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Lorraine Hansberry’s second play had a white Jewish protagonist. Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan are reviving it.
NEW YORK (JTA) — Sidney Brustein, Jewish Hamlet?
Anne Kauffman thinks so. She made the comparison in a phone interview about the play she’s directing — a buzzy production of Lorraine Hansberry’s “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window” that opened on Monday at the Brooklyn Academy of Music starring Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan.
“One artistic director who was thinking of doing this [play] was like, ‘You know, it’s not like he’s Hamlet, but…’ And I thought, well, no, actually I think he is like Hamlet!” she said.
She added another take: “I feel like he’s Cary Grant meets Zero Mostel.”
Hansberry saw just two of her works produced on Broadway before her death from cancer at 34 in January 1965. Her first, “A Raisin in the Sun,” which follows a Black family dealing with housing discrimination in Chicago, is widely considered one of the most significant plays of the 20th century. The other, “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window,” ran for a few months in the fall of 1964 until Hansberry’s death and has only been revived a handful of times since, all outside of New York.
Now, the star power of Isaac and Brosnahan is driving renewed interest in the play, which deals with weighty questions about political activism, self-fulfillment in a capitalist world, and racial and ethnic identity — including mid-century Jewish American identity.
The Brustein character, as Kauffman alluded to, is many things. A resident of Greenwich Village deeply embedded in that historic neighborhood’s 1960s activist and artistic circles, he is somewhat of a creative renaissance man. At the start of the play, his club of sorts (“it was not a nightclub” is a running joke) called “Walden Pond” has just shuttered and he has taken over an alternative newspaper. As the script reads, Brustein is an intellectual “in the truest sense of the word” but “does not wear glasses” — the latter description being a possible jab at his macho tendencies. Formerly an ardent leftist activist, he is now weary of the worth of activism and a bit of a nihilist. He’s in his late 30s and is a musician who often picks up a banjo.
Brustein is also a secular Jew, a fact that he telegraphs at certain key emotional and comedic moments. Others, from friends to his casually antisemitic sister-in-law, frequently reference his identity, too.
At the end of the play’s first half, for example, Brustein brings up the heroes of the Hanukkah story in talking about his existential angst — and his stomach ulcer. He has become belligerent to his wife Iris and to a local politician who wants Brustein’s paper’s endorsement.
“How does one confront the thousand nameless faceless vapors that are the evil of our time? Can a sword pierce it?” Sidney says. “One does not smite evil anymore: one holds one’s gut, thus — and takes a pill. Oh, but to take up the sword of the Maccabees again!”
Hansberry’s decision to center a white Jewish character surprised critics and fans alike in 1964 because many of them expected her to follow “A Raisin in the Sun” with further exploration of issues facing Black Americans, said Joi Gresham, the director of the Lorraine Hansberry Literary Trust.
“The major attack, both critically and on a popular basis, in regards to the play and to its central character was that Lorraine was out of her lane,” Gresham said. “That not only did she not know what she’s talking about, but that she had the nerve to even examine that subject matter.”
Hansberry’s closest collaborator was her former husband Robert Nemiroff, a Jewish New Yorker whom she had divorced in 1962 but maintained an artistic partnership with. Nemiroff was a bit Brustein-like in his pursuits: he edited books, produced and promoted Hansberry’s work, and even wrote songs (one of which made the couple enough money to allow Hansberry to focus on writing “A Raisin in the Sun”). But Gresham — who is Nemiroff’s stepdaughter through his second marriage, to professor Jewell Handy Gresham-Nemiroff — emphasized that his personality was nothing like Brustein’s. While Brustein is brash and mean to Iris, Nemiroff was undyingly supportive of Hansberry and her work, said Gresham, who lived with him and her mother at Nemiroff’s Croton-on-Hudson home — the one he had formerly shared for a time with Hansberry — from age 10 onward.
Instead, Gresham argued, the Brustein character was the result of Hansberry’s deep engagement with Jewish intellectual thought, in part influenced by her relationship with Nemiroff. The pair met at a protest and would bond over their passion for fighting for social justice, which included combating antisemitism. The night before their wedding, they protested the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, and they would remain highly involved in the wave of activism that blossomed into the Black-Jewish civil rights alliance.
