Opening Day in baseball brings back the best, if not fabricated, memories of dad

There is nothing quite like opening day in Major League Baseball.

The smell of the the fresh cut grass on the field, the sun on your face and knowing the cold of winter was now in the review mirror. Baseball means summer is near and freedom is in sight!

Certain memories are so vivid you can remeber the smells, the sounds and the feelings of days gone by. And then there are those that are just a little too good to be true.

Take a listen to Glenn share the bonding moment he and his father experienced as they willed the Red Sox to victory in the 1975 World Series and see which category this one falls into.

GLENN: I was 11 years old. It was the summer of 1975. I contend it was the summer that my dad and I won game six of the World Series.

And I remember it like it was yesterday. You know those kind of memories that you can -- you can smell the memory. You can -- you can smell the house. You can smell the grass. Everything is just so vivid, the way grass smells right after it's been cut in the summer. You can see the way the sun would shine. And it would come through the living room window and bounce off the hardwood floor every morning.

You slept with your window open. And you could feel the cool breeze in the morning.

Do you remember what it felt like every day, running and playing, just being a kid? Summertime meant something.

Summertime.

We don't crave the summer just for the sun. We crave it because it was -- it was the most important time in our life. I don't know if it's like this for kids anymore.

But it was in the summer that you became who you are. You became your own person. You developed a life of your own.

It's where you found what you love. And later, who you loved. When I was 11 years old, I found what I loved.

Radio. Radio in a bizarre way. And my love of baseball through the radio. But it -- it was all tangled up in summer. And one summer, it just consumed me. My passion.

Every single day, that summer, 9 o'clock, I would meet with Jim and Freddie and my best friend Mike, along with seven or eight other interchangeable stragglers. And we would make about a two-mile hike into a run downfield. It was right off of Main Street, behind the hardware store. And none of us had a $200 aluminum bat. Or a case of brand-new baseballs. And nobody was watching us.

We had an old wooden bat that had been given to Freddie by his older brother. He had cracked it at practice. So we took some tape, and we bound that bat up, held together by the tape. The grip was so worn, that you were sure to go home with a splinter or two every single day. The ball, we had found in the woods. I grew up in the Pacific northwest. So it was a little waterlogged. It had been there for a few months. So it was more of a shot put than a baseball.

But that didn't stop us. Every day, all day, we would be there. And we wouldn't stop for anything, except for the trek over to the store on the corner, where we would get a Coke or some bazooka bubble gum.

And we would all pretend we were in the major leagues. We would stand there for hours with a stick in your hand. Swinging away, against imagery pitchers. Practice rounding the bases. Winning the game, the last game of the World Series.

Those were remarkable summer days. But then, the real excitement came when I came home. Because we would rush through dinner. And we would clean our rooms so we could sit in front of the TV. And our mom would say, don't sit so close, you're going to get eye cancer.

But we were able to watch the first few innings of the game. But only the first few innings because mom and dad were both sticklers for bedtime, even during the summer. We were like, there's no homework. There's no school.

We begged. We complained. We'd scream. We'd argue. We'd do -- you know, I'm just down for a drink of water. We did all the tricks.

Never got me past the fourth inning. Sometime in the fourth inning, my dad would drag me up to bed. And that would be the end of my baseball adventure for another day.

Or so he thought. It was early that summer, that I discovered what I liked to call the vent.

I think it's where I get my love for radio. We had this old house. And there was this old big old black iron vent at the top of the stairs. And it served as a tunnel, straight to the ballpark. We'd get tucked in. I would wait for mom to go to bed. And then I would slowly open the door. And my head would peek out. And I would creep towards the hallway. I had carefully placed my feet in a pattern that I had diligently created. It took me a long time to find out exactly which boards creaked and which ones didn't.

Then I would slowly get on my hands and knees, and I would place my face, my ear to that cold vent. I can still feel the cold steel up against my face and the sound of the TV. I couldn't see any pictures. I had to make them in my mind.

As that sound would make its way up the metal tube and spill out into a picture painted by words. A picture that was so vivid in my imagination, and I felt like I had front row seats right behind home plate. I had a hot dog in my hand. A soda. A box of crackerjacks. I could smell the grass.

I remember listening to the World Series that year. It was between the Reds and the Red Sox. And while the broadcasters were artists with their words, it was a number that stuck out of my head most of all. And that number was 1918.

1918. The Red Sox hadn't won the World Series since 1918. But this year, they had to win, because I wanted them to, my dad wanted them to. I sat in my hallway night after night. My knees, I swore were bruising. My back would ache.

