“I have another idea!” she screamed. Okay, I thought. Maybe she was saving her best idea for last? I sat back, ready to hear her out. “Let’s take our pants off!” she said. Of course. “We’ll go first and then you do it!” They cackled, thrilled by their latest suggestion.
There were so many problems with this suggestion, the most urgent being that my casual attire that day went beyond flip-flops and a T-shirt. I was not wearing any underwear. Listen, judgy: I was in LA, the pants were soft, it was warm, and I didn’t want to be constrained. Also, I was probably out of clean drawers, and you know how much a hotel charges to do your laundry. These are the myriad excuses of a freeballer, I know, and at that moment I gravely regretted my decision.
“NO! I CAN’T!” I immediately yelled, way too quickly and way too defensively. Their eyes immediately broke out in knowing twinkles. I surmised that because of my speedy response, they were now convinced that I had a big, raging, Semitic, double-cougar-induced boner. Which I did not.
“WHY, Andrew?” said Cybill. “Are you that shy? Why won’t you take off your pants? What’s stopping you?”
“I just … can’t,” I said. Now I was embarrassed. I sounded, and felt, like an ashamed child. Let’s be clear: I wasn’t ashamed that I didn’t want to take my pants off. You shouldn’t have to do that in a pitch meeting, or any other type of business meeting. I just couldn’t believe that I wasn’t wearing underwear and that it was now going to become a freaking point of discussion in my freaking television pitch meeting with freaky Cybill Shepherd.
She pushed and prodded. “Come on,” she said. “What’s it gonna hurt?” And with that, I was worn down. Busted.
“I’m not wearing underwear,” I sighed, just softly enough for her to hear. The game was over.
Flashing her trademark Cybill Shepherd grin, she finally dropped the subject. Which would have been fine, except I was still shirtless and the ladies were still in their bras. I quickly finished our discussion and we put our clothes back on, awkwardly. Then I ran out and looked for a sink to wash my hands, because the whole thing had made me feel dirty, like I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to. In retrospect, it’s pretty clear that she and her friend were just proving in the room how fun and wacky their show would be. It was kind of a genius idea, but we didn’t wind up buying it. And you can bet that ever since that day, if I’m in a pitch meeting, no matter what the thermometer says, I’m wearing underwear.
* * *
All this talk of freeballs brings me to a different kind of pitch altogether, but one that was just as nerve-racking.
I’ve always maintained a pop-culture bucket list, filled with things I have simultaneously dreamed of doing, while also never actually thinking that I would get to. But through the success of my show, which I realize is lucky enough in and of itself, I’ve had the fortune to experience some dream-come-true moments, including an appearance on Letterman and getting to be the grand marshal of more than one parade. (Yes, that’s a humble brag about leading exactly two parades.) One of the toppers had to be when I was asked to throw out the first pitch at a St. Louis Cardinals game.
When the opportunity first presented itself, I was as excited as I’d been when I was a twentysomething B-52s go-go boy. It was big. My family had Cardinals season tickets, I’d witnessed several play-off and World Series games at Busch Stadium, and many relatives to this day call me “Bird” because of my devotion and love for Cardinals mascot “Fredbird.” Now I of little coordination was asked to throw a baseball in front of thousands of St. Louisans and my entire family.
I spent a few months polling everyone I knew who knew anything about baseball about how to throw the perfect pitch, or at least how to get it over the base. I discovered early that the main goal of a layman throwing a pitch was to not bounce the ball—the ultimate in celebrity-pitcher humiliation.
I spoke to several people who’d thrown out first pitches in their career. Jerry Seinfeld told me to stand on the rubber in front of the mound. This, he said, was because I wouldn’t be prepared for the height of the mound. While hosting an event for Bravo at the Kentucky Derby, I asked fellow St. Louisan Bob Costas his advice. “Whatever you do, do not throw from the mound. If you do, you’ll bounce the ball. Throw from the front of the mound.” Clearly, bouncing the pitch would lead to many unthinkable forms of terror and punishment. I spent many dark days in a YouTube hole, repeatedly watching a clip of Mark Wahlberg beaning a fan in the ass with his first pitch at a Red Sox game in 2009. If Marky Mark couldn’t do it, what hope did I have?
My own history started to weigh heavily on my mind. I was no stranger to baseball-related humiliation, having played Optimist Baseball for six years growing up in the 1970s. Looking back, I guess I played to fit in, and because the real party was after the game when everybody went to Dairy Queen for
