Yankees Magazine: Savannah Bananas

“We may have to,” Jesse Cole says, tying a bow on a 30-minute conversation before he goes back to whatever reality looks like in the brain center of the Savannah Bananas. “I may have given you a good final piece of your story, by the way, right there: We may have to. And that’s the end of the story.”

Baseball’s Willy Wonka isn’t wrong: A cheeky acknowledgment from the Savannah Bananas’ owner that his traveling troupe of performers might someday need to launch a rocket into space from the pitcher’s mound in order to top themselves would make for a terrific kicker. But we’ve been inspired, ourselves, by the Bananas. So instead, we’re going to flip things on their head and start the story where The Man in the Yellow Tuxedo thinks it ends.

The first thing you learn while spending time around the Savannah Bananas, who brought “The Greatest Show in Sports” to George M. Steinbrenner Field in Tampa, Fla., this past February to kick off their 2024 World Tour, is that it’s not a failure if you try something and it doesn’t work. Failure is not trying in the first place.

It’s an ethos. Cole is front and center throughout a weekend of Banana Ball in Tampa, always moving, always visible. Clad in one of his nine yellow tuxes — “It’s part of who I am,” he says the Monday after the three-day showcase, noting that he’s even wearing one off the field — Cole is a carnival barker and a hype man. He’s also a visionary who will bring his quirky mix of baseball and spectacle to more than 1 million fans this year, with his eyes on someday hitting a billion. If the goal seems hilariously ambitious, that’s intentional. Like his kindred spirit, P.T. Barnum, Cole knows that life is a race against one’s own self.

“Standing still is failure,” Cole says. “Not pushing the envelope. Conforming. Doing the normal stuff that everyone else does.”

And no one — literally no one — will ever accuse Jesse Cole of doing what everyone else does. During batting practice on Thursday, which follows the rare baseball “rehearsal” on the GMS Field diamond, Cole stops for a beat to say hello, then offers a prediction. “Low key tonight, but we’ve got some stuff tomorrow. Keep your head on a swivel.” Several hours later, before the game even begins, he’s on the stadium PA system calling out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we need your crawling babies!” In the hands of a lesser puppet master, this would seem legitimately threatening.

“Keep your head on a swivel” is good advice for a Banana Ball newbie. For all the talk that a baseball game offers the chance to see something you’ve never seen before, that’s an understatement for a couple hours at a Savannah Bananas vs. Party Animals showdown, where anything that you have seen before is a fleeting phenomenon. The rest of the time, it’s trick plays and comedy skits, dances and delirium. There’s music playing all night, there are grandmas fighting with pool noodles and a batter wearing stilts. And yes, there’s the “World’s Slowest Race,” in which five crawling babies take center stage between innings; it’s hilarious and sweet and much less terrifying than it sounds.

If you wonder, at times, where the sport stops and the show begins, then you might (very understandably) be missing the point. The sport is the show, and the show is the sport. Neither could exist without the other, and to the credit of Cole and everyone involved in putting together an unforgettable weekend in Tampa to kick off what should be a historic year, everyone is pulling on the same rope, including a beloved former Yankee and a legendary WWE superstar/A-list actor who made a surprise appearance during the third and final game of the weekend.

“Well, this is in my wheelhouse,” says John Cena, who rose to fame by mastering the art of sapping as much spectacle as possible from one of the world’s oldest sports. “They play a competitive game every night where the wins and losses do matter. But they make the experience about the fans, and they consistently try to push themselves.

“The game is never boring.”

So what is Banana Ball? It’s a reasonable question. Banana Ball is neither a better concept nor a bastardized version of baseball. It is its own thing, but it is not the future of baseball. “It’s Banana Ball, not baseball,” says Jake Skole, a member of the Party Animals.

“Our goal,” says Adam Virant, a Bananas assistant coach now in his fourth year with the team, “is that if you have a family that comes to watch one of our shows — we call them shows instead of games, because they really are shows — everybody has a unique and different great experience, whatever it is.”

“Whatever it is” does a lot of work around the Savannah Bananas. There are 11 unique rules of Banana Ball, from the two-hour time clock to a rework of the concept of a walk to the ban on bunting. The idea is to make the game as immersive and engaging as possible, never more so than when a fan catches a foul ball for an out.

