1920 after returning from serving in World War I. (His brother Ralph also played at Harvard and in the NFL, and they were the first and only Jewish brothers to play in the NFL until Geoff and Mitchell Schwartz.)
But it was Horween’s unanimous selection as the team’s captain, and more importantly, his appointment in 1926 as the team’s coach, that would prove unprecedented.
“In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson, the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes,” said Zev Eleff, the president of Gratz College and a scholar of American Jewish history.
Eleff explores Horween’s story and its impact in his recent book, “Dyed in Crimson: Football, Faith, and Remaking Harvard’s America,” released earlier this year. He traces the history of Harvard athletics in the early 1900s, exploring how Horween, along with Harvard’s first athletic director, Bill Bingham, altered the landscape of America’s most prestigious college.
Horween’s ascendance came at a time when Harvard instituted quotas to limit the number of Jewish and other minority students it accepted — a practice the school would employ throughout the 1920s and 30s. His story also took place amid a political landscape that featured the rise of Father Charles Coughlin, the antisemitic “radio priest,” and the reemergence of the Ku Klux Klan.
As Eleff underscores in the book, Horween did not fit the model of a “Boston Brahmin,” the class of elite, Christian, aspirationally manly men whose supremacy was unquestioned at Harvard Yard. Horween broke that mold, instead instilling a team culture where a love of the sport was almost as important as winning — the Ted Lasso effect, if you will.
“Dyed in Crimson” also uses early 20th century Harvard as an allegory for the broader theme of how sports can change society.
“The theme of the book, something that’s uniquely American, is how the periphery can influence the mainstream,” said Eleff. “How people on the sidelines can really make an influence.”
Eleff spoke to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency about how Horween’s story fits into the pantheon of Jewish American sports legends and what it says about Jews’ ability to succeed in America.
This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Let’s dig into Horween’s story. I liked the idea of him as like an earlier version of Koufax or a Greenberg, but to be honest, I had never heard of him. Why do you think his story isn’t as well known as other Jewish athletes?
I think it has everything to do with the emergence of Major League Baseball. College football was America’s sport in the 1910s and 1920s. It was a big money sport, when there was very little money outside of the New York Yankees. And I think that Horween’s star started to sort of decline with Harvard football, but also the emergence of other sports.
The other reason is because the idea of the Jewish ballplayer loomed large. The New York Giants, for decades, tried to identify a Jewish superstar. They actually passed on Greenberg. There was a thought after Greenberg that there was Jewish DNA for baseball, and the signing of Koufax was directly linked to this notion. It was this eugenics-like link that you need a Jewish ballplayer. For the Giants, it was ticket sales. So the commotion about Greenberg and Koufax is more about Jewish identity. And baseball is, as a professional sport in New York, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, different than college football, particularly in New England at this time. Frankly, Jews lived near the Polo Grounds, they didn’t live near Harvard Yard.
Arnold Horween shown in The Baltimore Sun on November 16, 1927. (Wikimedia Commons)
For Horween, obviously he’s not at the level of a Greenberg or Koufax talent-wise, but he also didn’t seem to care as much personally about his Jewish identity. You write in the book that there were some Jews who took issue with the fact that Horween was not practicing, but there were also many Jews who were simply proud he was Jewish. What do you think about that dynamic?
There becomes a sort of disconnect between lived religion and the perception and what they come to represent — the mantle that they wear almost towers above the practice. Horween eschewed the opportunity to claim the mantle of Jewish leadership, Jewish celebrity. But we do see in its moment that he is the topic of rabbinic sermons, that The American Hebrew and other Jewish press are reporting on him. They are elated. In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson — it’s hard for people to realize, but in the moment when they were part of the big three [alongside Princeton and Yale] — the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes.
One of the parts of this book that I enjoyed learning about is the extent to which college football in the early 20th century was all about honor, masculinity, gentlemanliness. And at the time, that kind of stands in contrast to how Jews were viewed — that Jews were not masculine, Jews couldn’t fit into that mold of the “Harvard man.”
Being on the sports team, that was probably far beyond Jewish expectations. Not to say that Jews could not be athletic, but very often the varsity players weren’t picked for their talent but rather their surnames. What the sea change at Harvard is, [within] gentlemanly culture — in which “gentlemanly” is a Protestant, Christian masculinity — Horween is not Protestant. What allows him a pathway into that elite group is that drive to win. And as a player, he’s good luck. He never loses. He becomes a signature player for victory who even wins the Rose Bowl.