Just waiting for the moment that the Red Sox would do the impossible and defeat the big red machine.

Five nights of heart-pounding suspense. Red Sox were down three games to two. By this time now, the summer had ended. School had returned. My bedtime was strictly enforced.

It was October 21st, I remember the date. October 21st, 1975. I remember everything.

It was right after the second inning, that I had to go upstairs kicking and screaming. I just need another drink of water. I can still remember my Dad saying to me, don't worry. I'll tell you about it in the morning.

After I gave up and as I was kind of stomping up the stairs, I remember thinking, you're not going to have to tell me. I know I don't have to wait until tomorrow because I have the vent.

And as I hit the top of the stairs, I quickly washed up and climbed into my bed and waited to hear my mom pass by my door, check on it, and see if I was sleeping. I was good at pretending. I waited in my bed for five long World Series minutes. Five minutes.

I heard her come up the stairs. I heard her close her door. Her night was over. And mine had just begun.

I remember getting up, carefully, oh, so carefully. Stepping out of my room. Creeping across the floor, putting my feet in exactly the right spots. Make sure there wasn't a sound or a creek from the floorboard. And I slowly, carefully, made my way to the vent. Down on my hands and knees. My face pressed up against the cold steel.

That's when everything changed. I wasn't there for very long when I heard a sound. I heard the sound. It was a unique sound. There was nothing else in the house that sounded like this, especially if you're listening for this sound. If this sound is trouble, when you hear this sound, you don't miss it. It was the sound that only my father could make when he pulled the squeaky lever on his tattered, you know, vinyl recliner.

I instantly broke into a cold sweat. He's getting out of his chair. Now, some things in life are certain. There's death. There's taxes. And there's dad, sitting in his favorite chair watching America's pastime.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic. He's just going to the fridge. He's getting another beer. Don't panic. He's going to go to the bathroom. I'm sure that's what it is. He's not going upstairs. I haven't made a sound.

But I could hear the squeak of the floors downstairs. And they were not headed towards the kitchen or the bathroom. They were headed towards the stairs.

I sat there, paralyzed, seemingly unable to move. I don't know what happened to me. I could not move.

I don't know when it dawned on me that it was too late, there's no way I could get out of here and go back to bed. Because I would have to run across the floor. I would give myself away. This is the first moment, as a kid -- I mean, when you're a little kid, maybe. But this was -- I was -- I was becoming an adult. And yet, this was the first moment that I -- I really willed myself to be invisible.

I am invisible. He will not see me.

Yeah, that didn't work. Maybe it occurred to me when I -- I heard the creek of the first stair, that he wasn't walking up the stairs, but he was sneaking up the stairs. My dad seemed to have the same kinds of abilities that I was developing. We had something in common. I heard the creek of the first stair and then the second and then the third. And my mind began to scramble for an excuse. I had to go to the bathroom, and I just fell. I dropped something down the vent, Dad.

I didn't have a good excuse.

He was almost at the top of the stairs, and I could see the top of my dad's bald head. I just sat there like a deer in headlights. My only defense -- I was just -- I was just hoping that I wasn't going to get run over in this accident like that deer. I stared at my father. He stopped at the top of the stairs, his back still not -- his back still facing me. He still hadn't seen me. He paused. I was frozen.

And then he turned, but the way he turned, he turned and looked straight, directly at me. He knew I was there with the vent.

I wondered if he had known I had been there every night before. I sat there, and I waited a very loud and unbearable punishment. And my dad looked at me and I looked up at me, guilty eyes begging for lien answer, and I just said, hi.

He looked at me and he smiled and he shook his head and he said, come downstairs.

I thought I was going to get the punishment of my life. And then he said, and don't wake your mother.

The two of us both tiptoed back down the stairs. And we sat down trying to contain our excitement, as the game went into extra innings. I had never seen a smile on my dad's face like this. I knew if just the two of us had rooted hard enough, that the Red Sox would win. They couldn't lose because my dad and I were now in it together. It was the bottom of the 12th inning. Up steps Carlton Fisk, Red Sox catcher, first pitch up, and in. Ball one.

Palms were sweating in anticipation. Pat Darcy, Cincinnati pitcher began his windup. And my dad said, this is it. This is it.

He was right. Darcy released a sinker down and in, first just belted it down the line. My dad stood up and yelled, stay fair! Stay fair! It was as if any thought of my mom sleeping was completely gone and disappeared with the crack of the bat. Stay fair! He kept screaming.

Even Fisk was standing on the plate with both hands waving, trying to will the ball fair. My dad and I were both now standing, screaming, stay fair!

