A Brief History of Savannah Bananas Coach Tyler Gillum
At 5 PM the line outside Grayson Stadium wraps around 1/8th of a mile back to the street, which is incredible considering this game doesn’t even mean anything. It’s the final game of the season for the Savannah Bananas, the playoff picture is already set, and it is late July in southern Georgia. Still, fans will stand in the Savannah sun for over an hour to get their choice of chairs offered by the open-seating policy in the stands. Most throw down towels or a tote to denote their seats, and then run downstairs to load up on one of the many food options (burger, cheeseburger chicken sandwich, or vegetarian burger) and wash it down with a non-adult beverage, all of which are included in cost of admission.
Once inside the stadium, my best friend Curt and I are greeted by the man himself, Tyler Gillum. He’s in his familiar garb I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on Instagram or Instagrams of Tiktoks, in the 93-degree heat with eleven-thousand percent humidity, he walks towards us in a ¾ sleeve zip-up jacket over at least two more layers of shirts and long baseball pants tucked into his signature wide-toe tan cowboy boots. He’s a sight to behold. I tell him as much, embracing him in a bear hug, transferring the last bit of the air-conditioned car I just got out of to his sweltering self, which has been here since 1 PM.
I’ve known Tyler for nearly two decades. Like many of my friends, a person I won’t see for a few years, but it’s like we never missed a beat. The last time I saw him was for an hour in March of 2020 at his house in Phoenix, a week before the pandemic began. Prior to that, at his wedding in late October 2019.
We talk for a few minutes, inexplicably standing in the sun squinting at each other 20 feet from the shade of the stadium, as many of the players run around with their shirts off and take batting practice, as per unusual baseball pre-game. The unusual is the usual here though. What stands out most is the players dancing on the first base line with professional dancers. Tyler has a sort of Matthew Mcconaughey charm to him, always with a grin on his face, he tells us, “We’re crowning our winner of Dancing with the Bananas tonight. I think the long-haired guy is going to win. Pretty sweet too, the winner gets $1,000, so there’s a lot on the line.” A grand is certainly a good chunk of change for a college student.
Tyler asks us in his distinguishable baritone southern accent, “well, y’all want the tour?” leading us towards the grandstands. Nodding eagerly, anything to get us off the surface of the sun, we make our way through the dugout, down the stairs, into the underbelly of the stadium. The music blaring over the stadium’s PA system is slowly overtaken by the music booming out from the tunnel leading to the locker room. A common motif, as there is rarely a moment at one of these games without some sort of sensory stimulation. At the end of the tunnel is a prop room on the left, similar to a college theater department filled with costumes (a gorilla suit, pirate garb, and, of course, several bananas). We step up into the locker room (which has been renovated since I was last here) where the players dance and yell their conversations over the music, and to the right is the coach’s office.
To describe the coaches’ office as quaint would be generous. It’s TINY. There’s a collapsible six-foot lunch table in the middle with eight mismatched chairs all around taking up almost the entirety of the room. The coaches’ lockers line the far wall, allowing only about 28 inches of travel space between the table and the locker bench. There’s an antiquated fridge from the 90s on the right. Curt and I sit down, taking inventory within a bright neon fridge with transparent door on the north wall. One of the coaches notices me noticing the fridge — “Those are Ghost Energy drinks. We’re sponsored by them. Get one, if you want.” I oblige, snatching a watermelon and giving Curt a raspberry.
The stadium is nearly 100 years old. We’re fully aware of this with the dimensions under the stands. The ceiling might be eight-feet tall, but it feels suffocating, especially in the dingy 200 square-foot room with the radiating body heat of eight other men. Several coaches come in and introduce themselves. Some I recognize, others I’ve never seen. Tyler excuses himself, “I’ve gotta do an interview really quick,” and exits the room.
The other coaches offer us hats and information about the standings entering the season’s final game. In seemingly no time whatsoever Tyler reemerges to wax poetic about the state of The Bananas. “The Bananas are doing a 25-city tour next year playing Banana Ball.” — On the drive down from Charleston, I’ve explained to Curt the difference in Banana Ball and the collegiate league ball that we’ll be seeing in a couple of hours. There are many rules that make Banana Ball so unique; the rules are a big part of how you might’ve encountered The Savannah Bananas on YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, or other social media.
