The Moth Podcast: Take Me Out To The Ballgame

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Welcome to the Moth Podcast.

I'm Larry Rosen, Master Instructor of the Moth.

I'm your host for this episode.

March 28th is a big day for a lot of people.

Besides being Holy Thursday, it is also National Black Forest Cake Day.

It is National Hot Tub Day, and it's also National Respect Your Cat Day.

These are all completely serious.

But perhaps most significant for a lot of Americans, it is also the opening day for Major League Baseball.

Yes, on March 28th, the Brewers meet the Mets, the Braves play the Phillies,

And our national pastime will officially be in full swing.

So I'm going to start this episode with a bit of a confession.

I like baseball.

I appreciate it.

I respect it.

But what I've always really loved are stories about baseball.

Field of Dreams.

If you build it,

you will come.

A league of their own.

There's no crying.

There's no crying in baseball.

Even the musical Damn Yankees.

A great ball club we haven't got.

What have we got?

We've got hearts.

All you really need is hearts.

These have all been personal favorites.

So in this episode, we're going to share a couple of moth stories about baseball, and particularly about what it is that makes the sport so meaningful to people.

First up is Joseph Gallo.

Joseph shared this story at a main stage in New London, Connecticut, where the theme of the evening was a more perfect union.

Here's Joseph, live with them off.

Thank you.

One day when I was nine years old, I was at the park with my friends and we were playing baseball.

We were hitting grounders.

We were shagging flyballs.

And suddenly there was this huge explosion.

And this enormous black mushroom cloud rose up into the sky.

And my friends and I, we jump on our bicycles and and we pedal toward the smoke.

And when we arrive at the source, we find a five-story factory building engulfed in flames.

And one of my friends goes, look.

And there on the roof of the building, in the distance, we could see this fireman fighting the blaze.

And it was my father.

My father was a fireman and

as a fireman, he was a hero to a lot of people, but to me, as a kid, I rarely saw my father.

He was not neglectful.

He simply

never said no to overtime.

The man was always working.

He was always fighting fires.

To me,

he was an enigma.

For the most part, he was a quiet and sensitive guy, sentimental.

The right Frank Sinatra song could bring him to tears.

But he was also intense.

You did not want him mad at you.

During World War War II, he served in the Navy in the South Pacific and he was in battle for nine consecutive months.

And he took this experience in the military and he carried it with him straight on to the fire department.

He loved the discipline.

He loved putting on the uniform.

He loved being a fireman.

I loved baseball.

That year, my friends and I, we quickly progressed through the developmental stages of the game, from whiffleball in the backyard to stick ball out in the street to playing real baseball in the park with bats and gloves in a major league baseball.

My friends and I, we studied the stats, we knew all the teams, we knew all the players, and our heroes became Tom Seaver, Jerry Kuzman, Jerry Grody, Ed Cranepool, Ken Boswell, Bud Harrelson, Ed the Glider Charles, Cleon Jones, Tommy Agee, and in Wright Field, the platoon of Ron Swoboda, and the only Jewish player in the major leagues at that time, Art Shamsky, better known as the 69 Miracle New York Mets.

Who that year overcame a thousand to one odds and won the World Series.

Now, my friends and their fathers, they were really into it too.

They would watch games together.

They would collect baseball cards.

They would play catch in the backyard.

My father, not so much.

Up to that point in my life, I don't think my father had ever seen a major league baseball game.

If he ever saw me with a pack of playing cards, he would say, you know, throw out the gum.

It's bad for your teeth.

He would sometimes play catch with me.

I think my mother guilted him into it.

He would play only as long as he had to, and then he would

go back into the house.

And then one day, out of nowhere, My father comes home and he announces, I signed you up for Little League.

Try out to this Saturday, and guess who has to drive you?

What happened was one of the other firemen was going to coach a Little League team, and he pushed my dad into signing me up.

And so he drives me to the tryout, and then he drives me to every single practice and every single game.

