As a famous Brooklyn bakery once proclaimed, “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Levy’s Real Jewish Rye.” And I say, “And you don’t have to be Jewish to enjoy Cohn’s new book.”
I have had the privilege of becoming friends with legendary San Francisco Bay Area sports columnist Lowell Cohn. Cohn, who has a Ph.D. in English Literature from Stanford University, made the unprecedented jump from the academic world to writing a regular sports column with the San Francisco Chronicle without previously serving as a sports beat writer.
Photo courtesy X
Cohn knows sports, having been an avid fan since his childhood days in Brooklyn. However, sports are not his greatest love. In his book, Gloves Off: 40 Years of Unfiltered Sports Writing, he stated, “When people ask what I like about my job, I say the writing. They are always disappointed, and they want me to say I’m in love with sports. I am passionate about sports, but I love writing even more. If it came to that, I could write about a glass of water.” I truly enjoyed reading that book.
The beauty of his latest book, Brooklyn Jew: Journey of an American Sports Writer, is that Cohn gets to take his sports gloves off and write about his life. Now 79, he, of course, touches on sports, as he spent 15 years writing columns for the Chronicle and 23 years doing the same at the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. But this is not a sports book. Nor is it a standard autobiography. It is a series of poignant episodes in his life, which has its roots in Brooklyn.
Cohn, who is fiercely proud of his Jewish heritage and was inducted into the Northern California Jewish Sports Hall of Fame in 2022, explains how his ethnicity has shaped the core of his writing and perspective on life. There are some hilarious episodes in which this Brooklyn Jew, having moved from what he calls his ghetto to the hallowed halls of Stanford, learns about Christmas and other Gentile customs which are as foreign to him as tofu at a barbecue.
From Advanced Publishing (published September 2025)
Most of the book is humorous, although there are somber moments when he reflects on the passing of his wife, Dawn, and close friends and colleagues. The final chapter, “Heaven,” focuses on Dawn and his longing to reunite with her after death.
The funny chapters are hilarious. My favorite, “Christ Descending,” discusses a painting by a Flemish artist, van der Weyden, titled The Descent from the Cross, which Lowell’s older brother Robert had inexplicably hung on his dorm-room wall, to the horror of their parents. That’s just the backdrop for the chapter, which focuses on Cohn’s time at his half-Jewish fraternity, Alpha Chi Rho, at Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, where he earned his undergraduate degree.
Lafayette, a Presbyterian school, required all students to take at least one religion course and attend chapel. They also served pork chops in the cafeteria, a delicacy forbidden to Jewish people. But Cohn ate the pork chops and handled the religious stuff okay—until one day when Lafayette alum Dean Sloka tried to convert the entire frat house to Christianity. His approach, clumsier than a bull in a china shop, resulted in an explosion that I will allow you the pleasure of reading for yourself. As a Jew who believes in Jesus, I found this chapter especially side-splitting.
Cohn reveals his childhood discovery that Judaism is not the largest religion in the world—not even close. Surrounded by Jews in his ghetto, it came as a shock.
He recalls how the build-up and excitement of watching a playground fight between high schoolers named Greenspan and Vazquez subliminally kindled his love of writing about sports.
Lowell Cohn: When I was a sports writer and covered the big fights in Vegas, Greenspan and Vazquez paraded through my mind leading up to the bell. When I sat in the first row ringside in 1985 and fidgeted, awaiting the start of Marvin Hagler vs. Thomas Hearns, I felt the same nerve-wracked tension, sweaty palms, the thrill of danger, the need for a resolution, and the need to be there. I felt the same way about 49ers Super Bowls, San Francisco Giants or Oakland A’s World Series games, or Golden State Warriors playoff games. I would cover these events, restless and agitated, yet experiencing the sublime, feeling awe. Greenspan and Vazquez covered them with me.
Cohn recalls when he went to check out a book at the local library, how the librarian accused him of using his father’s library card because she couldn’t fathom an eleven-year-old having the first name Lowell. This leads to a discussion about Lowell’s Yiddish name, Leibel, meaning “the roaring lion,” and his Hebrew name, Aryeh, meaning “the Lion.”
Cohn writes, “And if I had known back then, back when I was eleven, that I was The Lion, I would have stared at the librarian who accused me of lifting my father’s library card and roared in her face for her sheer chutzpah and rudeness until she peed her pants and timidly begged my forgiveness. And then I would have grabbed my books and stormed out, only to turn back and shout, Don’t be unkind to a kid ever again. Leibel The Roaring Lion.”
He writes about his first sexual encounter, a funny chapter, and not salacious.
He has a chapter titled, “Why Judge Judy is Essential.” She grew up in Cohn’s section of Brooklyn, though they attended different high schools. She attended Madison High, where notable alumni include Carole King, Chuck Schumer, Bernie Sanders, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Chris Rock. Cohn writes, ‘Why do I love Judge Judy? Because her world is orderly—it has rules, and it makes sense, and she is the enforcer of order. She insists people take responsibility for their actions, demands they support themselves, if able, and she won’t accept excuses.’
Cohn likes that kind of world. He is a principled man who, although he can be amusing, takes life seriously. That balance is reflected elegantly in this memoir.
And you don’t have to be Jewish to enjoy this book.