Banana Ball is basically WWE meets baseball meets the Harlem Globetrotters meets a bicycle bar bachelor party six beers deep at a baseball field. The rules are ridiculous. A foul ball is caught by a fan, it’s an out. At any point in an at-bat (say the ball gets by the catcher), the batter can attempt to steal first base. They’ve had pitchers on stilts, hitters doing the splits, two hitters at the same time (on each side of the plate), an at-bat with a bat alit with flames, rodeo clown pants dropping between the legs pitching (by another Oklahoman — Mat Wolf), and plenty of dancing (there’s almost always some sort of dancing happening, even in the collegiate league games). The team’s owner brainstorms five new ideas to incorporate each day, and has his director of fun committee provide ten of their own.
He continues with more facts and figures: “Right now our wait list for tickets is 60,000 people deep.” (This number has now grown to over 500,000 fans nationwide) I immediately consider how lucky we are to get into the stadium some thirty minutes prior. These tickets sold out within minutes of going on sale. 40% of Savannah’s population wants to be here. Curt and I decided we were coming only last night AND we have tickets for tomorrow’s home opening playoff game.
Tyler leaves for another interview. Curt and I don our new Bananas hats. Even more coaches come in, to whom we’re introduced. Tyler comes back to throw some more stats at us. There are a couple of former players who began full-time salaried Banana employees after their collegiate playing days ended. Even more part-time people are employed when they’re in Savannah. In all, some 120+ game day employees work for the Bananas. An impressive stat for nearly any sports club, but truly admirable for a collegiate baseball team with sellout crowds of 4,300 people for several seasons in a row! If there were more seats in the ballpark, they’d be filled with spectators.
The team has hired former MLB veteran, eccentric Eric Byrnes to co-coach with Tyler. Two-time World Series Champion Johny Gomes plays for the team, along with another Red Sox hall of fame pitcher, 76-year-old Bill Lee who will enter the game by chugging a beer and running out of the stands. Jake Peavy pitched several games for the bananas in 2021, as well as feared closer Jonathan Papelbon. Josh Reddick of 2017 Houston Astros World Series Champion fame too.
The Bananas are a team on a mission to change the game of baseball, attracting new fans with the allure of a show unlike any other seen in sport. The Bananas haven’t only welcomed MLB fame, they’ve been visited by other celebrities. Comedian Bert Kreischer took batting practice with the boys, fellow comedian Theo Von has spent time around the team, and Jorge Masvidal of UFC fame dropped in for a weigh-in appearance.
It’s not just the demand of scarcity or atmosphere of baseball greatness that makes the team such a draw. The entire game is a production in every definition of the word. The team has a full-time director of entertainment whom they’d hired away from The Las Vegas Knights, an already successful expansion NHL team. The radio announcer came from the MLB Network. And Shark on the Mic is the acting announcer/DJ/eye in the sky production specialist. His press box sits nearly on top of home plate, and he seems ever-prepared for any event with a sound effect or songs he has cued up, playing 10–15 second snippets between pitches to keep the fans engaged and dancing.
Shark also has a walkie-talkie. The production team wears headsets. Shark sets off the half-inning entertainment “Cue Jesse on the field in 3, 2, 1.” And onto the field, in a bright yellow full-length tuxedo springs the team’s owner, biggest fan, and hype man Jesse Cole with his microphone. “ALLLLRIGHT FANS, we have with us today Sharlee, Pam, and Glenda…” hilarious hijinks ensue for the next two minutes between each half inning. There’s a blindfolded cash grab, an elderly woman first base line runway walk-off, a small child given the opportunity to pie his dad in the face, blindfolded dance-offs, giveaways, running subplots, et freaking cetera. Everyone is in constant contact with one another, and the show runs seamlessly in abbreviated two-minute acts between innings of a live, competitive baseball game. In every sense you’re witnessing an ongoing production amidst a baseball game.
Tickets cost just $25 for all-you-can-eat food and drink, complete with veggie options. It has become truly the greatest show on earth. And, if you’re talking about bang for your buck, you can take a family of four to a game for over three hours of nonstop entertainment for only $100, returning home with a fed family, minds full of memories, and hopefully an accomplished feeling of having witnessed something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
It’s not only the show that’s impressive, the Bananas stadium has its own place in baseball lore. Historic Grayson Stadium was built in 1926. A myriad of professional players has played there from Lou Gehrig to Hammerin’ Hank Aaron to Ty Cobb. Jackie Robinson during his time in the Negro Leagues to The Sultan of Swat himself, Babe Ruth. In America’s most haunted city, the ghosts of baseball past live beneath the bleachers where they just so happen to play the game of America’s pastime.
Some quick math leads you to conclude that the door brings in ~$107,000. Alcohol sales aren’t included in the cost. But the money maker, Tyler tells us, is merchandise. Who doesn’t want a hat with a Banana holding a bat on it? The memorabilia are as great a novelty as the spectacle of the game itself. People want in on the gear as much as they want into the games. To the tune of over $1,000,000 in sales last year.