Some people would say that my dad and I had nothing to do with the World Series that year. Some would say that a father and a son can't make a ball stay fair.

But I know in my heart, I know that's not true. The ball banged off the metal mesh of the poll, and it was fair. It was a home run. It won the game.

My dad and I were just screaming. We were jumping so much. I think we woke up entire neighborhood in the process. Well, everybody except my mother.

But we didn't care. And once everything calmed down, it was just me and my dad standing there, staring at the TV, and then at each other. Our shoulders were scared back. Fisk had hit the ball. But we were the ones that kept it fair.

The Red Sox would go on to lose game seven, but it didn't matter. I had spent a night with my dad that neither of us would ever forget.

My dad and I won game six of the World Series. And we won it together.

As I look back on that night in October, I can't help, but think that the only way that this could have been better, would be if -- if just one word of this story had actually been true.

Legal warfare strikes France's conservative hope

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An all-too-familiar story unfolded in France this week: the is law being weaponized against a "far-right" candidate. Does that ring a bell?

Glenn was taken aback earlier this week when he learned that Marine Le Pen, a popular French conservative, had been banned from the 2027 election following a controversial conviction. The ruling shocked French conservatives and foreign politicians alike, many of whom saw Le Pen as France’s best conservative hope. President Trump called it a "very big deal," a view shared by French commentators who fear this marks the end of Le Pen’s political career.

But this isn’t just about France—it’s a symptom of a larger threat looming over the West.

A double standard?

Fmr. President Sarkozy (left) and Fmr. Prime Minister Fillon (right)

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As of Sunday, March 30, 2025, Marine Le Pen led the polls with a commanding edge over her rivals, offering French conservatives their strongest shot at the presidency in years. Hours later, that hope crumbled. Found guilty of embezzling EU funds, Le Pen was sentenced to two years of house arrest, fined €100,000 ($108,200), and banned from public office for five years, effective immediately.

Glenn quickly highlighted an apparent double standard. Former President Nicolas Sarkozy and former Prime Minister François Fillon faced similar—or worse—corruption charges, yet neither was barred from office during their political runs. So why Le Pen, and why now? Similar to Trump’s "hush money" trial, legal troubles this late in the election cycle reek of interference. The decision should belong to voters—France’s largest jury—not a courtroom. This appears to be a grave injustice to the French electorate and another crack in democracy’s foundation.

This is NOT about France

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This pattern stretches far beyond France; it’s a tactic we’ve seen before.

In early 2025, Bucharest’s streets erupted in protest after Romania’s Constitutional Court annulled the first round of its presidential election. Călin Georgescu, a rising conservative, had clinched an unexpected victory, only to have it stripped away amid baseless claims of Russian interference. His supporters raged against the decision, seeing it as a theft of their voice.

Both Georgescu and Le Pen echo the legal barrage President Trump endured before his 2024 win. The Left hurled every weapon imaginable at him, unleashing unprecedented lawfare. In America, the Constitution held, and the people’s will prevailed.

Now, with Tesla vandalism targeting Elon Musk’s free-speech stance, a coordinated pushback against freedom is clear—spanning France, Romania, the U.S., and beyond.

The war on free will

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Trump’s 2024 victory doesn’t mean lawfare is dead; Europe shows it’s thriving.

France and Romania prove its effectiveness, sidelining candidates through courts rather than ballots. Glenn warned us about this years ago—when the powerful can’t win at the polls, they turn to the gavel. It’s a chilling trend of stripping voters of their choice and silencing dissent, all the while pawning it off as justice. The playbook is polished and ready, and America’s turn could come sooner than we think.

How Melania Trump is inspiring the next generation of fashion

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First Lady Melania Trump’s impeccable style has long captivated admirers across the globe, but for one young woman, it sparked a creative revolution.

Lorelai, a young Glenn Beck fan who requested a degree of anonymity, first met Glenn while attending America Fest 2024 in Phoenix, Arizona with her grandmother. An aspiring fashion designer and illustrator, Lorelai shared with Glenn some of her sketches of characters from Glenn’s latest book, Chasing Embers. She also explained how Melania Trump became the cornerstone of her artistic journey, inspiring her to craft modest yet beautiful clothing that redefines modern fashion.