And every time we get in the car, he says the same thing.

This is a complete waste of time.

Baseball is ruining my life.

And And the funny part was, my dad's nickname on the fire department was the chauffeur because he drove the hook and ladder truck.

The chauffeur would drive me to the field and then he would wait there until I was done

in the car.

He would not get out of the car.

While the other parents would sit in the stands, he would park where he could see the field and he would sit there and listen to the radio.

Although, whenever I came up to bat, he would beep the horn three times

to let me know he was watching.

By the time I turned 12 years old, I was a pretty good Little League baseball player.

I played catcher, and I modeled myself after Jerry Grody, who played for the New York Mets.

I even took his number, 15.

I had a nickname, Spider, because the backstop was my web.

I was very good with pitchers.

I was very good defensively, and our team was very good.

That year we went undefeated, and we made it into the Little League championship game in my hometown, Linden, New Jersey.

Somebody from Linden here.

The day of the championship game, it was 100 degrees outside, and in my catcher's gear, it was even hotter.

And the game went to extra innings, and we lost one to nothing.

In the car on the ride home, I am inconsolable.

I'm crying, I'm sobbing, and my dad will not hear of it.

He turns to me and he says, boo-hoo-hoo, you're crying like a little baby.

What is wrong with you?

You lost a game.

It's a game.

And my mom, she jumps to my defense.

She's like, Al, please go easy on the kid.

Can't you see he's upset?

And then they start to get into it, and we get home, and everybody's yelling, and doors are being slammed.

It's terrible.

But about a week later, my dad comes up to my room, he knocks on the door, and he presents me with two tickets to see the Pittsburgh Pirates versus the New York Mets.

Now, how and where he got these tickets from, I have no idea because he had never done anything like this before.

And I am pretty sure that my mother said, do something nice for the kid.

And he did.

Saturday afternoon, we drive into the Port Authority.

We park up on the roof deck, and my dad,

he guides me over to the ledge

so that we can take in the New York City skyline.

And

this look came over his face.

It was a look I had only seen before when he was listening to Sinatra.

And we stand there for a few moments together.

And then we drop down into the subway and we take the seven train out to Shea Stadium.

Coming through the tunnel and seeing the field for the first time, I am ecstatic.

To this day, whenever I enter a major league ballpark, I relive that moment of seeing the field for the first time.

We have box seats right along the right-field line, and as we sit down, I notice that there are

fathers and sons all over the stadium.

Right behind us is another father and his son, and the two of them are wearing matching New York Mets hats and the father is teaching the son how to keep score.

My dad, he seems more interested in tracking down the beer vendor.

And then the game starts.

It's two outs, bottom of the first inning, and Rusty Staub for the New York Mets hits a line drive single into right field and begins jogging up the first baseline.

And Roberto Clemente, who played right field for the Pittsburgh Pirates, Pirates, he charges the ball, fields it on one hop, and throws a perfect strike to first base and throws Staub out.

The crowd ooze and ahs.

They boo Staub.

And my dad, he elbows me and goes, come on, let's go get a hot dog.

I don't want to leave my seat.

I don't want to miss a single thing.

But he's like, I'm not letting you stay there by yourself.

Come on, let's go.

And so I stand and I follow him, but all the while I'm looking over my shoulder to to see what's happening on the field.

We come through the tunnel,

and there in front of us is the father who is sitting behind us, except now he's kneeling on the concrete floor, and his son is lying unconscious in front of him.

And he's looking around, and he's frantic.

He's screaming, help me, somebody help me, please.

And my dad.

He does not hesitate.

He goes straight over to the other father.

He says something to him.

And then he falls to his knees and he begins to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

And as I stand there, this ring of people slowly begins to form around them, and I find myself getting pushed further and further away until I'm on the outside, looking in

at my dad.

And then the paramedics show up and

looks like the kid's going to be okay.

My dad, he stands.