If that wasn’t enough, ESPN debuted Bananaland on August 19th of 2022, a six-part series about the team and its zaniness. As Tyler puts it, “yeah we’re a spectacle, but we also happen to be pretty damn good at baseball.” The collegiate team won the Coastal Plains League Championship on August 5th, sweeping the series 2–0, taking the second game at home for the Banana faithful to celebrate with them.
I’m overcome with pride for Tyler. Although we grew up 100 miles away from one another, we didn’t know each other until college attending college at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. We’d both come from similarly sketchy backgrounds near the termination of dead-end dirt roads. Despite being white, statistics say we shouldn’t have made it out. Many others didn’t. Most of our friends stuck around. We knew people who became involved in petty crimes, committed suicide, fell into drug addiction, or never grew to break the cycle of the pervasive small-town mentality.
Tyler took the biggest risk of his life when he moved to Phoenix a decade ago with barely enough money for gas. With no safety net or family wealth on which to fall back, he stepped as far outside of his comfort zone as his minimal savings would allow. Only he, a few possessions, and an aging late 90s white Ford F-150 made the journey to South Mountain Community College with a meager wage. He had no assurance he’d even have a job after baseball season ended.
Tyler persevered undeterred. He took coaching jobs in summer leagues around the US to make some extra money (even then, it was hardly enough to really pay for living expenses). He spent a couple summers in Myrtle Beach’s summer league. He happened to be in Bryan, Texas one of the summers I lived in Austin, where we happened to visit each other a record twice in one year. The next year led him to Cape Cod’s summer league, according to Tyler, the best pure baseball to be played in collegiate ball. Scouts were commonplace, and Tyler would rub elbows with ESPN MLB analysts, frequently having the opportunity to pick Peter Gammons’ brain.
Despite it being the best baseball, Tyler said the Cape was just a slower and quieter place than Savannah. Hardly anything to do at all outside of the games. He took a room in an older woman’s house, and was basically bored out of his gourd when he wasn’t at the ballfield. Still, his teams kept winning. The Texas teams completed a three-peat of championships. Much like Yogi Berra, everything Tyler touched turned to gold.
Tyler left none of this to luck though. He became a student of not only the game of baseball — of people, of success, of life. The first time I met his now-wife Danielle was at a Yankees vs Diamondbacks game in Arizona in late 2016. Even with mine and Danielle’s Yankees playing, Tyler & I hardly glanced at the game. He educated me on the books he’d been reading. Theories I’d never considered — the youngest sibling in the family often winds up being the fastest, because they’re forced to keep up with the older ones. He blew me away with his well-rounded knowledge. It seemed there was nothing he wouldn’t study in order to gain some sort of competitive advantage. Winning came hand-in-hand with the expansion of his lexicon, and he treated everyone the way his mom had taught him — there was no such thing as a stranger. Every interaction, you were getting the most authentic, endearing ol’ country boy, accompanied by the most welcoming smile you can imagine.
Following another successful year in the Cod, the Savannah Bananas came calling. They’d just finished their first two seasons in Savannah, and had gained some notoriety as somewhat of a spectacle. Complete with a dancing first base coach, a baby banana ceremony during which a toddler would wear a small banana costume and be introduced to the crowd with the Lion King Simba music playing for the crowd, and yes, that same yellow suit man working the crowd in the formative years of trying to figure out how to keep spectators entertained in the downtime between innings.
Tyler accepted the head coaching job for the Coastal Plains League collegiate summer ball, and upon arrival, immediately realized he’d gotten in over his head. In almost every other head coaching position that’s your only job. You make sure the team wins. Now, in this particular role, he was filming promo videos for millions of people to view around the world. One massive obstacle though — Tyler hated being on camera AND public speaking. In fact, it was one of his biggest fears. A tall task for someone now being asked to create content for millions of viewers on a daily basis.
In February 2018, Tyler’s mom passed away. I reached out to him with my sincerest condolences. “You would’ve loved her, Dave.” I responded — “I know I would’ve. I’m so, so sorry. I love you, buddy. I’ve got the biggest hug for you the next time I see you.”
“Why don’t you make a trip out this summer?” he said. ‘Hell yeah, I’ll be there, man.’
At the beginning of the season, the team was being filmed by a fellow named Mil Cannon. Mil was an incredibly talented and accomplished videographer. He was one of only a handful of people to ever film a Whitney Houston video. He’d won a Grammy for an Usher video. Yet, here he was, capturing moments of this collegiate baseball team meets the circus meets professional wrestling meets reality TV meets viral video machine. Mil simply told him, “I’m going to film you, and some of it may be cheesy. You may like some of it. You may hate most, but you’re going to get better at being on camera.”