But as a coach, he subverts that. What he and Bill Bingham do is their campaign isn’t necessarily for winning, it’s for having fun, it’s for enjoying the game.
In the 1910s and 20s, college football was the peak of American sports, but that’s certainly not the case anymore. What do you think would be the modern comparison for someone like Horween?
Is Becky Hammon with the Spurs, the first woman [to act as] head coach in basketball, something like that? Or the very important discussions about people of color as coaches in the NFL? Sports and education are, for some reason or another, where change is made in American life. Brown v. Board of Education in 1954 ends, at least officially, segregation. Title IV, what is basically American law for anti-discrimination based on sex, is based on women’s college sports. You have the breaking down of color barriers and Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali and Vietnam. You have the first [openly] gay athletes, you have questions of breaking the glass ceiling for women and Serena Williams.
It’s absolutely 100% true that sports doesn’t matter. Who wins the World Series is of no great consequence to most people’s lives. Although it’s interesting, if you drive up I-95 on a Sunday, you will see that the bumper stickers and the flags change. There is some sort of passion, obviously, about sport. But it’s absolutely true that for some reason or another in the 20th century and 21st century in American sport, really important social and cultural decisions, and political decisions, are made in American sport.
Zev Eleff, president of Gratz College and author of “Dyed in Crimson.” (Courtesy)
Another main topic in the book is that the goal for immigrants, especially Jews, was Americanization, assimilation — that to become part of the mainstream was the marker of success. But that seems to be the case for Jews in a very different sense than it is for Catholics and for Blacks.
The major contribution of this book to American Jewish history beyond telling this story is to complicate notions of Americanization. Jews and Catholics in particular view Americanization very, very differently. The Catholic experience is to create parallel systems. If you’re a good Catholic boy with immense football talent, play for Notre Dame, play for Boston College. Don’t play for the Protestant mainstream. Cream them on the football field. Create parallel systems.
The Jewish experience is not so. Outside of Orthodox day schools in the early 20th century, it was anathema, it was considered almost heretical, for American Jews to [go] to private schools. To the contrary, the so-called golden citadels of the public schools — that is the agent of Americanization. Jews don’t establish their own educational systems. They somehow Americanize and acculturate into the mainstream. We don’t compete with Harvard, we get into Harvard.
Thinking about the antisemitism of that time — the quotas, Father Coughlin, all of that — how do you think that compares to what we’re seeing today?
Historians disagree about the 1920s. Was it a time of great prominence of American Jews? There was affluence in the roaring ’20s. There were institutions that were created, there was creativity, from the Orthodox and Mordecai Kaplan certainly, across the board, the Jewish Theological Seminary. American Judaism was at a certain high point in the 1920s. At the same time, there were quotas, and there was rising antisemitism. I think today we also have to deal with the tension of, on the one hand, there are great opportunities for Jews in the United States; at the same time, there is antisemitism. And so from the 1920s to the 2020s, 100 years later, you see a model for how to grapple with those tensions.
What do you hope, more than anything else, someone takes away or learns from your book?
It’s a book that begins like a punch line: a working class Protestant, a Catholic and a Jew walk into a football field. But it ends with something I think a lot more pronounced, which is, it’s a story about change. As a historian, I study change, particularly in American Judaism, broadly in American religion and Jewish Studies. Change is the best asset that a historian has to study. I wasn’t interested in just finding another Sandy Koufax story, replicating that story. This is a story that isn’t just about a Jew who happened for his moment to become quite successful and quite famous, or a Catholic or a former mill hand turned first athletic director in college history. It’s really about how people on the periphery influence the mainstream.
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Texas man charged with making antisemitic death threats to Jewish conservative pundits
(JTA) — A Texas man was arrested last week in Florida after he allegedly launched a volley of antisemitic death threats against several prominent conservative activists.
Nicholas Lyn Ray, 28, of Spring, Texas, allegedly made his threats between Oct. 8 and Oct. 10 on an X account named “@zionistarescum,” according to an arrest affidavit.
His alleged victims included far-right Jewish conspiracy theorist Laura Loomer and conservative Jewish political commentators Joshua Benjamin Hammer and Karol Markowicz. A fourth victim, Seth Dillon, is the Christian CEO of a conservative satire site The Babylon Bee, according to an arrest affidavit.
The @zionistsarescum account was created in September 2025 and the first posts visible on it after Ray’s arrest respond to the assassination of Charlie Kirk, the Turning Point USA founder whose killing spurred conspiracy theories about Israeli involvement. Several posts advanced that theory, while others amplify the white supremacist influencer Nick Fuentes, who had feuded with Kirk.