“Bob and Lorraine met and built a life together at a place where there was a very strong Black-Jewish nexus. There was a very strong interplay and interaction,” Gresham said. “I think Lorraine was very influenced by Bob’s family, the Nemiroffs, who were very radical in their politics. And so there was a way in which she was introduced to the base of Jewish intellectualism and Jewish progressive politics, that she took to heart and she was very passionate about.”
Robert Nemiroff and Lorraine Hansberry were married from 1953-62. They are shown here in 1959. (Ben Martin/Getty Images)
Hansberry didn’t hesitate to criticize Jewish writers who said controversial things about Black Americans, either. When Norman Podhoretz wrote “My Negro Problem — And Ours,” an explosive 1963 article in Commentary magazine now widely seen as racist, Hansberry responded with a scathing rebuke. She also sparred with Norman Mailer, who once wrote an essay titled “The White Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster.”
Gresham said Brustein’s nihilism represents what Hansberry saw in a range of Jewish and non-Jewish white writers, whom she hoped could be kickstarted back into activism. But Hansberry also nodded to the reasons why someone like Brustein could feel defeated in the early 1960s, a decade and a half after World War II.
“You mean diddle around with the little things since we can’t do anything about the big ones? Forget about the Holocaust and worry about — reforms in the traffic court or something?” Brustein says at one point in the play to a local politician running as a reformer.
Daniel Pollack-Pelzner, a Jewish scholar of literature who has written on Hansberry, said the resulting Brustein character is a very accurate depiction of a secular Jew at the time — both keenly attuned to prejudice in society and also lacking some understanding of the experience of being Black.
“I was just intoxicated that Hansberry could conjure that world, both so affectionately, but also so clear-sidedly that it seems like she can see the limitations of all of the characters’ perspectives,” he said. “But she also represents them with sympathy and humor.”
Kauffman, who also helmed a revival of the play in Chicago in 2016, is impressed with how “fully fledged” the Brustein character is.
“Who are the cultural icons who have sort of articulated the Jew in our culture in the last 50 years or 60 years, you know?” she said. “Brustein is not a caricature of a Woody Allen character, he’s not even ‘Curb your Enthusiasm’ or a Jerry Seinfeld character. He’s a fully drawn character.”
Isaac, who is of mainly Guatemalan and Cuban heritage, has played Jewish characters before, including a formerly Orthodox man in an Israeli director’s remake of the classic film “Scenes From a Marriage.” In the lead-up to this play, he has largely avoided getting caught in headlines focused on the “Jewface” debate, over whether non-Jewish actors should be allowed to play Jewish characters on stage and screen.
But when asked about the responsibility of playing a Jewish character in a New York Times interview, Isaac referenced the fact that he has some Jewish heritage on his father’s side.
“We could play that game: How Jewish are you?” he said to interviewer Alexis Soloski, who is Jewish. “It is part of my family, part of my life. I feel the responsibility to not feel like a phony. That’s the responsibility, to feel like I can say these things, do these things and feel like I’m doing it honestly and truthfully.”
When Kauffman directed a version of the play at the Goodman Theater in Chicago in 2016, her lead actor had “not a single drop of Jewish heritage…in his blood,” and she said she had to convey “what anger looks like” coming from a Jewish perspective. Working with Isaac has been different — instead of starting at a base of no knowledge, she has been pushing for more of an Ashkenazi sensibility than a Sephardic one.
“I believe that his heritage leans, I’m guessing, more towards Sephardic. And mine is pure Ashkenazi,” she said. “We sort of joke: ‘[The part] is a little bit more Ashkenazi than that, you know what I mean?’ Like, ‘the violence is actually turned towards yourself!’”
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The post Lorraine Hansberry’s second play had a white Jewish protagonist. Oscar Isaac and Rachel Brosnahan are reviving it. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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How the Forward got a cameo in ‘Marty Supreme’
“The challenging thing about any film, for me, is you’re trying to build these worlds, so you’ve got to find the elements,” said Jack Fisk, production designer for Marty Supreme, and regular collaborator with big names including Terrence Malick, Paul Thomas Anderson, David Lynch and Brian De Palma.