That last point was a shock to Peter Simmons, a fan at the second game in Tampa, who caught a foul pop to end the top of the first inning, and then was caught off guard by the Bananas players who raced into the stands to bring him to the field. “I didn’t know nothing!” Simmons said a few innings later, safely back in his seat, recounting a literal “hold my beer” moment when he handed his cup to his brother as the ball flew in their direction. “My brother was like, ‘Hey, they’re coming for you!’ I didn’t know what to do.”

Jesse and his wife, Emily, founded the Bananas in 2016 as part of the Coastal Plain League, a collegiate summer baseball circuit. Over time, the team added some dancing elements, an emphasis on trick plays and quirky social media hits, to the point that the show started becoming a bigger draw than the baseball (and it is quite a draw; every game since that first year has been a sellout). The Bananas left the CPL after 2021; these days, it’s a fully professional entity, with players split between the Bananas, the Party Animals and — debuting this year — the Firefighters. The Party Animals, who previously existed just to play against the Bananas, will embark on their own headlining tour later this year, and the overall schedule includes six Bananas games in big league parks. The players are on full-year contracts, and team president Jared Orton says that the lowest-paid guy on the team earns more than any Triple-A player.

The natural association is with the Harlem Globetrotters and the Washington Generals, but Cole and everyone in Bananaland recoils at the comparison. First, it’s not the same show every night, and the action on the field isn’t scripted. “I challenge every guy on the team to do one thing every night that they’ve never done before in front of a live crowd,” Cole says. It’s all part of “plussing,” of expanding the scope of what’s possible and fighting against too much repetition; Cole generally expects 20 to 25 totally unique things each night. Or, as Zack Frongillo, the director of entertainment says, “I’ve been preaching to our guys a lot that if it’s perfect right now, we’re not pushing ourselves hard enough.”

But there’s also actual competition. The Bananas lost the season series in 2023, the final game in Cooperstown, N.Y., settling the tally at 70-69 in favor of the Party Animals (who also swept the three season-opening games at GMS Field this year). But for all the between-the-legs throws by Ryan Cox or Jackson Olson, for all the backflip catches by center fielder DR Meadows, the baseball is serious (maybe not when Dakota Albritton is batting while wearing stilts, but the gag is still among the most impressive athletic feats you’ll ever see). There is real skill on the field, and everyone wants the baseball to look good. Otherwise, it just comes off as a cheap social media gag.

“I thought it was all dancing and antics,” says Ryan Kellogg, a Bananas pitcher who reached Triple-A in the Cubs’ organization. “And then I got here and realized the level that these guys are playing at is incredible; how fundamentally sound you have to be at traditional baseball to do these things. Whether it’s the backflip, the trick plays, between the legs, all those sorts of transfers. It’s competitive out here. Guys are hitting balls 400 feet; guys are throwing 90, 95.”

There are natural trade-offs that come, times when your brain must decide what it is you’re watching. The most TikTok-perfect moments occur when the players work in a choreographed dance before a pitch. There are well-rehearsed routines, such as the 3-2-2 — the third inning, second batter, second pitch — when everyone will dance together before the pitcher delivers. The videos go viral all the time. Does it matter if the pitch is a strike, if it’s a ball, if it’s blasted for a homer? Not really, at least not after the game, when the players are all meeting with fans in the plaza outside the stadium (you’ve truly never seen fan access like what you’ll find at a Savannah Bananas game).

“You can be 0-for-4 or 4-for-4, but then you have that special moment with a kid, and they tell you how much fun they had,” says Michael Deeb, a Bananas outfielder who was a linebacker at Notre Dame. “And you realize how little they even really know. You might not have hit a home run, but they’ll be like, ‘It was sick when you hit that home run!’ or ‘You did so great!’ It’s something that I almost wish could have been a part of collegiate training into pro ball, because I think that a lot of us who have had some experience in pro ball look back on it, and it’s like, ‘Wow, what if my mindset was this while I was doing that?’”

