Hank Greenberg was six feet tall and broad, with forearms the size of steel beams and a last name that made headlines in all the wrong ways in an era of prejudice.

In Detroit, Hank Greenberg became more than a baseball player.

He made a statement.

One that said a Bronx Jewish kid could be at the forefront of America’s favorite game.

And that class and courage could triumph over bigotry.

Hank Greenberg was raised in the working-class Bronx as the son of Romanian-Jewish immigrants. He loved sports and chose baseball over basketball, football, and the Ivy League.

When antisemitism simmered just beneath the surface of American life – and sometimes above it – he knew the odds were stacked against him, yet that didn’t stop him from chasing his dream.

Instead, he stared it down without flinching, and by 1930 the Detroit Tigers had signed Greenberg, with him making his debut in 1933.

By 1934, he was a starting first baseman, and by 1935, the most feared hitter in the American League, hitting .328 with 36 homers and 170 RBIs that year and winning his first MVP award before going on to help the Tigers win their first World Series title.

He was taken to Detroit, bruised by the Depression, and full of glory – with a Jewish last name and all.

In fact, many called him The Hebrew Hammer – and not always kindly.

Fans and opposing players hurled antisemitic slurs at Greenberg from dugouts, bleachers, and the press box, yet he seldom replied.

Instead, his bat spoke for him in upper-deck thunderclaps.

In 1938, he hit 58 homers – two shy of Babe Ruth’s record – a near-miss some believe was tainted by pitchers who did not want to see a Jewish man remake baseball history.

But Greenberg never complained.

He just showed up and hit, making being Jewish look like a strength and not a weakness.

In the 1934 pennant race, Greenberg made national headlines not for hitting, but for not playing.

In honor of his faith, he sat out a crucial late-season game on Yom Kippur, the holiest day in Judaism.

His absence drew immense public backlash.

Yet, he turned into a cultural icon overnight.

Poet Edgar Guest wrote in the Detroit Free Press:

“We will miss him on the infield and at the bat, but he is true to his religion – and I honor that.”

No other major leaguer, but Hank Greenberg, lost nearly four full seasons of playing time during World War II.

Undeterred, he later enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Forces shortly after Pearl Harbor without deferment.

At 30, it seemed he had chosen country over career.

Then, in 1945, Greenberg, emaciated from service and unsure if he still had his signature swing, hit a pennant – landing a grand slam on the final day of the Tigers’ regular season.

The Tigers would then go on to win the 1945 World Series for their second championship under Greenberg.

For him, Detroit was a myth in human form:

For him, Detroit was a myth in human form: working-class roots, an unbreakable spine – holy days, home runs, and tough choices.

In 1947, Greenberg was traded to the Pittsburgh Pirates for one season and retired after one season.

Still, he always remained in baseball – be it as an executive, scout, or mentor, becoming the first Jewish general manager and helping open doors for players of all backgrounds – including African Americans in the post-Jackie Robinson era.

And all the while, his quiet dignity never waned.

Never forgot Detroit.

And Detroit never forgot him.

Hank Greenberg was more than a baseball-throwing ace.

He was a man who stood tall in hatred, in war, and under the kind of pressure that most of us cannot even fathom.

He made being different easier.

Made being proud easier.

And he made Detroit a place where a Bronx Jewish boy could not just survive – but become a king.