Omri Casspi: Proud Jew in the NBA

How Keeping Kosher Made Me a Better Basketball Player

David H.—For generations, American Jews taught their children that the best way to succeed in America is to be relatively inconspicuous about their Jewishness. But much has changed in recent decades, and today the truth might be the opposite: That the more outwardly “Jewish” you are, the more respect you can earn. That was the experience, at least, of Omri Casspi. In the following essay, he tells the story of his evolving relationship with Judaism during the decade he spent in the NBA, and how it affected his performance both on and off the court.

Omri Casspi was the first Israeli to play in the NBA, where he played for ten seasons. He is the co-founder and managing partner at Sheva Venture Capital.

The following is an exclusive reprint from the anthology Jewish Priorities: Sixty-Five Proposals for the Future of Our People, edited by David Hazony. Copyright © 2023 Wicked Son. Reprinted with permission.

Proud Jew in the NBA

How Keeping Kosher Made Me a Better Basketball Player

Omri Casspi

As the first Israeli player in the NBA, I often drew the attention of Jewish basketball fans across America. I’ll never forget one time when we were on the road playing in Boston, and a boy who was probably no more than eight or nine years old approached me after a game. “Omri,” he said, “because of you I am proud to say, ‘I’m Jewish.’”

I was stunned. Embarrassed, actually. That night, I lost sleep over the boy’s words.

I was in my mid-twenties at the time. Until then, I had seen myself simply as a kid from Yavneh who had been exceptionally good at basketball. I was thrilled and grateful to be allowed to play alongside the greatest players in the world. My career so far had been nothing more than an amazing personal adventure. Now, suddenly, I realized I was representing something much bigger than myself. What connected me to this boy?

I decided I’d need to carry myself differently. Not just as a professional representing my team, my league, and my sport. But also as an Israeli and as a Jew.

Over time I reconnected with my Jewish heritage and began to observe some of its rituals. I started putting on tefillin and keeping kosher. I started bringing friends and colleagues on trips to Israel. The impact of this was surprising—not just for myself, but also in how others, especially my teammates and rivals, saw me. It taught me a profound lesson about success, discipline, and the importance of being the best version of yourself in everything you do.

***

Yavneh, where I grew up, was a blue-collar town in southern Israel that was home mainly to Jewish families who had immigrated from North Africa in the 1950s. Both my parents were serious about sports. My mother had played basketball in a league; my father, who had a long career in the Israel Defense Forces and the Israel Police, also played tennis as an amateur. The home I grew up in encouraged sports—not just as recreation, but also for building certain elements of character: discipline, teamwork, and determination.

At the same time, it was always clear that sports were not enough on their own. While it built important elements of character, it wasn’t enough to turn you into a good person. (I discovered this in the NBA: Even in the world’s greatest basketball league, some players are generous, mature, good people—people who made me proud to be associated with them—while others are selfish and self-destructive. In basketball, as in life, one can be great without being good.)

Sports were never seen as an alternative to education. On the contrary, school was my top priority. I was very good at math and English. My parents expected straight-As, and when they thought I wasn’t trying hard enough, they’d punish me: “No basketball for a week.”

I loved basketball. It helped that I was unusually tall. There aren’t many six-foot-one bar mitzvah boys or six-foot-three tenth graders in Yavneh—and I just kept on growing. But I was also good at the game and worked hard at it. My parents kept telling me I had to be the best player I could be.

“He can play for Maccabi Tel Aviv,” my high school coach said, referring to Israel’s greatest team.

“He should be the best that he can be,” my father answered. “He should play for the NBA.” No Israeli had ever played for the NBA.

I started playing professionally for Maccabi Tel Aviv at age seventeen—one of the youngest players to turn pro in Israel’s history. In 2009, I was drafted by the Sacramento Kings in the NBA in the first round. My parents had been right all along.

But as dedicated as I was to the sport, there were always other things I cared about. Even though we were a secular family, we always saw Judaism as important and positive—the key to being a good person. We loved the Bible. We also loved our country. One of my regrets in life was that I spent my years of military service as an “excellent sportsman,” which meant mostly playing basketball, and I did not serve in a combat unit. Call me a Zionist or a patriotic Israeli, I have always been proud of where I come from and who I am.

***

My first few years in the NBA, I was in awe. Living in America, touring the country, making millions at the age of twenty-one, the excitement of having been drafted, and being good enough to keep on playing—these drowned everything out.

