THE "MICKEY MENDEL" SYNDROME (9/27/04)

Years before the mellifluous Cat Stevens morphed into the nefarious Yusef Islam, the Jewish community claimed the Moon Shadow as one of our own, perpetuating the self-aggrandizing rumor that his name was really Steven Katz.

If you’ve ever been around our tribe, you know that name-twisting and mangling to claim celebrities as fellow Jews is an Olympic-class sport. This was particularly true among first-generation American bubbehs and zaydes, for whom “making it” in Columbus’s land hit its apex when a coreligionist attained Hollywood or Major League stature.

Who didn’t watch Ed Solomon on Sunday night? When Ricky Layne’s dummy Velvel would call out “Mr. Solomon!” in his best Ellis Island accent, we would roar. But I swear that even as I kid, I could see the Irish-Catholic Mr. Sullivan wince.

Likewise Arthur Gottfried and his Talent Scouts. And broadcasting from Miami Beach, yet. Then we found out that he was an anti-Semite. Nu? We still intrepidly trod his boulevard for the sake of a good corned beef sandwich.

Ah, Jewish by association? Well, Eddie Cantor was Jewish. So too Al Jolson, a cantor’s son. Then George M. Cohen must have been Jewish, too, right? After all, he sang of being a “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” the Jewish immigrant’s fondest dream.

Edward Goldenberg Robinson and John Garfield/Garfinkle were movie heavies of the Hebrew persuasion. So the third of the tough guy trilogy, James Cagney, must have been Jewish, too. After all, who would have taken seriously a thug named Jacob Caplan?

Lauren Bacall was really Betty Persky, and we somehow forgave her dalliance with that smoldering sheigetz Bogey. But what about Anne Bancroft? Aren’t folks always confusing her with Bacall? And isn’t she married to the quintessentially Jewish Mel Brooks?

We knew that Danny Kaye was Jewish by some article of blind faith, but his comedy was pretty mayonnaisy. Sid Caesar was nowhere nearly so self-conscious, encrypting Yiddishisms here and there, winking the secret code to his Jewish viewers. So too, by the way, the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges and Max Fleischer’s Popeye.

Steve Allen – Abrams, we postulated – pulled the same schtick. He must have been Jewish, too, no? Nah, but seven of his eight writers were, and four bore the ultimate credential: born in Brooklyn.

Which brings us to sports heroes. Here my mom reigned supreme. When the White Sox won the pennant in 1959, she was sure that the latecomer hero, Ted Kluszewski, had to be Jewish, until my dad reminded her that the Jews stole names like that from the Poles, not vice versa.

Actually, in that World Series, extraordinary Jewish advantage went to the Dodgers: the legendary Sandy Koufax and the sibling pitcher-catcher team, Larry and Norm Sherry. Big Klu hit three homeruns against the Dodgers, but the Sox were humiliated four games to two.

Which brings us to the most exalted Jewish ballplayer of all times, Mickey Mendel. A generation of immigrant Jews from the Lower East Side to the Bronx beamed with Yiddishe nachas over their Triple Crown Bar Mitzvah bochur. So famous . . . and he didn’t even Americanize his name. What other vistas could Jews attain in this Golden Land?

And so, one day a kid in the Bronx sits glued to the radio, listening to the Yankees on their way to another victory. His European grandfather walks through the room.

“Zayde! Zayde!” the boy bursts, “The Yankees are ahead 4-2 and Mickey Mantle is up to bat!”

“Mendel?” Zayde contemplates for a moment and then in Old World Yiddish muses, “Is that good or bad for the Jews?”

Fortunately, the lingering rumors were wrong. When morning had broken, Yusef Islam was not Steven Katz after all. Thanks be to the Lord. Otherwise, the question of the ages would again have come to bite us on the behind: “Is that good or bad for the Jews?”