“We’re trying to piece together bits of reality to tell our story, and that look right for the period,” Fisk said in a Zoom conversation, the day Marty Supreme got a Best Picture, Musical or Comedy, nomination from the Golden Globes. “So the challenge is to find them, that you can get to them reasonably and within the day, and that will fit in your budget.”
Often the on-the-ground reality of the filming location inspires the scene, but sometimes it gets in the way and forces the art department to get creative. Both were the case in a blink-and-you’ll miss it moment in Josh Safdie’s epic of a schvitzer table tennis champ.
While shooting a scene on location at Seward Park on the Lower East Side, the original Forward Building, with its historic preserved façade, loomed in the background. It fit the film’s early 1950s setting, and the biography of Marty Reisman, the real ping-pong pro whose 1974 book The Money Player inspired the film, and who grew up on East Broadway and learned the game at the Education Alliance in the neighborhood.
“Josh told me that, you know, ‘That’s this Jewish newspaper, it’s been here forever’” said Fisk.
It was more than a bit of trivia from a lifelong New Yorker. It was a fix to a problem: modern street signs opposite the park, which were decidedly out of place but which the city wouldn’t bother removing for a one-day shoot.
So Fisk and his team, drawing inspiration from the locale, built a Forward delivery truck to block out the signs. He even recalls printing up some papers. The graphic artists relied on reference photos to reproduce the font — painting the cargo bed immediately after a period-appropriate truck arrived. Fisk thinks it may have still been wet on shooting day.
Every time Fisk entered a neighborhood for this New York shoot — his first since 1974’s Phantom of the Paradise, directed by De Palma — he looked for traces of the past to take advantage of. (In the case of Phantom, Fisk opted to use the Brooklyn building of the Pressman Toy Corporation— a Jewish-owned outfit known for manufacturing Chinese Checkers and the family firm of Hollywood producer Edward R. Pressman — as a prison instead of filming in a real jail; Fisk said all the ones he scouted looked “too nice.”)
Recreating the lost world of Marty Mauser, played by Timothée Chalamet, posed its own challenges.
Central to the film, if only briefly seen in the final cut, is Lawrence’s Broadway Table Tennis Club on 55th St. The building was demolished, but Fisk, together with producer Sara Rossein (who is also Safdie’s wife), was able to get hold of blueprints and black-and-white photos through tax records, government archives and a magazine feature. Rossein’s discovery of a 16mm piece of film clued Fisk in on the color palette.
Fisk got his start in film working for B-movie maven Roger Corman (“Every other page there was a bare breast or something,” he recalled of the scripts) so he is no stranger to improvising on a shoestring. In fact, he relishes it. On Marty Supreme, as maximalist a picture as Safdie has ever made, the budget — despite being reportedly the most-expensive A24 production yet at around $60-70 million — often creaked, calling for some creative problem solving.
There’s a scene where Marty volleys an apple into a bowl in a building across from his hotel room. There wasn’t money to retrofit the room in the window, so the period stove viewers see is an image printed from a plotter — a massive printer — pasted to the wall. Norkin’s Shoe Shop, where Marty works, was an actual location on Orchard Street, but the crew built modular units of the storefront so they could move the shots away from a modern-looking hotel recently built nearby.
While Marty Supreme is largely rooted in New York, with some detours to New Jersey, London and Tokyo, there’s a memorable sequence set at Auschwitz, as former world champion tennis pro Bela Kletzki (Géza Röhrig) recounts his life in the camp.
“It’s kind of horrible and challenging at the same time,” Fisk said of recreating a part of the death camp. “Everybody’s knowledge of Auschwitz and concentration camps really helped make the set.”
The dimly lit barracks were built inside a house that doubled as the set for a farm in New Jersey where Marty tries to retrieve a lost German shepherd.
Fisk said Röhrig, who starred in the Auschwitz-set film Son of Saul and converted to Orthodox Judaism after a visit to the camp, was excited for the scene. (Fisk noted that Röhrig is part of his longtime collaborator Terrence Malick’s upcoming film, The Way of the Wind, where the actor will play Jesus, possibly the first Orthodox Jew to embody that role on the big screen.)
Fisk’s work on Marty Supreme has been noted in nearly every review — even the rare pan in Time singled out his production as “the best thing about the movie” — but it’s technically not his only film this year.
Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere shows the Boss watching Malick’s Badlands on his home television; the crime drama was the inspiration for the singer’s album Nebraska, the making of which is the crux of the biopic. Fisk is grateful Badlands is still resonating, as it marked the beginning not only of his most prolific collaboration, but was the set where he met his wife, Sissy Spacek.
While Fisk is a sought-after talent for the ambitious auteurs looking to wind back the clock — his most recent credit is Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon, for which he was nominated for his third Oscar — his most personal connection was with David Lynch, his friend since high school.
Lynch died in January, during the production of Marty Supreme. Fisk was in Japan working on one of the last scenes soon after his passing, and was gratified to see people hosting film festivals in diners in Lynch’s honor.
Marty Supreme is the first film Fisk has done with Safdie, and while it is a relatively early work (Safdie is just 41, though this film is his seventh feature, and his second without his brother, Benny), the veteran production designer was impressed by his enthusiasm and his attention to detail.
“I always tried to prepare myself so I have a little bit more detail than he asked, which is very hard to do,” Fisk said.
It’s that eye for minutiae — and the need to block out the blight of modernity — that paved the way for the Forward’s brief cameo. Fisk, for his part, likes the look of the Yiddish.
“It’s so graphic and beautiful and you can move it around,” Fisk said of the truck. “The camera’s gonna miss it, you can just back it up five feet to see it.”
The post How the Forward got a cameo in ‘Marty Supreme’ appeared first on The Forward.
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A Hanukkah menorah in the window for eight days? Try an Israeli flag for two years
There’s a robust online debate over whether Jews this year should publicly display their menorahs given the rise in antisemitism. Here’s my suggestion: Ask Elon Rubin.
Rubin owns Sundays Cycles, a custom bicycle shop in Santa Monica, California, that since Oct. 7, 2023, features a large Israeli flag in its window. Every time I drive down Main Street, passing boutiques, restaurants, nail salons and Pilates studios, I see that flag, draped inside several square feet of the glass storefront. It is meant to be seen.
“I’m an Israeli citizen,” Rubin told me when I met him at his store last month. “After everything that happened on Oct. 7, it was the least I could do.”
What drew me into the store was the simple, quiet defiance of Rubin’s decision, which stands in stark blue-and-white contrast to the constant, hand-wringing debate American Jews are engaged in over such symbols.
Those concerns bubble up to the surface like sufganiyot in hot oil around Hanukkah, when Jews are commanded to place their menorahs in windows so that they are visible to all.
The Talmud says the menorahs must be displayed to “publicize the miracle” of Hanukkah.
But more and more American Jews are worried — as their European Jews have been for many years now — about announcing their Jewishness to the outside world.
Some 42% of Jewish Americans report feeling unsafe wearing or displaying Jewish symbols in public since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel, and 40% have avoided doing so, up from 26% in 2023.
Those fears aren’t new, but they have risen as have antisemitic attacks, anti-Israel protests and online threats.
When I walked into Rubin’s spacious, hospital-clean bike shop, I asked if he shared those fears.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he said.
One look at Rubin and here’s the obvious rebuttal: That’s easy for you to say. The 46-year-old, born in Herzliya to an American mother and a father from Libya, came to the United States in 1998 and made a profession of his cycling obsession. He is shaved, muscled, tattooed and speaks in rapid, commanding sentences.
Over the years, numerous people have shouted at him from outside the store to take down the flag.
“I say, ‘Come in here, let’s have a conversation,’” he said. “Not a single person has come in.”
Other reactions have not been as passive. Graffiti reading “Free Palestine” has appeared on the store window, and vandals have thrown numerous eggs at the place. He’s had death threats on his phone messages, including, ”I hope you die Jew” and “Your days are numbered.”
His Yelp and Google review rankings have been tanked by malicious one-star reviews.
Last March, a Jewish anti-Israel activist, Medea Benjamin, entered his store and called the Israeli flag shameful.
“What about the genocide?” she asked Rubin.
“There is no genocide,” he said.
Her Instagram post of the incident, which racked up 127,719 likes, prompted a deluge of negative reports to Instagram about the bike shop’s account. Instagram suspended his account, Rubin said, and has yet to reactivate it.
“Ten years of organic growth, gone,” he said.
But Rubin said the flag has also generated support. “For every negative,” he said, “we’d probably get two or three positives.”