Melania Trump’s elegance—stunning, powerful, and undeniably feminine—first captured Lorelai’s attention during the First Lady’s time in the White House. Unlike the casual, often immodest trends dominating her peers’ wardrobes, Melania’s wardrobe exuded grace and sophistication. From tailored coats to flowing gowns, her choices were a masterclass in balancing boldness with dignity, a philosophy that resonated deeply with Lorelai. This admiration grew into inspiration as Lorelai began designing apparel specifically with Melania in mind, aspiring to design pieces that could match the First Lady’s grace. She strove to reflect Melania’s breathtaking style in her sketches in an effort to demonstrate how modesty can be beautiful.

The First Lady’s poised and graceful presence has redefined modesty for the modern era. To Lorelai, the First Lady’s style proves that more fabric offers boundless room for imagination, allowing personality to shine without sacrificing dignity. Melania embodies this perfectly—her fashion commands attention with stunning, memorable elegance. Inspired by this, Lorelai’s mission is to craft clothing for her generation that mirrors Melania’s influence, blending contemporary flair with classic beauty.

After her meeting with Glenn at America Fest, Lorelai’s passion and resolve have only deepened. Through fashion and art, Lorelai hopes to inspire others with the same grace that Melania Trump exemplifies. Below are some of Lorelai's sketches she was eager to share with Glenn.

Melania Trump: First Lady

I really adore First Lady Melania Trump’s grace and timeless beauty. She is extremely intelligent and brave but also strong and poised. Her fashion style displays these traits. I was inspired to create these outfits for our First Lady in hopes that she would see these drawings. -Lorelai

Melania Trump: Lady Liberty

We, as a country, will be celebrating next year our 250th anniversary of independence. The designs that inspired this patriotic gown came from Lady Liberty and Lady Columbia art. I also love our American flag, and this design is a combination of all three. -Lorelai

Chasing Embers Character Art (Ember)

I chose to draw the characters Sky, Azaz and Ember from Glenn Beck and Mikayla G. Hedrick’s Chasing Embers series. -Lorelai

Chasing Embers Concept Art (Ember)

I was inspired to draw a younger and teen version for Sky and Ember. -Lorelai

Chasing Embers Character Art (Sky)

Chasing Embers Concept Art (Azaz)

I also gave multiple outfits designs for Sky and Azaz. I loved that their personalities and character development meant in my mind a wardrobe development too. -Lorelai

Glenn: Government workers bought luxury cars with YOUR tax dollars

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The deep state isn’t a conspiracy theory — it’s a reality. And the corrupt, free-spending Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service is just one example of how Washington insiders enrich themselves.

A little-known agency in Washington perfectly encapsulates everything wrong with our bloated, corrupt government: the Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service. It should be the poster child of everything that Elon Musk is exposing.

The agency was established in 1947 under the Labor Management Relations Act to serve as an independent agency mediating disputes between unions and businesses — a noble mission, perhaps. But like so many government institutions, it has rotted into something far removed from its original purpose.

The FMCS goes beyond mismanagement into blatant corruption and theft.

What was once a mechanism for labor stability has morphed into an unchecked slush fund — an exclusive playground for bureaucrats living high on taxpayer dollars.

The FMCS is a textbook case of government waste, an agency that no one was watching, where employees didn’t even bother showing up for work — some hadn’t for years. And yet they still collected paychecks and spent government money — our money — on their personal luxuries.

Luxury cars and cell phone bills

The Department of Government Efficiency discovered how FMCS employees used government credit cards — intended for official business — to lease luxury cars, cover personal cell phone bills, and even subscribe to USA Today. The agency’s information technology director, James Donnan, apparently billed taxpayers his wife’s cell phone bill, cable TV subscriptions in multiple homes, and personal subscriptions.

FMCS officials commissioned portraits of themselves and hung them in their offices, and you footed the bill. They took exotic vacations and hired their friends and relatives to keep the gravy train rolling.

The FMCS goes beyond mismanagement into blatant corruption and theft — and it went on for decades, unnoticed and unchallenged.

President Donald Trump signed an executive order to abolish the FMCS — a necessary and long-overdue move. But the FMCS is just one of many agencies within the federal government burning through billions of taxpayer dollars. How many more slush funds exist in the shadows, funneling money into the pockets of bureaucrats who produce nothing? How many government-funded NGOs operate in direct opposition to American interests?

Perhaps the most disturbing question is why Americans tolerate such corruption. Why do so many Americans tolerate this? Why is the left — supposedly the party of the people — defending the very institutions that rob working-class Americans blind?

Corruption beyond bureaucracy

The recent rallies led by Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.), and their socialist acolytes claim to be a grassroots uprising against corruption and greed. But GPS data from these rallies tells a different story. The majority of attendees aren’t ordinary citizens fed up with the status quo. They’re professional activists — serial agitators who bounce from protest to protest.

