Chapter One
The Beginning
This is a love story, and it starts in the comfortable three-bedroom Massachusetts home I shared with my father. I was a rail-thin nine-year-old boy and, late every afternoon, my ball cap on straight and a baseball held firmly in hand, I stared at the doorknob of the front door. I waited anxiously for it to turn, signaling Dad's return home from work.
My first love was playing baseball with my dad. It didn't matter how I was doing in school, whether my friends were around, or how boring my day had been. He was there for me every single day. I could count on my dad . . . and I could count on baseball.
I still can.
In 2015, my wife and I started a college summer-league team. We sold out every game from the beginning. We won championships. For many people, that would have been enough.
Somewhere along the way, baseball had become so painful to watch that even the announcers seemed exhausted from its plodding pace. Why not, Emily and I felt, try something different? We wanted to jazz up the game and put fans on the edge of their seats-and make them smile.
Our baseball team, we quickly learned, seemed like a grassroots movement, and it was also our wake-up call. Slumbering baseball fans craved change to the game-at least the fans who still cared-and the Bananas somehow struck a nerve.
Now we're an elite pro team. We're touring the country and, one day, the world. We have our own Banana Ball rules, where we get rid of the game's laborious moments and give fans more of what they really want-fast-paced excitement and things they never imagined seeing on a baseball field. We think more and more talented players will want to go bananas because our game gives them a chance to show off their personalities while also creating the kind of fun they enjoyed as kids.
My younger self couldn't have imagined the life I have with the Bananas. I mean, I thought I loved the game. But maybe what I really loved were memories of a carefree time, when the stadium lights flickered on, spikes clickety-clacked on the sidewalk, and the freshly mowed grass had the sweetest smell. Baseball fans still live for that sound the ball makes when it pops into a glove, for the sound of the crowd. When I was a kid, the game made me feel so alive.
But long before I owned seven yellow tuxedos, long before reporters from the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times shared features on our outrageous entertainment business, long before ESPN produced a five-part documentary on how our baseball revolution came about, I stared at that doorknob. And I waited.
When I was a kid, playing baseball was the only time when everything seemed normal. Some people these days say the Bananas are out to save baseball for the next generation. Maybe that’s true. But I know this for sure: baseball saved my childhood.
When I was eight years old in my hometown of Scituate, Massachusetts, my dad brought me into the living room and told me he and my mom were getting a divorce. I didn't understand why people got divorced. Nobody I knew talked about divorce. None of my friends' parents were divorced. In my mind, parents always stayed together, no matter what.
When my dad broke the news, I kept thinking it was my fault. I was not the easiest kid to raise. Years later, my dad told me I was very "opinionated." Maybe I blamed myself for my parents' splitting. I just knew I didn't want to hear about a divorce.
"Dad, what do I need to do?" I said while sitting on the couch. "I don't want this. Just tell me."
"Jesse, it's just not that easy," my dad said solemnly. "You'll understand this better when you get older. We both want what's best for you."
With tears in my eyes, I kept saying, "I'll be better. I'll try. I'll listen. I'll do what you guys say. Please stay together. Please. I'll be better. I promise! Please!"
It wasn't that simple, my dad kept telling me. There were things I couldn't grasp about the demons my mother was battling. I didn't understand about addictions and how they could rip apart a family. I was just a kid who wanted his parents to stay together. I didn't want my life to change in such a scary kind of way.
I didn't want scary; I wanted simple.
When I stared at that doorknob every day, I was minutes away from escaping all my worries. Somebody once wrote that the seams of a baseball formed a lifeline for me and my dad. That is so true. I was all dressed up with somewhere to go. I couldn't wait for my dad to come home from work so I could come back to life.
When the doorknob turned and my dad burst into the house, it didn't matter if he was tired from his job. It didn't matter what he had to do that night. We were headed to the ball field. I felt so happy and free.
Sometimes, a boy rebels against his dad, or the relationship becomes a battle of wills between two stubborn guys. I feel sad when I hear about guys who don't have positive relationships with their fathers or whose relationships grow strained over time. I never had that experience.
Even today, when I get beautiful personal messages from people about the Bananas and how our show affected them, my first thought is usually, I have to send these to my dad. He would love this. And he's always like, "Man, this means so much. I never would've imagined this." I know he's proud. That still means everything to me.
I know my dad is proud of the Savannah Bananas, too.
In a way, that's funny. My dad was always big on playing baseball "the right way." And the Bananas break so many of those "rules" that are gospel to baseball purists. Some people won't take anyone or anything seriously unless they're buttoned-up and professional. Well, I have a different perspective about that. I don't believe anybody comes home and says, "Honey, I met the most professional person today. She was just so professional." I don't think we get excited about being professional.
I think we get excited about memorable, unique, fun, and different. If people want to have fun, they must take chances. So we challenge people to embrace the fun. Some people say that's not for them. Well, why not? Give it a try. Loosen that tie. Have some fun. See if it brings more purpose and enjoyment.
Unfortunately, I didn't try to have fun, or make fun, in high school ball or college ball. I took it seriously, and I have regrets about that. I wouldn't trade my baseball-playing days, but I think my approach gradually changed. Now, with the Bananas, life has been beyond anything I could have ever imagined.
One thing has continued, though.
When I was at Wofford College and later, while running the teams in Gastonia, North Carolina, or Savannah, I'd usually work out on the field with my dad. We'd get the music blasting in the stadium. We would do some long throws and some soft toss. We'd either go to the cages or we might hit on the field; then we'd take ground balls.