In a message allegedly directed at Dillon, according to the affidavit, Ray accused him of “conspiring with Israel about Charlie Kirk,” the Turning Point USA founder who was murdered in September, adding that “these receipts are going to be perfect for display when you get hung bitch.”
The affidavit also describes a threat that Ray allegedly directed toward Markowicz, who was born in the former Soviet Union. Ray allegedly wrote, “Russian genocide jew whose family escaped prosecution in American you deserve to be hung.”
In another threat directed towards Loomer, Ray allegedly wrote, “why you asking this question as if you aren’t gonna soon find out Mossad agent? you gonna get hung from the capitol baby.”
Ray also allegedly referred to Hammer as a “F—t Israeli spy” and threatened to “hang you at the capitol and take turns beating you with a pinata bat,” according to the affidavit.
While the threats appeared to have been deleted from Ray’s X account, his most recent post dated Oct. 15 read, “When Israel is purged it will be biblical.” On Oct. 9, he referred to Loomer as a “f—ing kyk” and wrote “Israel are the biggest lying Satanist pedophiles on the planet.”
An investigation into Ray was launched by the Florida Department of Law Enforcement on Oct. 12 after agents were alerted to his alleged posts.
Ray is currently facing four counts each of making a written or electronic threat to commit a mass shooting or act of terrorism, extortion or threatening another person and using a two-way communication device to facilitate a felony, according to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s office.
According to another court document, Ray indicated to law enforcement that he had been “watching youtube when he became interested in anti-Israel content” prior to allegedly making the threats.
The post Texas man charged with making antisemitic death threats to Jewish conservative pundits appeared first on The Forward.
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I spoke out against Mamdani. Then he won. Here’s how we walk forward together
Zohran Mamdani will become the 111th mayor of New York City. While the electoral outcome is not what I hoped for, I wish Mayor-elect Mamdani and his administration every success in leading this city we love. As the prophet Jeremiah instructed the Jews of his time, “Seek the peace of the city . . . for in its peace you will find your peace.”
Our community will, as it would with any mayor, work with the Mamdani administration on matters of shared concern and common cause. We will also, as we would with any mayor, hold the Mamdani administration accountable for ensuring that New York City remains a place where Jewish life and support for Israel are protected and can thrive.
Elections are important for the leaders they produce, but also for what they show us about the values we cherish and the fault lines we contain. They reveal not only the state of our politics, but the state of our souls, forcing each of us to confront questions of who we are, what we value, and how we can live together despite our differences.
For me, personally, the fact that about a third of New York City’s Jewish voters checked the box for Mamdani is totally bewildering. I am not unaware of the bigger political trends, the shortcomings of the other candidates, or the systemic challenges our city faces; I understand why Mamdani won. But for me, his anti-Zionist rhetoric and his intent to shut down research and economic partnerships between Israel and New York — to name but a few of his promises that would negatively impact our community — not only disqualified him from receiving my vote, but were a meaningful enough concern that I chose to publicly urge Jews and their allies to vote against him as well.
And yet, it would seem that what was self-evident to me was not so self-evident to a sizeable percentage of my kinfolk. Jews who live in my city, who are members of our collective community, who don’t feel the same way as I do. Thoughtful, caring, introspective Jews. Jews wise enough to interrogate their own views. Jews who, most importantly, fall into that sacred subset of humanity called mishpachah, family.
Mayors come and go. But the Jewish people must persist, and this election has brought a fault line within our people into full relief.
The rabbis of old understood that members of the same family could participate in the same experience and emerge with two very different ideas of what had occurred. It happened to our founding first family in this past week’s Torah reading, where we read the story of the akedah, the binding of Isaac.
Abraham is called on by God to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah. Not just once, but twice, the text says of their ascent of the mountain that the two “walked together.” The rabbis understand that repetition as deeply important, the choice of words signaling not just physical proximity, but shared understanding, purpose and faith.
By all accounts, whatever actually happened on top of that mountain was a moment both dramatic and traumatic for father and son alike. Yet as charged with emotion as the ascent and the scene atop the mountain were, it is the journey down that has elicited the most rabbinic commentary. The text describes Abraham returning to his servants, and then to Be’er Sheva.
No mention is made of Isaac. Where did he go? What happened to him? Abraham and Isaac may both have returned from the harrowing test on that mountain, but they went their separate ways and would never be the same. So betrayed was Isaac that he never spoke to his father again. The same akedah that defined Abraham as a hero of the Jewish faith was the experience that prompted Isaac to see him as unforgivable.
