Storyworthy. Matthew Dicks

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СКАЧАТЬ stories too. Overall the storytellers seemed to know what they were doing and adored the spotlight, although not everything has gone perfectly for them. An older man who called himself Uncle Frank told a story that referred to his penis. When Dan Kennedy asked for scores from the three teams of judges, each held up two white cards indicating the storyteller’s score on a ten-point scale (though it appeared to really be a 7.0–10-point scale, with tenths of a point differentiating stories).

      Except that one of the teams ignored the 7.0–10 norm and gave Uncle Frank a 5.0, a score so low that it didn’t make any sense. His story wasn’t bad at all. I really enjoyed it. I flinched when the score was announced, almost as if I’d been the one scored poorly. The score seemed harsh and irrational. More to the point, the scoring suddenly seemed unpredictable and terrifying. I didn’t know Uncle Frank at the time, but already I wanted to hug him.

      “What’s up with the score?” Dan Kennedy asked the judging team who’d rated Uncle Frank the lowest. “You really think his story was that bad?” Dan’s quick defense of Uncle Frank reassured me.

      “I heard that guy tell a story last week,” one of the female judges yelled. “He talked about his penis in that story too. I’m sick of his penis.”

      The room burst into laughter and applause. Dan laughed. Even Frank managed a smirk.

      Instead of laughing, I tensed up. My story didn’t refer to my penis, but I had a few penis-related jokes about my last name. I wondered if these references might not sit well with the judges either.

      But it looks as though I need not worry. The night is nearly over. Nine names have been drawn from the tote bag, and mine is still safely inside. Just one to go, and I can escape this night unscathed.

      Dan opens the final slip of paper and reads the name:

      “Matthew Dicks.”

      I freeze. I can’t believe he’s called my name. I was convinced that I was in the clear. I’d already begun the mental drive on I-95 back to Connecticut as the conquering hero. I was already preparing my tale of woe:

      “I put my name in the tote bag at The Moth. Sadly, it wasn’t drawn, but still, mission accomplished. I tried, damn it, which is more than I can say for a lot of people. I’ll try again someday, maybe.”

      Now those dreams are dashed under the weight of having to walk onstage and tell a story.

      Then it occurs to me: No one in the club knows me. I’m a stranger in a strange land. If I don’t move or say a word, Dan will eventually give up on Matthew Dicks and call another name. This has already happened during the first half of the show. A name was drawn, and the storyteller failed to materialize. Dan tossed the paper aside and drew another. I can do the same thing. I can just sit still and remain silent.

      That is exactly what I do. I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Then Elysha’s foot connects solidly with my shin. I look up.

      “That’s your name,” she says. “Move it.”

      I’m trapped. I have to tell my story. My terrible wife is making me. I rise and slowly make my way to the stage. I ascend the steps and find myself standing beside Dan Kennedy. He shakes my hand and smiles, acting as if this stage is no big deal. As if standing in front of a throng of expectant New Yorkers is something we do every day. I’m a little starstruck.

      As Dan begins to step aside to allow me to approach the microphone, Jenifer Hixon, the show’s producer, calls out to Dan, reminding him that he hasn’t recorded the scores for the previous storyteller yet.

      Dan turns to me. “Sorry,” he says. “Wait just a minute.” He motions for me to step off the stage so he and Jenifer can record scores from the judges on a large paper chart.

      Instead I remain onstage. I stumble over to the coolers along the wall and sit. I don’t want to tell my story. I don’t want to compete. I don’t want to be here at all. I want to go home and forget this stupid idea forever. But if I’m going to tell my story to this room of storytelling connoisseurs and judgmental New Yorkers, I want to do well. I don’t want to look like a fool. With this in mind, it occurs to me that spending a couple minutes onstage, getting a sense of the space and lighting and the audience, might help.

      So I stay. I soak in the scenery. The height of the stage. The angle of the spotlight. The position of the audience and the microphone. I try to relax. I try to make this space my home.

      Jenifer records the scores from the prior storyteller. It’s time for me to take the microphone and tell my story.

      I hate this night. I despise every bit of it.

      Then I begin speaking my first words into the microphone and fall instantly in love. Alone on the stage, standing before a room packed with strangers, I tell a story about learning to pole-vault in high school. I reveal my secret desire for my teammate to fail, so I could look better than he did in our teammates’ eyes. I bare my soul to that room. I tell them about the ugly truth that resided at the center of my seventeen-year-old heart. I make them laugh. I make them cheer.

      When I finish, I step off the stage and return to Elysha and our wobbly table. I have no idea how I’ve done, but I know it felt great. I already want to do it again.

      Dan Kennedy asks the judges for their scores. When the final score is announced, a woman sitting beside me leans over and says, “You won!”

      I look at the scoreboard. She’s right. I’ve won my first Moth StorySLAM. I can’t believe it. I return to the stage for a bow. Jenifer informs me that I’m automatically entered in the next GrandSLAM championship. I have no idea what a GrandSLAM is or what she’s talking about, but I smile and thank her. I shake Dan Kennedy’s hand.

      I can’t believe it. The next day I write the following blog post:

       Yesterday was one of those days that I will never forget. Last night I had the honor of telling a story at one of The Moth’s StorySLAMs at the Nuyorican Poets Café in the Lower East Side. My goal was to simply be chosen to tell my story, but at the end of the night, I was fortunate enough to be named the winner of the StorySLAM.

       I got home last night around 1:30, went to bed around 2:00, woke up around 5:30 to play a round of golf, and I was still walking on air. I know it sounds a little silly, but in the grand scheme of things, the birth of my daughter was probably the most important day of my life. Next comes the marriage to my wife, and then the sale of my first book, and then maybe this. Definitely this. It was that big for me.

       Perhaps I’ll tell more stories in the future, and The Moth will become old hat for me. Maybe this day will recede into the past with other forgettable memories. But on this day, at this moment, I couldn’t be happier.

      Little did I know how prescient those words would prove to be. Less than six years later, I’d won thirty-four Moth StorySLAMs in fifty-three attempts. Thirty-four wins is among the highest win totals in the two-decade history of The Moth. I’m also a five-time GrandSLAM champion (also one of the highest totals in Moth history).

      Since that fateful night in 2011, I’ve told hundreds of stories in bars and bookstores, synagogues and churches, and theaters large and small to audiences ranging from dozens to thousands. I’ve performed throughout the United States and internationally, telling stories alongside other talented storytellers and in my own one-person shows. My stories have appeared on The Moth Radio Hour and their weekly podcasts many times and СКАЧАТЬ