A couple people shake his hand, pat him on the back.

The other father, he hugs my dad.

And then my dad, he just looks over at me and he nods with his head for me to meet him at the concession stand.

When we get back to our seats, I gaze out at the players on the field and then I

look over at my dad and I realize that in the silence between us, that something has changed, that

it's like I'm seeing him for the first time.

After this experience, and I don't know how this came about, it seemed miraculous, but then again, they were the Miracle New York Mets.

My dad buys us a weekend ticket package, and we begin to go to games together on a regular basis.

Now, did he learn to love the game?

I don't know.

I'm not sure.

He was still intense, my dad.

He was who he was, but baseball became our common ground.

And those trips to the ballpark became some of the fondest memories I have of growing up.

Now,

we continued this ritual on and off for the next seven years.

And then when I turned 19 years old, there was an explosion in a chemical factory in our hometown that it burned for three days and three nights.

And my father was on duty for the entire time.

When they finally got the fire extinguished, he went back to the firehouse, he laid down on his bunk, he had a heart attack, and he died.

He was given a fireman's funeral.

And stretching down St.

George Avenue, as far as the eye could see in either direction, are hundreds of firemen in their dressed blues.

And while they offer a final salute goodbye

to their fallen brother-in-arms,

I say goodbye to my father, grateful for the journey and the game that brought us together.

Thank you very much for listening.

That was Joseph Gallo.

Joseph is a writer, actor, filmmaker, and educator.

His plays include The Playbill Gallery, A Love Story, Long Gone Daddy, and A My Italy Story, which had its debut off-Broadway at the 47th Street Theater in New York.

He's the founder and director of the theater arts program at Hudson County Community College and is a recipient of the Kennedy Center Prize for Innovative Teaching in Theater.

All right, up next is Manish Jane.

Manish told this story at a Moth Main Stage in Traverse City, Michigan with a theme for the evening words.

Who do you think you are?

Here's Manish live with the Moth.

My parents are from India, so in our house that meant we had a high bar set for academic achievement and a specific type of professional success, doctor, lawyer, engineer.

By the time my sister was 12, she knew she was gonna be a doctor, just like my dad.

When I was nine, I called a family meeting to let everyone know I was never going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer.

I was gonna be a gymnast.

My parents, they tolerated it, but told me that one day I was gonna have to grow out of it.

But I went to the gym six days a week, five hours a night.

And by the time I was a teenager, I was training for the Olympics.

And multiple injuries ended my career.

My folks, they said, all right, you got that out of your system.

Now it's time to focus on your education.

I needed them to be impressed with me, the way they were, my sister.

I just, I couldn't wrap my head around doing it their way.

So I came up with a bigger idea.

When I was 19, I got a job with ESPN.

I was producing live segments for Sports Center, ESPN News, hanging out with my sports idols.

My folks, they kept reminding me, Don't let this get in the way of your schoolwork.

All right, fine.

If that wasn't good enough, I came up with a bigger bigger idea.

I left the network and moved to Detroit, Michigan, a city that I love.

And I started a sports magazine.

I sold ads.

I found distributors.

I built a staff with grown-ass people who had kids older than me.

And we were killing it.

We were up to 50,000 subscribers.

People were recognizing me on the street.

Hell, Muhammad Ali said he liked my magazine.

But every time I'd see my parents, they just asked me, when are you going back to college?

Get that degree.

This time, there was no bigger idea.

I had to make this work.

I doubled down, worked twice as hard, which also meant that I pretty much stopped sleeping entirely and started drinking and drugging the nights away to manage my stress levels.

And when I was 24, my doctor told me that I was six months away from a heart attack.

I either had to get rid of the magazine or die.

So I gave up.

And something

broke inside of me.

And I couldn't face my parents.

I took the money money I'd saved from ESPN and the magazine and I ran away.

I moved to New York into a tiny 160 square foot studio apartment where the windows didn't even open and it was there that my self-imposed exile began, slowly losing contact with every human I'd ever met.

