The Pitch
I knew Stan from work; he came by every now and then and gave a talk to us after meeting with my boss. I could tell he felt he was a big shot; his suits fit him well and he had a knack for snappy comebacks. I was a rung or two below him on the ladder, but I was the manager of the company softball team and one of the better third basemen in our league, which was a pretty strong one. It surprised me, though, when I got an email from him to give him a call on his cell.
He beat about the bush a little, but then came around to the reason for the call: he was picked by the CEO to throw out the first pitch at a Phillies game the next week on our corporate night there. I thought it was cool, but he was in a panic. Turns out Stan was no athlete.
“I need your help, Dave. It is not easy for me to ask.”
“You want me to help you throw? It shouldn’t be a problem. Can you come to one of our practices?”
“NO! No one can be around! My God this is terrible.”
“Man, maybe you should just tell him to ask someone else.”
“Not an option. Do you know Chapman? I think he played first base for Yale, like the first President Bush. What future would I have here if he thought I was a pussy? Everyone thinks I am some kind of jock because I am thin and ride a bike.”
“OK. Do you have a glove?”
“No. I’ve not played any baseball or softball, ever. I grew up in the city and my dad left before I was six.”
“When do you have time?”
“I don’t, but I’ll have to make it, and the sooner the better. I won’t be able to sleep without working on it.”
“Geez. Well, you know where I live? I’m out in Media. I have a decent yard. I could throw it around tonight if you can make it. I have a few gloves, too.”
“I’ll have to make it. I’ll give you a call before five to get directions. I have to go now."
Stan may be a whiz executive, and he may be a pussy, but at least he showed up a few minutes early in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a Temple t-shirt. He forgot to tell me he was a lefty; I didn’t have any lefty gloves. The non-jocks just don’t get the details. There was no way he was getting a ball near the catcher on the big night.
The Pitch 2
Not only were the Wagner boys twins; they also thought they were doubly funny. The alphabet forced us into proximity my whole career at school, and I got to know them well. We were also in the drama club in high school. I joined because there were three pretty girls and there was always the chance one of them might be impressed by something I said or did or maybe we would even have a kissing scene. The Wagners were there because they were surely going to make it big.
After I graduated from college, I got a low level job at an investment bank in New York. I barely made enough to rent a dump apartment and buy enough nice clothes not to be embarrassed every day at work. I worked long hours and lost about 7 pounds in the first three months from the stress and not eating much.
Needless to say I was not excited when I got a friend request on Facebook from both Wagners. I knew I would dread it, but I accepted. Within two weeks they were getting a taxi at the Port Authority to come stay with me. “Something big” was up.
I flipped the three locks on the door open and let them in. They seemed a bit thicker and shorter than I remembered, both with messy hair and their shirts untucked. They seemed to bounce off each other as they walked around the apartment, which would take less than 20 seconds to tour. I had a small twin bed in the corner for myself, so I offered them the couch to share somehow, but they told me, almost in unison, that they were going to sleep on the floor in sleeping bags. Then they looked at each other with big grins and broke up laughing and laughing. I’ve never been good at watching other people laugh at something I know nothing about. Maybe my parents didn’t raise me right.
When they finally stopped, with tears running down their faces and even a little snot hanging from their noses, they told me to sit down on the couch. There was a little room between the couch and my small flat screen, and they moved into the space and seemed to be ready to break into song. Thankfully, they started to pitch me a concept for a play instead.
When they could keep their hands off each other and weren’t laughing, they told me they had “co-written” a play they were sure was going to be huge with the audience that packed “The Book Of Mormon.” Here is the concept: They are playing boy scouts, in full uniform, going on a camping trip with a small group of scouts and two scout masters, one of whom is almost certainly a child molester. That scout master has all kinds of schemes to get his hands on the boys: a Tickling Merit Badge, Indian leg wrestling, leap frog, human pyramids, even swimming slalom around each other in the icy pool. The comedy, from their point of view, comes from all the characters being played by adults, the cluelessness of the non-pervert scoutmaster, and the various ways the “boys” thwart the bad scoutmaster’s schemes. They were happy to sleep in sleeping bags as part of their “preparation,” and they had a meeting with a guy who knew some producers in Manhattan tomorrow.
“How long are you planning to stay here?” I was already rubbing my eyes and feeling ready to go to sleep after listening to their pitch, even though it was only 7pm. I was pretty sure whatever they said next was going to be terrible.