But about four years in, when I was playing for the Houston Rockets, I started to feel like I had lost my way. What was unique about me? About my being Jewish? I was in my mid-twenties and still single. Partying late at night, sleeping in late. I felt alone and lost. I had made it to the pinnacle of my sport, but deep down I felt empty and hurting. Like a leaf blowing in the wind.

It was around then that I encountered that boy in Boston, and his words never left my mind. I made him proud to say he was Jewish. But what kind of Jew was I?

I started visiting Chabad houses in different cities. I started eating kosher food. At a certain point I bought my first set of tefillin—and praying with them on became a kind of addiction.

I spent the off-seasons in Israel, where I met Shani Ruderman, the woman I would marry in June 2016, in Tel Aviv. She came to live with me in Sacramento—at this point, I was back with the Kings—where we started to build a family.

I transformed my life. I now had responsibilities as an adult in the real world, not just on the court. And I learned that, unlike in Israel, to be a proud Jew in the Diaspora required effort.

The impact of that transformation was noticed by my teammates. When they asked me why I ordered kosher food on the plane, I said, “Look, there are certain things I do. This is mine.” And they respected it. Someone like DeMarcus Cousins—he’s a tough guy who will never sugarcoat anything, who will tell you to your face how it is. He showed deep respect for my Jewish turn, and we became the best of friends.

Another effect of the change I went through was that I started bringing other players to Israel—to show them the country that made me who I was, the land I had never stopped loving. I brought DeMarcus to Israel in 2015, along with other players including Caron Butler, Tyreke Evans, and Iman Shumpert. We landed on a Friday afternoon and didn’t sleep the first night. On Saturday morning, we walked from the King David Hotel to the Old City. DeMarcus saw ancient buildings, the holy sites, an entire world that was the background of my childhood. Two hours later, I got a text from DeMarcus: “This,” he wrote, “is a life-changing experience for me.”

He has since become a great supporter of Israel. The following year, we did it again, this time bringing NBA stars like Amar’e Stoudemire, Shawn Marion, and Rudy Gay, as well as the actor Jeremy Piven.

***

For generations, American Jews told themselves that in order to succeed in America, they had to downgrade their connection to Judaism and their ancient Jewish heritage. That there was something about America that didn’t take kindly to Jews who stood out too much.

Maybe it was once true. But my own experience was the exact opposite. My connection to Judaism and my outward pride in Israel gained me respect from teammates and rivals alike. They now saw me as someone true to myself, someone with a backbone, someone who saw a picture bigger than the game.

And it affected my performance, as well. For me, Judaism provided a spiritual anchor, a foundation, that allowed me to perform at a higher level than I ever had before. I didn’t just become a more fulfilled person. I became a better basketball player, too.

One of the most tragic aspects of playing in the NBA was watching how some young players can’t handle getting so much money so early in their lives. It’s like an eighteen-year-old winning the lottery. Without mentors and discipline, the money quickly disappears. When I first got to the NBA, three-quarters of the players were broke within five years of retirement.

Fortunately, in recent years a lot has changed. Today, the NBA and the Players Association invest heavily in teaching players not just to keep their money but how to grow it. Big stars like the late Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Kevin Durant, and Stephen Curry set a powerful example for younger players, investing their earnings and starting venture capital funds. And they have more to offer than their investment. Their experience in the NBA offers significantly added value to young start-up companies just learning the ropes of management, teamwork, discipline, and determination needed to succeed.

And they inspired me, as well. In 2022, a year after retiring from professional basketball, I helped launch a firm called Sheva VC, which helps Israeli startups at the earliest phases.

It turns out that the lesson I learned about how my Jewish pride earned the respect of others isn’t limited to the NBA. Today, whenever I attend meetings with other investors or business leaders and I insist on eating in a kosher restaurant, I can tell it makes people respect me more, not less. It’s human nature: If you are sure of who you are, if your life is built on a solid foundation, and if you’re committed to higher principles beyond the immediate goals in front of you—people will take you more seriously.

So, if I have a message to send out to young Jews everywhere, it’s this: Do not be afraid of Jewish pride. Don’t ever believe you have to give up who you are to succeed in your profession or to gain the respect of others. If anything, the opposite is true.

And don’t be afraid to say it out loud, because you never know who might be inspired by it. That eight-year-old boy I met in Boston a decade ago is now a young adult. Somehow, I inspired him through my success—and he inspired me, in return, to become a proud, responsible Israeli Jew in the world.