The delivery guy would just leave the food outside my apartment because I couldn't even make eye contact with him.

I was a failure.

My parents would call and I never knew what to say.

My dad would lecture me that I wasn't even a part of the family anymore.

My mom would yell at me that I needed to get my life together.

And every conversation just ended in tears.

So I stopped answering their calls.

Then they started sending me money to keep me alive, and I took it, and that made me hate myself so much more.

And so I just stopped leaving my apartment entirely.

The TV would be on 24 hours a day.

I wasn't watching at all.

I just needed flashing images and noise to block out the constant stream of shame, regret, self-loathing that was clanging around the inside of my skull.

And that became my life.

Every day, all day,

living in near isolation

for five years.

One day a baseball game just happened to be on.

Now, I hadn't watched a sporting event of any kind since the death of my magazine.

It was always just too hard, but on this day, I was so broken, I just stared emotionlessly at the screen in front of me.

And within a couple of innings, something strange was happening.

I felt myself sitting up in my bed, engaging with something outside of my own head.

I was smiling.

I mean, actually smiling for the first time in five years.

By the time the game ended, I'd already ordered the MLB TV package and just started mainlining baseball.

I was watching every game, reading every article, going back over the last five years to see everything that I'd missed.

In the middle of it all, I remembered a dream I had when I was six.

You know, one day, I'm going to see a baseball game at all 30 MLB stadiums.

It's one of those silly things that a lot of baseball fans want to do, but few actually get a chance to do it.

And the ones who do it do it over the course of a lifetime like a normal human person.

But in this moment, nobody even knew that I existed.

I could disappear off the planet and no one would notice.

So I said, screw it.

I'm going to do it and I'm going to do it in one season.

I'm going to drive 17,000 miles in 95 days and go to a baseball game at all 30 ballparks.

I started obsessively poring over maps and schedules, planning out my route.

Every time I'd go down to the bodega to buy another pack of cigarettes, instead, I would take that money out of the ATM, go back up to my apartment, shove it underneath my mattress.

By the time the next baseball season came around, I'd saved $6,000 and quit smoking.

I was ready to go.

I called my parents to let them know what I was doing and they really didn't know what to say.

They were just happy that I was was alive.

And I hit the road.

Every 48 hours I was in a new city.

But I didn't want to just sit in the ballpark alone.

I needed a way to reintegrate myself into society.

The problem was I had completely forgotten how to even have a conversation with somebody else.

So I invented a podcast.

I couldn't have cared less if anybody actually listened to this thing.

I just needed an excuse to go talk to strangers.

And it was working.

People were talking to me about the stats of their favorite ball players, the histories of their ballparks.

One kid at City Field at a Mets game spent 20 minutes meticulously breaking down why it was that the Yankees sucked.

And as I bounced from ballpark to ballpark, I noticed that my conversations, they were evolving.

I talked to a father and son in Baltimore, where after our official interview, the father pulled me aside to quietly confide to me that he didn't really have a relationship with his eldest son.

But his youngest, his youngest loved baseball.

So he knew that at least they'd be able to talk about that.

I talked to a mother and daughter in San Francisco who had been going to games together for 20 years.

Three generations of women in Texas.

The grandmother proudly shoving little Laney, her nine-year-old granddaughter, in front of my microphone saying, Lil Laney, tell the nice man, what do you do all your school reports on?

And Lil Laney excitedly screams out, the Texas Rangers.

And I realized we weren't really even talking about baseball anymore.

We were talking about family connection.

By the time I got to LA, I'd already driven 8,000 miles on my own.

I was halfway done with my tour, but this, this was my hell week.

Because the Angels and the Dodgers rarely play at home at the same time, I had to catch a game in Anaheim, drive 17 hours up to Seattle, turn back around, drive 17 hours back to LA, then 30 hours to Minnesota.

