“Great!”
Our first session was predictably messy. We started off with some warm-ups that mostly seemed to consist of throwing balls of various sizes against a net, then some groin stretching, and a lot of moving my arms in different ways while turning my body in directions it doesn’t naturally move. “I don’t think I have whatever muscles you’re saying I should engage in order to turn this way,” I told Coach Zach.
“You’ll get there,” he encouraged, “it’ll just take a while.”
“I have like three weeks.”
“Oh. I can’t teach you to pitch in three weeks.”
What a thing for a coach to say! In booking these sessions, perhaps Romen neglected to state the obvious.
“So, here’s the deal, Zach. I’m here because I need to look like I can throw a perfect pitch, once. I don’t actually need to be able to build the muscles that will let me play baseball for a lifetime. Don’t get me wrong, that would be really nice. I’d end up looking like you and getting lots of cool Marvel movie jobs, but really I just have to walk on that field like a boss, confidently nod to the catcher, do that cool thing where you stand on one leg like a flamingo, and then send that beautiful ball into the catcher’s mitt.”
“Good job knowing ‘mitt.’?”
“Thanks.”
“The flamingo thing is called a wind-up.”
“Right.”
Coach Zach understood what I was getting at. “We’re just going to start throwing, then, but don’t worry about the wind-up. I want to make sure you’re getting these five-and-a-half-ounce balls sixty feet, six inches over the plate!” He first led me through some sort of strenuous leg exercise that made me angry at myself because it was hard. “It’s a first pitch,” I mumbled to him, “not a first kick.” In pitching, he explained, the power comes from your legs. That’s what gets the ball over home plate. “Your legs drive the velocity of the ball. I’m warming you up, let’s go.”
I then spent half an hour throwing the ball from the mound to the catcher. I was sweating profusely. Romen tried to discreetly hand me some water, whispering, “Why are you sweating? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine! It’s harder than I thought. Why the hell is there a lunge involved?”
I woke up the next morning unable to move my right arm or my left butt cheek. (Thankfully I didn’t really need my butt cheek, but the arm thing was real annoying.) Back in the writers’ room, I shared some of the practice videos Romen took so that everyone could enjoy the absurdity of my situation.
Comments came quick.
“That’s so cool!”
“Man, you’re really sweating there. Is it hard?”
“Whoa, that’s your coach?! He’s so handsome! We should put him in the show!”3
A few days before I flew to New York, an inquiry came in from the Mets. I was going to be given a team jersey to wear when I threw out the first pitch. They wanted to know what name I wanted on the back, and if I had a lucky number.
“Penn or Modi?” my publicist asked.
“Modi, definitely. It’s also my character’s last name. And let’s go with sixty-nine. If they’ll let me.” ;)
The following afternoon came the Mets’ reply: “Yeah, you can’t do sixty-nine. The team won’t go with anything inappropriate.”
“What if we say I’m a huge fan of the 1969 season?”
“Just pick a different number, Kal.”
“Seven.”
Game day. My parents joined me, along with Josh and some friends, including Ronnie Cho (my good buddy from Obama world) and Jon Hurwitz (our Harold & Kumar cocreator, who flew up from Atlanta where he shoots his Netflix series, Cobra Kai).
Despite all the friends and family support, walking onto that field was nerve-racking. This was bucket-list stuff right here. I leaned into the positive—no matter what happens, it’ll be fun. I had started to improve during my last two sessions with Coach Zach; instead of eight out of ten pitches going in any direction except the catcher’s mitt, we were down to four out of ten. Would that be enough? The announcer’s voice boomed, “Please welcome, the cocreator and star of NBC’s Sunnyside, premiering this Thursday, September 26, at 9:30 p.m., actor Kal Penn!” I smiled. Strutted to the mound. Took Zach’s advice and didn’t do a wind-up. The ball left my hand and… made it over the plate! The crowd applauded. I smiled and waved cockily (come on, I earned this). “Dude!” Hurwitz shouted, “that was amazing!” And you know what? Depending on which camera angle you looked at, it really, really was.
* * *
Sunnyside debuted on September 26, 2019—and the first episode bombed. It was the worst-rated premiere in the history of big network television at the time. I felt that sting. The executives at NBC tried hard to soothe our anxieties by reminding us of our conversations during development of the pilot: “Don’t be alarmed if you don’t see good numbers at first. We’re great at making comedy. Sometimes shows need multiple seasons to take off. Seinfeld didn’t do well initially. Sunnyside just needs time to find its audience. We’re one hundred percent committed to the show. It’s hilarious, and we completely support you.”
We were all more than a little worried, but these assurances came from every senior executive at the network, so we wanted to believe we’d be fine. Besides, in an unfortunate blow to NBC’s entire lineup, their other new shows weren’t faring much better—Perfect Harmony’s cast was far less diverse and rated only a tenth of a point higher than us. I was thankful for the network’s promise of investing in the long-term goal of what most comedies need: time, space, and promotional support to find viewers.