Israeli tourists detoured inside to meet Rubin and thank him. American Jews, and some non-Jews, told him they appreciated the show of support.
The oddest reaction, he said, are from Jews who have urged him to take the flag down because, they said, it incites hate.
“Like it’s the new swastika,” he said.
But Rubin evinces neither fear nor loathing.
He doesn’t have “blind support” for the current Israeli government, he said, but he loves his country. Just because someone flies the American flag doesn’t mean they support President Trump, he pointed out.
It’s true that the Israeli flag, the symbol of a country embodied in conflict, is not exactly comparable to a menorah, seen largely as a religious symbol. Congregations have been divided over whether to display it on the bimah, as some congregants found it loathsome.
But someone prone to attack Jews might not make the fine distinctions between a menorah, a flag with a Star of David, and a Star of David hanging around a child’s neck, or on a Torah ark. The lines between these symbols are often blurry, but so is the logic of people who attack others just for displaying them.
I asked Rubin if he ever, in the past two years, considered taking down the flag, lighting the menorah in the backyard, so to speak.
“So then what are you?” he said. “You’re a Jew in silence, you’re a Jew in secret.”
Symbols aren’t arguments. They demonstrate but rarely convince, and nuance is not their strong suit. But to Rubin, their power lies not in the message they send to others, but in what they say to ourselves.
“Together,” he said, “we have more strength than we realize.”
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He used to think Jewish athletes were a punchline; now, he wants to help them get a proper paycheck
My favorite joke in the 1980 comedy Airplane! is, by the standards of a movie featuring a glue-inhaling Lloyd Bridges and an inflatable toy autopilot, one of its subtler gags. A passenger asks a flight attendant for some light reading; in return, she receives a pocket-sized leaflet of “famous Jewish sports legends”.
The vicious canard (just kidding, we’ve been called worse) that the so-called people of the book are ill-at-ease on the court or the gridiron contains a kernel of truth, of course. There’s a reason nearly all Jews know the names Koufax and Spitz — there are few other Jewish sports stars to choose from.
But the rapid growth of the country’s first Jewish NIL initiative, Tribe NIL, would suggest that, in the collegiate ranks at least, such stereotypes are baseless; in barely a year, it has accumulated a roster of nearly 200 athletes.
NIL, which stands for name, image and likeness, allows student-athletes to profit off of their fame and success, most often via endorsement deals requiring commercials, public appearances, paid social media posts and the like. (Here’s Arch Manning, star University of Texas quarterback, flinging a football downfield while wearing *checks notes* Warby Parker glasses.)
Until 2022, however, college athletes were barred from receiving any form of compensation for their services. So NIL initiatives — organizations that help connect students with funding opportunities — are a relatively new phenomenon. Most of the organizations bring together student-athletes with a particular unifying characteristic, usually a connection to a school or region; for instance, the University of Alabama, a college football behemoth, has two NIL initiatives, Yea Alabama and The Tuscaloosa Connection.
But Tribe is unusual in that it is not organized around geography, but around culture.
So co-founders Moses and Eitan Levine lean on a different kind of network: The Jewish professional one. “There are inherent advantages that the Jewish community has,” Moses told me over a Zoom call.
“I always joke that Jewish nepotism is a good thing,” he added.
Virtually none of Tribe’s athletes are able to command lucrative sponsorship deals, which, under the NIL system, are reserved for the very best Division I athletes in the so-called “revenue sports” — football and basketball. A good number of Tribe’s roster, by contrast, are Division III athletes, and few are in football or basketball. They’re still better at their chosen sport than nearly all other human beings, yet not good enough to be recompensed financially.
“That’s a problem,” said Moses. “A D-III field hockey player who doesn’t have inherent NIL value is still working a full-time job. It’s crazy they don’t get any compensation.”
With Tribe, then, Moses imagined other kinds of compensation. “The question we’re asking,” he said, “is how can our athletes use their name, image and likeness to get where they want to be in five or 10 years from now?”
Tribe’s answer is to cultivate closer ties with a myriad of institutions, and with their Jewish stakeholders in particular, in hopes of securing sponsorships, internships and jobs for its growing list of charges.