It's 4,000 miles in 10 days, but I was a man-possessed.

Nothing was going to stop me.

After my Angels game, I hopped in the car and headed up north.

But about halfway into the drive, my vision starts to get blurry and my body starts to uncontrollably shake.

I pull over just in time to open the door and projectile vomit all over the side of the highway.

I didn't know what to do, so I called my dad.

He just sighed into the phone and said, you had food poisoning.

What am I supposed to do from here?

Gatorade and Peptobismol.

My mom gets on the phone and starts screaming at me.

This is ridiculous.

You need to take better care of yourself.

And I hung up.

I wasn't in the mood for another lecture.

I made it to Seattle in time for my game by double-fisting Gatorade and Pepto-Bismol.

I was staying with some family friends, so I knew they'd be able to take care of me.

The next day, I hear a knock at the door.

Nobody's home, so I walk upstairs and

through the glass door, I see the silhouette of a four foot 10, 90 pound little woman.

I open the door and just say,

What are you doing here, mother?

And she says, I'm here to help you drive now she must have seen the panic on my face because she followed that up with

and I've been listening to your podcast I know you don't take bathroom or food breaks when you're on the road so I'm not going to take any breaks either we're going to stay on your schedule

I didn't know she was listening to the podcast

and then she said one more thing I'm driving the whole way so you've got two options you sit next to me and you can sleep or we can talk Now, I honestly can't remember the last time my mom and I had been in the same room together without it devolving into tears.

So I said, okay, mama.

I got in the car and I immediately went to sleep.

I slept the entire way to LA and when we got there, she said, I'm not going to go to the baseball game with you.

I said, why not?

She said, because you've got work to do, and if people see you there with your mother, they're not going to want to talk to you.

I said, you're being ridiculous.

Of course, you're going to come.

And I got her a ticket.

We're at Dodger Stadium, and I start interviewing the gentleman sitting next to me as I'd done at every ballpark before.

My mom, she moves to the seat behind us to give us some space to chat.

And after the interview is over, I can hear her talking to her new seatmate.

And her new seatmate's asking, wow, you must be a huge baseball fan to do this type of road trip.

And my mom just answers,

no.

I really don't like baseball.

I like watching my son watch baseball.

I pretended like I didn't hear that.

After the game was over, we're walking back to the car, and she stops me.

She wants to show me a picture she'd taken during the game.

And I look down at her phone and it's actually, it's a picture of me and the guy that I'd been interviewing.

And she just said, look,

you're smiling.

I said, when are you going home, Mama?

And she said, no, no, no, no.

I'm going to drive with you to Minnesota too.

This time there was no panic on my face.

I said, okay.

We're going to split the drive and let's talk.

As we made our way out east, I started talking to my mom the way that I've been talking to these strangers at the ballpark these last couple of months, asking her stories about her life.

You know, this woman,

she survived three wars between India and Pakistan.

I didn't know that.

She told me the story of how her and my dad's arranged marriage came to be.

I knew they were arranged.

I just never knew how or why it happened.

I don't know why I never bothered to ask her that.

Right before we got to Minnesota, we made a quick pit stop in South Dakota at Mount Rushmore.

And as we're walking up to the monument, my mom peeled off to call my dad.

And I was eavesdropping, and I could hear her say, As immigrants to this country, we'd always wanted to see Mount Rushmore.

We just never found a reason to make the trip.

This is all so exciting.

I can't wait for you to be able to see

our son.

He's just so happy.

Thank you.

That was Manish Jane.

Originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan, Manish has lived in New York City for 16 years.

Between April and October, you will most likely find him in one of the 30 MLB ballparks across the country, catching a ball game, talking to strangers, and eating ice cream out of a mini helmet.

He's currently working on a memoir about how baseball saved his life.

Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at rounding third MJ.

We had a few questions from Manish,

so we invited him into the studio.

Hello, Manish.

Hello, Larry.

I'm absolutely honored to be here.

