The Moth is a not-for-profit storytelling organization that features true stories told live on stage without notes. I’ve listened to their weekly podcasts for a long time and attended a live performance earlier this year. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
Looking for an opportunity to tell my own stories, I flirted with the idea of creating a Connecticut version of The Moth, which is currently based in New York, Los Angeles, Detroit, and Chicago. But then, Moth organizers recently put out a call to potential storytellers as they launch the new Moth Radio Hour. If selected, storytellers will have the opportunity to record their stories for the radio program with the possibility of being asked to appear live on stage as well.
That is good enough for me!
And since I have been blessed (and cursed) with an interesting life, I am full of stories, ready to tell. Yesterday, I called The Moth and recorded my first one-minute pitch, a pretty tame story by my standards but one that can be quite funny when told right. If I don’t hear from The Moth in the next month, I will call back with a new pitch.
Here was my first:
I was an average sprinter and a sub-par long jumper in high school. One day, my coach announced that he needed two more pole vaulters to compete with our state champion, Jimmy Dean. Coach explained that these two vaulters must be capable of clearing opening height to qualify for the district relays; at that point, the team had no one.
And so, after an eventful and amusing tryout, Matthew Dicks, Jack Daniels, and the great Jimmy Dean became the Blackstone Millville Regional pole vaulting team for the next two years. Jimmy easily cleared opening height during our first meet, but Jack and I failed miserably on our first and second attempts. If we both cleared opening height on our final attempts, James’s eventual vault of eleven feet would be more than enough for us to take first place. Failure would mean our team would be disqualified and earn no points from the vault competition.
More importantly, if I failed but Jack succeeded, I would face the additional stigma of losing the team a chance at a gold medal. As Jack approached his third and final attempt, I secretly hoped he would fail, taking the pressure off me. Even though his failure would undoubtedly cost me a gold medal, there was far more at stake in this competition:
Meaningless adolescent pride and misbegotten social standing.
I’d love an opportunity to tell this story.
