Every Jewish kid growing up in America knows the story of Sandy Koufax, the Hall of Fame pitcher who sat out Game 1 of the 1965 World Series because it was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year.

He’s basically the requisite hero of every Jewish boy, kind of like how a blonde Republican girl would look up to Ann Coulter.

And so when Yom Kippur rolls around every year, a year’s sins cast aside and a day without food comes complete with the fond recollection of the Koufax story.

His memory lives on not only as one of the all-time baseball greats, but also as one of the all-time Jewish greats. Even today, every Jewish athlete lives in Koufax’s giant, Star of David–shaped shadow.

Shawn Green of the New York Mets, who to this day receives hundreds of Bar Mitzvah invitations from New York–area seventh graders, doesn’t play on Yom Kippur and has become this generation’s best Koufax emulator.

But the wonder of the Sandy Koufax story is that it’s not just for Major Leaguers — that same moral, ethical and spiritual dilemma found its way to Ithaca, N.Y., on Saturday.

I might not have been playing in the World Series, but for all intents and purposes, intramural soccer may as well have been the World Cup.   

It was an internal struggle almost as heated as a Tommy Lee vs. Kid Rock game of Battleship, pitting my devotion to the Jewish religion against my devotion to the religion that intramural sports has become.

It was duty versus pleasure, love versus lust, the house salad versus an ice cream sundae.

Playing intramural sports might be the most fun thing. Ever. And yet, it just wasn’t that simple.  

I’m more than the kid who pays lip service to the idea of Judaism. For me, Yom Kippur isn’t just a day to send a quick e-mail to a couple of professors to get out of class.

I’m the kid who went to Hebrew school for 10 years, hasn’t missed a Yom Kippur temple service in his entire life and won’t touch pepperoni pizza.

I’m the kid who once hooked up with a girl who had a crucifix hanging over her bed, and asked her to take it down. Twenty-one years of tradition doesn’t die easily.

So Saturday came and Saturday went, and I played no soccer. I went to temple, fasted and enjoyed nothing short of an absolutely miserable day.   

In the end, though, it felt pretty good to be Sandy Koufax — even if it was just for a day.