That divided outcome hits close to home as I reflect on the split within our New York Jewish community today. The story reminds us that trauma, while shared, can send members of the same family in opposite directions.
We need to recognize that while many of us felt compelled, after Oct. 7, to rise in defense of Israel and global Jewry, an unintended consequence has been that other Jews have chosen, like Isaac, a different route. We need a reset on what we mean when we talk about “Oct. 8” Jews. We must stop being surprised that the Isaacs of our community have found themselves more at home in the tents of others than in our own.
We need to learn to walk together again. If, as I have repeatedly claimed, ahavat yisrael — love of the Jewish people — is my North Star, then it is a principle I must uphold even and especially when it is uncomfortable to do so. It is a love that must extend to Jews whose views I neither share nor understand.
As I said a few weeks ago, when I chose to speak out against Mamdani, ahavat yisrael means not wagging fingers or rolling eyes when encountering opinions contrary to one’s own. It means refusing to demean, diminish, or shame another Jew’s viewpoint. It means spending time, as I have done on multiple occasions these past weeks, speaking with people who have shared why my remarks served to push them further from — not closer to — the Jewish fold.
It means calling out, with equal ferocity, the threats to the Jewish people as they appear on the Mamdani left and on the Nick Fuentes and Tucker Carlson right. And yes, it means a willingness to publicly apologize — not for sharing my convictions, on which I stand firm, but for the times I have failed to uphold the spirit of dialogue and freedom of conscience and expression that I have spent my adult life championing, and believe must be defended today more than ever.
It means modeling these values publicly and communally by engaging with peer rabbinic colleagues who see things differently than I do for respectful, substantive exchanges of views. It’s time to turn the temperature down, build bridges of dialogue, and strengthen the bonds of Jewish New York, even as we maintain our diversity of thought.
We must not let the tragedy of our first family become our own. In next week’s parsha, the Torah will offer a redemptive path forward, albeit one that comes too late for Abraham. Isaac, having established himself on his own, comes upon wells that his father dug, which stopped up after his father’s death. Isaac digs them anew, claiming them as his own, yet giving them the same names his father had given them.
That is an image worth meditating on, praying for, and not waiting for. A Jewish family coming together across difference, aspiring for unity without uniformity, and gaining the strength and humility to walk together again.
The post I spoke out against Mamdani. Then he won. Here’s how we walk forward together appeared first on The Forward.
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Sure, be mad I voted for Mamdani — I’m still just as Jewish (and Israeli) as you are
Politics was once about hiring someone to do a job, a public service for the greater good. Now it’s about picking a team — and God help you if you cheer for the wrong one.
I’ve been learning a lot from reactions to my recent op-ed describing why I voted for New York City Mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani. The lessons aren’t really about Mamdani, or New York, or even about me — they’re about what’s happened to politics and civic life itself.
There was a time when elections were about competence and vision. Voters weighed experience and judgment. Campaigns made the case for why their candidate was best suited to serve the public. Now, it feels like the World Cup. Candidates are teams, voters are supporters, and politics is no longer about governing — it’s about belonging, and the fan bases are vicious.
Almost none of the reactions to my endorsement of Mamdani have had anything to do with whether he’d be a good mayor. In the hundreds of comments and messages I’ve received, not a single one — literally zero — was about his qualifications, his experience, or his readiness to serve. Instead, the conversation has been entirely about which team I’ve joined.
Apparently, as an Israeli and as a Jew, I’m not supposed to be on Mamdani’s team. My support created a dissonance for those who see politics through binary, populist lenses. The response was to tell me I’d defected — to the “other” side. That I’m no longer really Israeli. Not Jewish. That I’ve betrayed my people.
That’s completely illogical and — let’s be honest — stupid. I’ve done 23andMe. I’m about as close to 100% Ashkenazi Jewish as anyone can get. My Israeli citizenship is affirmed by passports and birth certificates. None of this is up for debate.
One friendly acquaintance in Tel Aviv even commented publicly on my Facebook wall, sarcastically asking, “Since when are you Israeli, and in what way?” The question was cloaked in feigned ignorance but carried a real accusation. Rather than do the mental work of asking herself why it seems so preposterous that a proud Israeli-Jewish-American-Canadian leftist — someone who’s spent her life and career believing in and speaking up for justice and shared society across all her homelands — might support a Muslim leftist candidate for mayor, her knee-jerk reaction was to question my identity, my citizenship, my belonging.
I get it. It’s easier to kick me off the team than to deal with my point of view from within it. I also think that’s lazy, and a little bit silly.