That’s one of the most jarring aspects of being around Banana Ball. For as much as social media can be artificial, and as downright silly as some of the antics are, it’s a sea of true believers in the power of potassium. There are small elements: While hitting fungoes during infield practice, Virant tosses the balls behind his back, putting on a show for no one. But that spirit lives inside everyone that the team has hired, from players to staffers. Never is that more clear than before the gates even open, when broadcaster Biko Skalla and “The Young Professor” Matt Graifer are entertaining the mass of fans in the plaza. The players walk through the crowd and do a choreographed dance; meanwhile, inside the stadium, team staffers (completely out of view of the fans) are dancing, too.

Part of that is the fact that the Bananas are now a known and successful entity. Whether you’re looking to play for the team or work behind the scenes, you know what you’re signing up for, and the organization is lucky to be able to attract employees and players instead of having to recruit. But there’s also a decency inherent in the “Fans First” mentality, one that extends throughout the organization. There are small things, like choosing to spread out in three buses for road trips rather than cramming into two. There’s also the fact that there might not be a business on the planet that leaves more money on the table. Tickets to Bananas games, whether at home or on tour, cost $35 for general admission (there are certain Very Important Banana tiers that offer more access for more money, but $35 gets you plenty, which is why you have to be selected in a lottery even to buy them). At Grayson Stadium in Savannah, the tickets even come with all-inclusive food.

It’s all built right into the company’s business model. “Jesse and I got accused of being anti-capitalist,” Orton says, laughing at the idea of consultants rampaging through the team’s offices. “No, I think we’re fine? I think we make money? I think we pay everybody? I’m pretty sure we’re competitive? We felt like if we deliver just insane value, we will get rewarded for that at some point.” When Jesse and Emily started the team, they named the ownership corporation Fans First Entertainment. They have no investors, and Jesse brags that he doesn’t really know what’s in the bank account, that not worrying about it allows him to think about other things. “Jesse Cole wants a billion fans before a billion dollars,” says Jackson Olson, the Bananas player with the biggest social media following, one that rivals some major entertainment icons. “And I think that’s possible in the future.”

In some ways, that mentality made the weekend in Tampa all the more interesting to observe. Returning to GMS Field for a second straight year, the Bananas were thrilled to partner with the Yankees and were overwhelmed by the treatment from the organization. But Major League Baseball is Major League Baseball, and the Yankees are the Yankees. If you had to name a ballpark or a franchise that, at first blush, would seem an unlikely fit to host the Bananas, it would be the Yankees and George M. Steinbrenner Field. Not so fast, says Tony Bruno, Yankees senior vice president and CFO of Yankee Global Enterprises.

“I think the thing that [Steinbrenner] would have loved about it is the appeal to kids,” Bruno says. “He had a great sense of humor, so I think he would have laughed at the gimmicks and the tricks and everything. But I think the most important thing is, he would have loved to have seen the kids involved and how it appeals to young people. Nothing bad can come out of our game being introduced to young people in some capacity.”

Still, it’s fair to wonder what the Boss would think about one particular part of the Savannah Bananas experience:

“We encourage every type of facial hair and tattoo possible,” Cole says.

“I joked on the bus ride,” says Skole, “‘Hey, everybody better shave before we get to the game.’ And a lot of guys haven’t lived that.”

Skole, more than most, has lived it. It’s not just that he played affiliated Minor League ball; a lot of guys on the Bananas and Party Animals did. But Skole actually was in the Yankees’ farm system, playing for the Tampa affiliate in 2016 after having been drafted 15th overall by the Texas Rangers in 2010. Playing Banana Ball — even homering in GMS Field on Saturday afternoon — might be a good time, but it wasn’t the plan. “All of these guys grew up with the same dream: to make it to the Major Leagues,” Virant says. And as Skalla notes, if you told Jake Skole in 2010 what his 2024 would look like — dancing, diving, riding buses — it probably would have sounded like failure.

But the players, Skole included, don’t see it that way. “We’re the guys that didn’t quite make it to the Major Leagues, or had aspirations to be there and aren’t,” he says, without even a touch of reservation. “And to get to still play, to put on a uniform, is just a blessing. And then you get to add in what this organization brings, touching fans a lot more than we did in our Minor League careers. That puts the icing on top.”

