The Moth - The Moth Podcast: Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Episode Date: March 29, 2024

The crack of the bat! The smell of hot dogs! The towering home runs! In celebration of Opening Day, we've got two stories about America's Past-time. Host: Larry Rosen Storytellers: Joseph Gallo learns about his father, and about baseball. Muneesh Jain travels to every baseball stadium in the country. The Moth would like to thank its listeners and supporters. 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/giveback

Hey, Rob Bradford here. I have set out on a mission with my good friends at FanDuel to prove what I have known for some time. Baseball isn't boring. Now I have a daily podcast to prove it with some of the most notable people in the baseball world screaming baseball isn't boring from the mountaintops or at least agreeing to come on our show. Players, managers, GMs, and yes, even the commissioner of baseball, Rob Manfred.

It has been a constant wave of baseball's both powerful voices. So join the revolution. Subscribe and soak in baseball has been boring. Listen on your Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcast. You'll be glad you did. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Larry Rosen, master instructor at 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 cars. Yankees. These have all been personal favorites. So in this episode we're going to share a couple of more 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 fly balls 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 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 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 wiffle ball in the backyard to stickball out in the street to playing real baseball in the park with bats and gloves and 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 Kuzmin, Jerry Grote, Ed Krainpool, Ken Boswell, Bud Harrelson, Ed the Glider, Charles, Kleon Jones, Tommy Agee, and in right field, the platoon of Ron Swaboda, 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 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 tryouts of 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 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 Grode, 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, Lyndon, New Jersey. Somebody from Lyndon 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 into 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 game it's a game and my mom she jumps to my defense he's like Al please go easy on the kid can't you see he's upset and then they start to

get into it we get home and everybody's yelling and doors are being slammed it's it's 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 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 7 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 down I noticed 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 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 base line. And Roberto Clemente, who played right field

for the Pittsburgh Pirates, he charges the ball, fields it on one hop, and throws a perfect strike to first base and throws stop out. The crowd ooze and ahs, they boo stop, and my dad, he elbows me and goes, come on, let's go get a hot dog. I don't wanna leave my seat, I don't wanna 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 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 gonna be okay. My daddy 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 continue this ritual on and off for the next seven years. And then when I turned 19 years old, it 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 dress blues. 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 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 Jain. 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, theme for the evening words. Who do you think you are? Here's Manish, live at the mall. 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 the family meeting to let everyone know I was never going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. I was

going to 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 then 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 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 I'd saved from ESPN and the magazine,

and I ran away. I moved to New York into a tiny, 160- 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 gonna 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 gonna 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 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 Citi Field at a Mets game spent 20 minutes meticulously breaking down why it was that the Yankees sucked. And then 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 quietly confided in 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 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 Lainey, her nine-year-old granddaughter, in front of my microphone saying, little Lainey, tell the nice man, what do you do all your school reports on? And little Lainey 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 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 gonna 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 Pepto-Bismol.

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, OK, 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've 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.

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 smiling." I said, why 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, OK, 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 Jain, 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 ballgame, 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 RoundingThirdMJ. 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? That's a hard question. 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 I say this, and this is not to denigrate any other sport as a kid, I love football, basketball, hockey, golf, et cetera, 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 bit. She's a lovely woman, speaks very highly of you, never once mentioned

baseball. 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 this 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 neophyte. So for someone who, Larry, I'll pull back the curtain a little bit. Larry, I took you to a ball game. And you are not the biggest baseball fan in the world, and 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 and 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 Clujet, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leigh-Ann Gulley, 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 give back. 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 PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.