But beneath the silliness is a deeper lesson about how hollow civic engagement has become.
Political discourse is now an identity-sorting exercise, a game of tribal belonging where substance is nearly irrelevant and loyalty is everything. There is no greater good anymore, just a tunnel-vision sense of what’s good for me and my team.
And here’s what’s striking: There should absolutely be room for meaningful debate about Mayor-elect Mamdani and his policies. I’ve had tough conversations with myself about his platform, and I landed where I landed, but I don’t think it’s the only legitimate place to end up. I don’t see myself — or my politics — as all-knowing or universally applicable.
We should argue, question, and disagree with each other about leadership and governance in this city. But in responding to my essay, not one person brought up substantive objections involving Mamdani’s legislative record, his housing policy or his approach to social services. No one asked questions about those things, either.
Instead, people threw out sound bites, like Mamdani’s remark that he’d support efforts to have Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu arrested on an International Criminal Court warrant if he sets foot in New York. (The United States isn’t a party to the ICC, making this campaign promise notably hard to realize.)
That line has been used again and again in my mentions as supposed “proof” that supporting Mamdani equals endorsing antisemitism.
But let’s pause on that for a moment. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis filled Kaplan Street for months before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023, protesting Netanyahu’s corruption and authoritarianism. Since early in the war that followed those attacks, they’ve been out again to demonstrate against his abandonment of the hostages. When Jews around the world staged protests in solidarity in major cities, they were hailed by many as pro-Israel.
The slogans and imagery — Israeli flags held high — were explicit: “Lock him up.” “He belongs in jail and in hell.” I remember one poster vividly: an Israeli flag turned on its side so the blue stripes formed prison bars, with a caricature of Netanyahu clutching them from behind. No one called those protesters antisemitic. They were simply patriots — of the liberal variety.
So when Mayor-elect Mamdani, someone who believes in applying international law consistently, says he wouldn’t make an exception for Netanyahu, why is that suddenly antisemitic? Is it because he’s Muslim? Because he’s not Israeli? Because he’s daring to say what Israelis themselves have shouted in the streets for years?
Even Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove of Central Synagogue in Manhattan, a prominent liberal who famously joined a protest against Netanyahu outside the United Nations in 2023, taking the podium to lambast his corruption, used his pulpit to denounce Mamdani. In doing so, he cited — among many other concerns — that same statement about Netanyahu as evidence that Jews would not be safe in Mamdani’s New York.
What changed? Has Netanyahu’s corruption faded? Has his abandonment of the hostages made him more defensible? Has his tacit support for Hamas — the mutual dependence that has fueled this endless, brutal war — suddenly made him more worthy of protection? Or has the war itself, the issue that brought him before the ICC, done so — despite the broad belief, held within Israel as well as without, that Netanyahu worked to extend that war for personal gain?
The reversal reveals not a change in Netanyahu’s behavior, but in our own political reflexes. When a Muslim criticizes him, it’s alarming. When Jews do, it’s democracy — and even Zionism.
Dozens more people pointed me to a campaign video Mamdani released in Arabic as “evidence” that I was supporting a Hamas sympathizer. Not because of anything he said. Because he spoke Arabic.
That’s not vigilance; that’s anti-Arab hate. Arabic is one of the most widely spoken languages in the world. That includes New York. It’s also one of the languages of Israel, and of Mizrahi Jews. The fact that a Muslim elected official in the U.S. speaking Arabic to his constituents can be twisted into “evidence” of treachery says more about our own moral panic than about him. We’ve reached a point where solidarity across difference — where a Jew supporting a Muslim candidate who believes in justice — breaks people’s mental circuitry.
And in this morass of politics-as-World-Cup, we are not just losing nuance — we’re losing each other. The machinery of division thrives on turning minorities and working-class communities against one another. Jews and Muslims, Black and brown New Yorkers, immigrants and long-timers — somehow, we’ve all ended up pitted against one other to keep the system intact.
It’s a cruel and dangerous game. It’s not sustainable. In supporting Mamdani, I expressed support for a New York City, and a world, where solidarity wins over suspicion, where Jews and Muslims are allies rather than adversaries, and where justice is not conditional on which “team” you’re on. Politics is not the World Cup. It’s the daily act of choosing whether to build walls, or build community.
And for everyone asking: No, I’m not looking forward to a mandatory hijab — since that will never be a policy in Mamdani’s New York. But I am looking forward to my hijabi sisters feeling free and safe here, just as I’m looking forward to feeling that way myself.
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