The White Minstrels of the Savannah Bananas

GONZO

“YOUR GLADIATORS ARE NOW GAY”

By Pub Wanghaf · July 17, 2026 · 7 min read

While the goal of white replacement is yet to be totally achieved, the globohomo powers that be are stuck in somewhat of a limbo. What do they do with the last of the white men, that pesky 4–6% of the global who refuse to die? Who are these guys allowed to be while they wait for their demise? The apparent answer is Jason Kelce, an ineffectual, goofy, “I love beer…when my awesome wife says I can drink it” dude-bro.

The Savannah Bananas are the Jason Kelce of baseball. The extremely popular “exhibition barnstorming baseball team” routinely sells out stadiums and just opened the 2026 ESPYs. You can have your baseball, you unserious borderline homosexual. A neutered version of the game you once loved. The players will wear cut off tank top jerseys and make kissy faces at the audience. They’ll lip sync. They’ll twerk.

A few weeks ago, I found out the Savannah Bananas were coming to Autzen Stadium, just a short drive down I-5 from me. So I did what any self-respecting, super-based Warrior White against Globohomo would do. I accepted a free ticket on an assignment from the Jewish editor of this Jewish-owned publication.

Baseball is the ultimate white sport. A mini high-trust society with a rich history fervently guarded by fraternity. There is a respect for tradition the game demands of its players and fans. There is endless opportunity for numbers-based accounting. Even the food is white. Baseball is a sport that emerged out of the pastoral heights of a bygone white America. It was our crown jewel. Now it’s a white minstrel show.

What was always beautiful about baseball was that your best batter fails 65% of the time he’s up to the plate. Your best pitcher will never have a 0.00 earned run average. Yet when that batter steps in the box with runners on and two down in the bottom of the ninth trailing a run, you believe against the odds that he’s going to hit that 35% ball. And the other fan believes against all statistical probability that his pitcher is going to win this at bat. America came to be against the most daunting of odds. Baseball speaks to that spirit in an incredibly acute manner.

I grew up a sportshead. Obsessed. Where I’m from, there aren’t pro sports teams outside of the Portland Trail Blazers. So my fandom is a bit of a hodgepodge of teams along the West Coast: Seattle Mariners, Portland Trail Blazers, San Francisco 49ers, and, in college sports, the Oregon State Beavers. I played sports too. Basketball, football, baseball. Now I golf. A lot. After high school, I even tried my hand at coaching. And dominated. I have an insane competitive edge that only ever gets satisfied when the clock reads 00:00 and I’m celebrating a victory.

Some important context. Autzen Stadium is the home of the Oregon Ducks. I abhor the Oregon Ducks. I hate them with a passion. As a dyed-in-the-wool, bleeding-orange, Every Dam Day Oregon State Beaver Believer, even the sight of green and yellow makes me nauseous. Attending this spectacle of demoralizing faggotry was bad enough, but watching it in the stadium where so many of my team’s seasons ended in heart-wrenching disappointment made it all the more dreadful.

“I should have gotten a press pass,” I thought to myself as I acquired an adult beverage or two to carry me through. To my shock, there wasn’t any banana-themed food. No banana splits, deep-fried bananas, not even those little Runts hard-candy bananas I hated growing up. So I got the closest thing to a phallic food item I could: a hot dog. And a couple of beers. I was ready.

Update: I wasn’t ready. I stepped through the entrance gates onto the concourse and looked out over the field. My eyes were raped with neon lemons and limes—fittingly also the colors of my blood enemy Ducks. And just as I had seen in videos, the cut-off tank-top jerseys and the hiked-up pants were in full force. It was like a gay bar threw an AIDS charity baseball game where whoever dressed the most flamboyantly received a lifetime supply of PrEP.

Families filled out the crowd. I sat in a sea of skinny-fat dads wearing ill-fitting jersey shirts. Moms successfully failing to control their kids. It’s Oregon, so plenty of dysgenic they/thems and their xerfriends. But what did they have in common? They were white. So white. My people.

Truly beholding what they’d become on this sort of mass scale was a punch in the gut. Lapping up food for monkeys and fentanyl overdosers. Just cheap, gimmicky, and lowbrow. Everything baseball is not. A humiliation ritual pissing on the history of baseball. It ravages every delicate aspect of the game, taking everything that makes baseball so unique and untarnished by an increasingly homosexual world and degrading it. It’s a baseball-diamond-sized neon sign that screams, “YOUR GLADIATORS ARE NOW GAY.”

To add insult to injury, it’s all a direct rip-off of the Harlem Globetrotters, except almost every Savannah Banana is white. Globohomo has perfectly inverted the genius and hilarity of minstrel shows. In middle school we competed for the chance to win tickets when the Harlem Globetrotters would come to our area. Black guys in goofy-looking uniforms performing tricks mixed in with slapstick humor to the joy and laughter of young white boys in the stands. They’ve taken that business model and foisted it onto one of the last things white guys have left, baseball, with an excruciating twist of queer.

The game included the goofy, slapstick antics you’d expect. Some undeniable feats of athletic ability, like flipping midair and catching a fly ball mid-flip, mixed in with grown men twerking in front of children. They use different rules and ways of scoring than in real baseball. Each team competes to win each individual inning by scoring the most points. Runs scored are worth points, trick plays result in points, etc. After the inning, the points are calculated, and a point is awarded to the team that won the inning. There are some fun rules too, like if a foul ball is hit into the stands and a fan catches it, the batter is out. There were some hilarious attempts to catch fouls made by the fattest, most slovenly non-binaries I’ve ever seen.

We should be building the cathedrals of this century. We should be living amongst the stars. But here we are. Maybe that’s why we refer to our sports legends as stars. Maybe if our ancestors rose from their graves and asked us what we’ve accomplished, we would say, “We created stars,” and they would peacefully return to their eternal peaceful slumber. Or maybe they would demand to see the culmination of all their work. And proudly, we would show them the Savannah Bananas. Maybe it would be like the scene in Prometheus where the Engineer is so disgusted with what humans have done that he flies into a violent rage, decapitating David and killing the crew before leaving the planet and to wipe out the rest of humanity.

Or maybe this is not the final commentary on my people. Maybe it’s not all she wrote. Maybe the fat lady hasn’t sung yet. Maybe it’s not game over. Maybe the batter is stepping in the box with runners on and two down in the bottom of the ninth, trailing a run, and against the odds he will hit that 35% ball.