As his first season progressed, it turned out Mil was right. Tyler slowly became more comfortable on camera, embracing the role as baseball coach who also sometimes happened to star in “Old Town Road” remakes riding horses on Grayson Stadium’s field. The team thrived too, winning far more games than they had the prior to his arrival.
My dog, Bette, and I swung by Savannah in August 2018 to spend my birthday and see what all the fuss was about. At the time, Mil was filming what he was to turn into a Netflix special following The Bananas. Similarly to Tyler, I also don’t care for cameras. Unbeknownst to me for several minutes, Mil captured a conversation I had with team owner Jesse after a game, in which he pitched to me some ideas about how he was going to save baseball from itself. Once I noticed there was a camera on us, I began to seize up and I’d imagine any footage captured would either be wholly unusable or Mil would have to edit out my Ricky Bobby, “I’m not real sure what to do with my hands” moments.
In 2018, the team began playing some games in Scottish kilts, which eventually brought about Tyler’s now-renowned square-toed cowboy boots in baseball pants look. More acts were added to the show. To top it all off, the Bananas won their first Coastal Plains League Championship only one year after Tyler’s arrival at the helm. Not only was this just the most absurdly amusing sights to behold for 9 innings, they truly were a talented ball club with some chops.
That same year I’d taken a job in Alaska. Prior to my leaving the lower 48, possibly due to Tyler wishing to help me overcome my own fears, he and Danielle asked me to officiate their wedding. Danielle said it was because I’d impressed her with my eloquence when we’d hung out. I believe Tyler was doing what he does best, empowering another person to become the best possible version of themselves. I graciously accepted the offer.
Armed with the knowledge I had a half a year to have anxiety about speaking in front of a crowd of 100 people, I vowed to practice several times leading up to the wedding. I did so, exactly twice, once to a running river, and another time to an empty playground with my only audience being my dog. I also had to plan everything after Alaska around being at that wedding. I’d driven up there, so no matter what else I did, I needed to make it across Canada to be in Phoenix by October 25th for the wedding rehearsal.
Tyler had given me the advice to calm my nerves; “Dave, even if you mess up. Everything’s going to be fine.” The ceremony went off without a hitch. I didn’t seize up in front of the crowd OR Mil filming the wedding from immediately down the center of the aisle. Tyler did what he does best, helping another human, even if I wasn’t consciously aware of it at the time. A lesson learned — in life, even if you don’t perform perfectly, it’s alright. As long as you tried your best.
Tyler decided, in yet another of his lofty goals of striving for the highest heights, that year it was his goal to have a positive impact on 1,000,000 people through baseball, education, and exercise. This gave me the opportunity to finish off his wedding ceremony saying, “a lot of you may already know this, but Tyler’s goal in the next year is to have a positive impact on 1,000,000 people. I’m not even sure how one would measure that metric. But I do want you to know that you and Danielle have had such an immense impact on every one of us here today.” I didn’t mention Tyler’s mother’s passing, knowing he was already overcome with emotions. I did want them both to know how much they already mean to so many people.
Tyler has launched a t-shirt to further extend that positive impact. “Bet On Yourself” T-shirts can be found in our hometown at Twisted Threads in Ada, Oklahoma or at the website hyperlinked below. All proceeds go to provide baseball gloves to children across the United States. $30 gets you a shirt to support kids without the means for the equipment to play ball. https://forms.gle/7XuLSQqpweahkjQo6
Tyler and Danielle now have an adorable, inquisitive, well-mannered two-year-old son named Camden. During this off-season, Tyler completed his duties at South Mountain Community College stating, “I needed to leave the program in a good place going forward.” He also formally accepted the full-time coaching job for the Savannah Bananas, relocating the family across the US to Savannah. Tyler went on a series of his own coaching speaking tours around the country, focusing heavily on his fielding specialties. He also hosted some “all-you-can-eat” infield camps, further disseminating his knowledge to inquisitive baseball minds.
Six months after their wedding, the Covid pandemic occurred worldwide. I believe the pandemic left Tyler short of his 1,000,000 goal. I wanted to help him the way he’s helped me and so many other people. Perhaps this article can act as a catalyst to spread the word about the man behind the baseball? As the Bananas set to begin their season tour, I’d like to introduce the world to the humble man leading the success of the greatest show on earth — Tyler Gillum; a devoted dad, husband, coach, champion, and one of the finest human beings on the planet.
The Savannah Bananas world tour kicks off tonight, February 17th, 2023 live on YouTube at 7 P.M. Eastern Time.