Nick Swisher very much did make it to the Major Leagues, and even won a World Series with the Yankees in 2009. Probably the closest thing the big leagues ever had to a Savannah Banana, Swisher always brought unmatched energy and excitability to the field, clearly believing in the Fans First motto. After appearing against the Bananas during their 2023 visit to Tampa, he showed up in the second game this year and batted for Savannah in the bottom of the first inning. He flew out, but he was once again overwhelmed by everything that the Bananas have built.

“When this thing first started,” he says, “I don’t think people thought this was going to have staying power. They thought it was like a shtick. That word ‘silly’ came up, but now it’s like, ‘There’s a reason why people are coming to these games.’ That fan-first mentality is exactly what people want.”

Swisher was thrilled when Cole called with the invite to come back. He just had one request: Could his daughters come along and participate? It’s not just that they’re the target demographic for the TikTok-aware sport. “My daughters never were able to see me play,” Swisher says of his big league career. “So, for me to be able to create these core memories with them, bro, this is what it’s all about! They think the Savannah Bananas are bigger than everything. My youngest daughter thinks I play for the Savannah Bananas.”

And what’s not to love? Fun is the ultimate objective for the Bananas, but if they make it all look easy, it’s because of how much work goes on behind the scenes. There are hours of rehearsals, helping hyper-aggressive athletes branch out from their comfort zones to create something totally new. During the three days in Tampa, the players perfected routines that they rolled out immediately, and others showed up in games later on the tour. The Bananas and Party Animals combined to make 44 trick plays during the three-game Tampa set, some more remarkable than others, but even the moments when a player tried something totally new and biffed the ball were part of the charm.

Orton points to a study he saw a few years back that had been conducted at a Disney park. Visitors were asked to rate their happiness throughout the day, and if you looked at the specific moments, what you learned is that a lot of visiting “The Happiest Place on Earth” is pretty dull: waiting on lines or walking around. But when they rated the entire experience, it was all positive. “Psychologically,” Orton says, “what they were talking about was, people remember the high notes of their experience, and they value those.”

Essentially, that’s the allure of the Savannah Bananas. You can’t serve it or yourself by the simple comparison to baseball because it inverts, or at least combines, process and results. For the Bananas, it’s all process, because the process is the result. Each night is its own thing, so Cole and his staff know that they’ll be judged by the process. By how they did things. By the vibes.

Cole models so much of what he does, and the lack of a safety net, on the example of Saturday Night Live, and the analogy works on more levels than intended. Every era of SNL is, in its time, doomed to be considered worse than those of the past, because you don’t judge the work of John Belushi or Eddie Murphy or Will Ferrell by the entirety of their runs. You remember the highlights. The great points. The Samurai chef or Mister Robinson or Gene Frenkle’s belief in the power of more cowbell. But the myriad sketches that didn’t work, which existed right alongside the classics, are lost to history. Conversely, you can’t watch a new episode of SNL without seeing the inevitable duds.

Similarly, Banana Ball is often experienced in a brief TikTok video. It almost gives the impression of less danger, of more perfection. Even, perhaps, the dreaded standing still. In reality, not every trick play works. Not every between-inning game is a hit. Not every 3-2-2 dance becomes a social media sensation. But the vibes take precedence, and the vibes are always great.

“We started playing this game as kids just to have fun,” Cole says. “And then something happened along the way, where competitiveness took over and stats mattered most, and wins and losses. I mean, the Bananas, we got swept! We did not play well. To open a tour with the Bananas losing all three is not how you write it up. But if you asked 99.9% of the fans, they would say they had a great time. If you go to a Red Sox-Yankees game at Yankee Stadium, and the Yankees lose, they’re probably not going to say they had the best time. Because everything is wrapped up into those games.

“We’re just trying to find more people that want to have fun and obviously play at a high level, but fun rules the day for us.”

Which brings us full circle. Because the counter to all of this is that if Banana Ball keeps insisting on newer, bigger, more absurd things, then when do they run out? That’s a question for another day. And even if it requires launching a rocket to space from the pitcher’s mound, then Jesse Cole is ready.

“We may have to,” he says. And you know he’s not afraid to try.

Jon Schwartz is the deputy editor of Yankees Magazine. This story appears in the April 2024 edition. Get more articles like this delivered to your doorstep by purchasing a subscription to Yankees Magazine at www.yankees.com/publications.