Roughly 84% of devices tracked at these rallies were present at multiple Kamala Harris events. A staggering 31% appeared at over 20 separate demonstrations, tied to Antifa, Black Lives Matter, and pro-Palestinian causes.

Many of these organizations receive federal grant money — our tax dollars — and they’re using those funds to protest the very policies that threaten to cut off their financial lifeline.

This isn’t democracy in action. This is political theater — astroturfing perfected. And the American taxpayer is funding it.

Rooting out corruption

Trump was a battering ram against this corrupt system. Elon Musk is a surgeon, meticulously exposing the infection that has festered for decades — and that’s why the leftists hate him even more than they hate Trump. Musk threatens to dismantle the financial web that sustains their entire operation.

When we allow the government to grow unchecked and our leaders to prioritize their own wealth and power over the good of the nation, figures like Trump and Musk are necessary. Rome didn’t fall because of an external invasion but rather due to internal decay that looked an awful lot like what we see today.

We must demand better. We must refuse to tolerate this corruption any longer. The FMCS may be gone, but the fight to root out this deep-seated corruption is far from over.

Editor's Note: This article was originally published on TheBlaze.com.

Did the CIA hide the real truth behind JFK's assassination?

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Many were disappointed by the recent release of the JFK files, frustrated by the apparent lack of answers to decades-old questions. The problem? They’re asking the wrong question.

Everyone wants a "who"—a smoking gun, someone to blame. It’s understandable; Americans crave justice for a slain president, to hold the culprits of one of the 20th century’s greatest crimes accountable. But the real answer isn’t a "who"—it’s a "what." That "what" is the CIA and proof of their nefarious dealings since the 1960s.

In his most recent TV special, Glenn delves into the JFK files, where he found the crucial information that everyone else seemed to miss. Be sure to watch the TV special here.

The CIA's Dirty Fingerprints

While the recent JFK files don’t explicitly pin the assassination on the CIA, the evidence between the lines is compelling.

If you follow Glenn on X, you’ve seen his newest artifact: an exact replica of Lee Harvey Oswald’s rifle. Glenn tested it at the range, attempting to replicate the notoriously difficult shot Oswald allegedly made that fateful day in Dallas. While Glenn shares more takeaways in his TV special, one thing stood out immediately: the rifle’s abysmal quality, its shoddy scope, and the odd caliber of ammunition it uses.

Oswald’s rifle, a Mannlicher-Carcano, is chambered in 6.5mm—an unusual caliber. Much like today, the average gun store in the ‘60s didn’t stock 6.5mm rounds. The largest known supply was owned by the CIA, who had shipped the ammo from Greece after World War II. Suspiciously, there’s no record of where Oswald got his ammunition, but the JFK files confirm that the gun store where he bought the Mannlicher-Carcano had CIA connections.

It’s well-known that Oswald defected to the USSR and lived there before returning to the U.S. The JFK files reveal that from the moment he touched down stateside, the CIA tracked him like a hawk. They followed him across the country and even to Mexico City—but, conveniently, seemed to lose him in Dallas just as President Kennedy arrived. What a coincidence.

Whether by design or gross incompetence, the CIA greased Oswald’s path, letting him slip unhindered into that sixth-floor Book Depository window.

The Cover-Up

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If the JFK files aren’t the smoking gun many hoped for, why did the CIA fight so hard to keep them buried?

The answer is trust. Hard as it may be to imagine today, Americans in the ‘60s trusted their government—at least more than they do now. This cover-up preserved that trust longer than it might have lasted, allowing the CIA to pull off more scandals before the public caught on. From Benghaziand 9/11 to COVID-19 and January 6, the same dirty marks found in the JFK files stain these events. It’s about saving face. The files make the CIA look incompetent at best, complicit at worst.

This might feel like common knowledge today—especially to Glenn’s audience—but 40 or 50 years ago, saying such things could land you in the loony bin. It’s taken 60 years of growing suspicion to reach this point. Imagine if the JFK files had been available back then. Could we have stopped six decades of CIA shenanigans in their tracks?

The thought is chilling.

What Now?

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The files don’t name a mastermind or explicitly confirm the darkest JFK assassination conspiracies that have swirled for decades—but they’re far from empty. They expose a disturbing truth: the CIA’s unchecked power in the ‘60s echoes into today.

In one of his most exciting TV specials yet, Glenn delves deep into the files, proving why we can’t ignore these revelations. Stop chasing a "who" and start demanding accountability for the "what." Only by confronting this can we hope to rein in the agency that’s dodged scrutiny for too long.