These days, we don't do it all the time. My dad is now in his seventies. I'm pushing forty, and I've usually got a million things going on with the Bananas. I'm super focused because there are so many details to account for in Bananas games.
But when my dad and I are together at a game, we like to have our own fun. If it's just the two of us on the field, we hit and play catch.
There's a reason why so many men were blindsided by the film Field of Dreams when it first came out. They first tried to hold back the tears, then realized there was no shame in showing their emotions. The baseball movie ended up being a love story that ended with a father playing catch with his son.
There's no question that my dad had a major influence on all of my baseball experiences. But beyond that, whatever good qualities I have are because I watched the way he lived his life.
The best example was in 2013, when we learned my dad had two forms of cancer. There was non-Hodgkin's lymphoma outside of his liver, a tumor that was spreading quickly. The doctors found colon cancer as well, so they decided to treat the cancers aggressively.
He was at Beth Israel hospital in Boston, and I was down in Gastonia. He insisted I stay and told me, "Jesse, just do your thing. I'm going to be fine."
I called my dad every single day. I would say, "Dad, how are you doing?"
And he always said, "Yes, I'm great, I'm great," even when he was actually in the middle of chemo and going through unbelievable pain.
About six months into his treatment, I remember calling and asking, "Dad, how are you?"
And he just said, "I'm good." He didn't say great. He said good.
I found out he had thrown up the whole night and had been extremely sick. All I could think was, He said good, not great.
Well, the next day, I called and he told me, "I'm great." Every single day after that, he said great. Every single day.
A few months later, when he was in complete remission and the cancer had been defeated, the nurses told me my dad had been the most positive patient they had ever had in the hospital, even though he had gone through more pain, more challenges, and more adversity than just about anybody.
So when people ask me what's the best advice I ever got, I always say it wasn't advice. It was watching my dad every single day, how he dealt with these severe challenges and adversity, and how he coped with his fight against cancer.
Do I have my share of challenges like anybody else? Of course. But after watching what my dad went through and seeing how he handled that, how can I not take on a positive outlook on everything I do?
Yes, if you can't tell already, I'm extremely excited about what we've built with the Bananas and how people all over the world have climbed aboard. Who knows how big Banana Ball can get? Yes, I'm the guy in the yellow tux and top hat, the guy who can't do enough crazy stuff, the guy trying to bring more fun into baseball. I'm loud and outrageous, some might even say a little "out there."
But you know what? My greatest joy has been that I have gotten to share all of these experiences with my dad.
I'm still that kid who's staring at the doorknob.
I still want to make my dad proud.
Chapter Two
Scituate, Massachusetts
I grew up in Scituate, Massachusetts, a classic American small town filled with summer cottages, picturesque views, and friendly people. We were on the South Shore, about an hour out of Boston, an hour from Cape Cod, and probably one mile to the Atlantic Ocean. You might call me a beach bum. We went quite often.
Our house was a really comfortable place. It had a pool in the back and about an acre of land for me to play on-and that's a good thing for an only child with a vivid imagination.
Even when I was a kid, though, there were days when I knew things weren't quite right.
From the earliest times I can remember, my mother would sleep in, sometimes all the way until noon. It went on up until when my parents got divorced. My dad would leave a bowl of cereal and a half cup of milk inside the fridge for me, and that was my breakfast. My mother didn't do it because she was sleeping.
Most days, my dad would go to work, my mother would sleep, and I would be all alone. We had this upside-down house, and the kitchen was on the top floor. One time after my dad had left in the morning, when I was probably about three years old, I decided to play in the kitchen sink. I got on a stool and climbed into the sink with all my toys. Then I guess I got bored with that, so I went in the other room to watch TV, but I left the water running full blast.
For about an hour, water poured down the lower cabinets and onto the floors. I had no idea that our house was flooding. Eventually, it started seeping through the ceiling to the first floor. All of a sudden, my mother woke up because the fire alarms and smoke detectors were going off. She called my dad in a panic. My dad told her to get out of the house.
There was three feet of water when the fire trucks finally arrived. My dad came all the way home from work to discover there had never been a fire but that our house was flooded. He was frustrated to say the least.
My dad was the only one making money. He had a big job at Bradlees, where he was the regional manager for that chain of discount department stores in the Northeast. My mother, I guess, was in her own world.
Here's the thing: my mother was and is a really good person. She was loving when she was there and when she was awake. I'm told there were times when she loved cuddling with me or reading me books. I just don't remember much of that because I was so young.
I was responsible as a child. I washed the floors and did the laundry when I was eight years old. I wasn't sure what my mother was actually going through. I'd say it was a strange time frame for me, but it was all I knew.
My dad was a constant and comforting presence in my life. For me, he was it. He was everything.
He obviously had a vision, and he could see two outcomes for me. Either I would be with my mother or I would be with him. I have love for my mother, but we don't talk very much, and she's still struggling with challenges. Had she raised me, I would have led a completely different life, with a completely different outcome.
My dad fought hard and invested heavily in doing whatever was necessary to make sure I was with him. That wasn't for selfish reasons. Actually, it was selfless. My parents shared custody, but my dad was the one who raised me, even though raising a child as a single parent was difficult. He did what was best for his son, juggling his own life and career.
Copyright © 2023 by Jesse Cole. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