So at the top of this episode, I happen to mention that I tend to love stories about baseball.

even more than I love the game itself.

Is that weird?

I mean, is that strange?

Not only is it not weird, I feel like that's almost a more common opinion, even from baseball weirdos like myself, who I'm obsessed with the game, but ultimately I kind of like the stories I hear in the stands and the stories off the field more than the actual action.

So what is it about the game?

It's a hard question.

You know, I've thought a lot about that.

And I think a couple of the obvious answers are, look, it's been around since 1845.

So it's kind of very much ingrained in the history of america in one way but ultimately at least for me and look i say this and this is not to denigrate any other sport as a kid i love football basketball hockey golf etc but baseball is a game just because of the pace of it that was built for conversation.

It's built for contemplation.

You know, people like to use the pejorative maybe boring.

And I can understand why someone who might be new to the game might not understand it.

But when you are actually in a ballpark and it's a three-hour picnic and you've got your beer or your Coke or your hot dog or your ice cream eating out of a mini helmet, you know, no matter what it is, you turn to your seatmate, you have a lovely conversation, you hear the crack of the bat, you look, you watch the play develop, and now you're back to your conversation.

And it's about connection.

It's about all of us.

It's about community.

Love it.

So

I've met your mother.

Your folks came to hear you tell this story.

And, you know, we chatted a bitch.

She's a lovely woman, speaks very highly of you.

Never once mentioned baseball.

And I was just wondering, did she ever develop her own love of the game?

Absolutely not.

My mom and I have absolutely developed a wonderful relationship post my first 30 stadium tour, but she is consistent with her absolute ambivalence towards the sport of baseball.

But that being said, since 2013, which is when the story took place, I have now since taken her to maybe five or six different stadiums.

And anytime I have a new ballpark that she wants to go to, she is so excited to go.

And it's still the exact same experience every time where we just kind of talk to each other at the game and she watches me get excited and it's the best.

So let's say somebody comes up to you and they tell you that they are attending a baseball game for the first time.

What would you tell them?

First of all, I'll tell them they're my favorite person in the world, genuinely.

There's nothing more

that I love than someone going to a ball game for the first time because there truly is something for everyone.

So this is going to be a two-part answer.

One is for the people who are taking someone to a game for the first time, stop quizzing them and testing them on their baseball knowledge.

We're all nerds, I get it, but it's a complicated game to a neo-fight.

So for someone who, Larry, I'll pull back the curtain a little bit.

Larry, I took you to a ball game.

It's great.

And you are not.

not the biggest baseball fan in the world.

I think we can admit that.

But it's more about letting you lay back and enjoy the experience.

See the wildness of, oh, what's that first base coach doing over there?

Why is that left fielder moving around and stepping to the right?

Or honestly, like I said, just sitting back and enjoying the sights and the sounds.

As long as you're in the ballpark, you will see.

It is a wonderful experience.

It is a relaxing three-hour picnic.

Go to a minor league park in your local area where it might not be

a million dollars to go to a game because Major League Baseball, I'm begging you, make the games more affordable.

But there's so many different ways to really appreciate a ball game for the first time.

But the only way to do it is to just show up and see what tickles your fancy.

That's great.

All right, that's it for this episode.

Till we're together again, we wish you a whole lot of home runs.

Larry Rosen is a master instructor at the Moth.

After 25 years teaching, directing, and practicing theater and comedy performance, Larry discovered the simplicity, power, and beauty of true stories.

Shortly thereafter, he found the Moth.

As they say, timing is everything.

In addition to hosting, Larry also directed both of the stories in this episode.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluchet, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leanne Gully, and Aldi Casa.

The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners.

Stories like these are made possible by community giving.

If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash giveback all moth stories are true as remembered by the storytellers for more about our podcast information on pitching your own story and everything else go to our website themoth.org the moth podcast is presented by purex the public radio exchange helping make public radio more public at purex.org

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