“Say I’m a big Jewish law firm,” Moses told me, “and I want to show that I support Jewish athletes. What if I hired a bunch of Jewish athletes for my summer internships, and then give them each an extra $1000 to allow us to advertise them on our Instagram?”
Moses and Levine pocket a fee for each deal, on top of whatever the athlete receives. Take the law firm example: In such a scenario, both men would be paid, by the firm, for giving that office access to the athletes — for “making the introductions,” Moses said.
The simple fact these athletes are Jewish is not the sole reason firms would hire them, Moses emphasized. “Like, they have a degree, and a full-time job as a basketball player on top of that, right? They’ve shown a level of commitment.” But Jewishness, Moses believes, can provide the proverbial foot-in-the-door. And he wants Tribe to be the intermediary.
“I wouldn’t ever tell a kid like they should only rely on the Jewish community to network,” he said. “But it’s a silver platter right there for you, and I promise you, it’ll work out for you if you lean in.”
For the tribe, by the tribe
Tribe is the brainchild of comedy writers Jeremy Moses and Eitan Levine. The pair met while working on Amazon’s short-lived sports TV show, “Game Breakers,” where they created a segment called “This Week in Jews.”
The duo, Moses said, quickly bonded over their shared cultural and sporting interests. Moses had a Conservative rabbi for a father and used to work for the site My Jewish Learning. Levine has a sizable social media presence as a comedian, which he often used to highlight Jewish sporting achievements in ways both heartwarming and acerbic.
In 2024, almost by accident, Levine helped broker the most significant Jewish NIL deal yet: A partnership between Manischewitz, of Matzoh fame, and Jake Retzlaff, Jewish quarterback at Brigham Young University. (Retzlaff was dubbed, entirely appropriately, B-Y-Jew.) Levine had worked with Manischewitz on his webseries, When Can We Eat, while Retzlaff had been the subject of one of Levine’s Instagram videos; he played matchmaker and made the shidduch to introduce the brand to the athlete.
Naturally, the photographs of a smiling Retzlaff holding up Manischewitz’s Potato Latke mix did not escape the attention of other Jewish student-athletes. Levine was soon inundated with requests for further kosher NIL deals, Moses told me.
This took both men by surprise; after all, they too had always subscribed to the notion that Jewish athletes were hard to come by.
“Our first thought was, ‘How many Jewish college athletes are there?’” said Moses. He decided to carry out a survey of sorts. “I went on the UCLA Athletics website — because I needed a school with a large population, a large Jewish population, and tons of sports programs — and looked at last names. If I was 75% sure they were Jewish, I counted it.”
His survey was unscientific, to be sure — Moses was a Jewish studies major, not a statistician — but it was effective: He counted 25 names.
“I was like, ‘Wait, that’s just at one school!” he said.
Moses realized that Jewish student athletes, far from being under-represented, were punching above their weight relative to the overall population. Thus was born Tribe NIL.
Schmoozing to success
Tribe’s yichus-heavy approach is premised on what Moses sees as one of American Judaism’s most enduring traditions: Rooting for Jews in sports just because they’re members of the tribe, whether they’re on your favorite team or not.
Moses offered up a choice example about Max Fried, the Yankees’ excellent pitcher. “Maybe you’re not rooting for the Yankees to win, but you’re still proud that the starting pitcher for the other team is a Jew.”
He acknowledged, however, that such an approach could limit Tribe’s appeal. It would be harder to pull off a paid appearance at a local synagogue, say, or a Q&A with Jewish partners at a business — with a view to potential employment down the road — if the athlete in question doesn’t feel especially Jewish.
So the collective is aimed squarely, and solely, at “proud” Jews, Moses said. “If they’re not comfortable talking about being Jewish out loud, then this is not the organization for them.”
Both Moses and Levine are holding out hope that Tribe will be spared the debates over Israel’s conduct in Gaza, and over competing definitions of antisemitism and Zionism, that have roiled so many Jewish-American institutions. “We really strive to be an apolitical organization,” Moses said. “Because the one time Republicans and Democrats sit together is at a college football game.”
Still, the fairly well-established pathway from U.S. college sports to the Israeli professional ranks is one Moses hopes to exploit, and he’s not afraid of upsetting anyone. “We want to help American Jews play in Israel,” he said. “If this is a political statement, then it’s a political statement. But I don’t think it should be.”
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