The Rumor

E4: The Old Box

Sam Dingman
Mac Montandon

E4: The Old Box

SAM: When you come through the tunnel, you're on this highway that goes right by the inner harbor of Baltimore. And if you look out the window, you can see Oriole Park. And I literally always wave to the stadium because it just makes me so happy to see it.

MAC: Old friend.

SAM: Yeah.

MAC: There’s a wrinkle to this story we haven’t talked about yet - which is that while I grew up in Baltimore, and Sam is from a suburb about 40 minutes away, neither of us live there anymore. We both live in New York. And being back at Oriole Park always brings up a lot of feelings.

SAM: Feelings? In this show? I'm like, that is me, this place that I'm coming from that, that's not me. This is me. This is my home, even though Baltimore is a city is not literally my home, but it always feels that way.

MAC: In addition to the emotional distance from the city that comes with living a few hundred miles up the highway, it’s a weird time to be reporting and interviewing people for a story like this. Because of the pandemic, so much of our work has to be done over the phone. But now months had gone by, and we were vaccinated, which meant it finally felt safe to actually visit Oriole Park at Camden Yards - where the events of August 14th, 1997 went down.

SAM: So we make the trip down interstate 395, and set up a field studio within striking distance of Oriole Park at Camden Yards.

MAC: What Sam means to say is that we rented a nice Airbnb a short summer stroll from the ballpark.

SAM: Potato potato. The point is, sitting there, in what admittedly could’ve doubled as the set of a Friends-like sitcom, I don't feel like an investigator. I feel like an invader.

SAM: And I had this thought this time as we came through the tunnel. Like, I'm about to betray my home and then it was amplified as we got off the highway. Or off the, um, I guess we were still on three ninety five, but this little section of it that has been renamed Cal Ripken Way. Yeah. And I had this feeling like, well, why are we doing this?

MAC: Yeah, it's weird that it hadn't really felt dangerous to me until the last half hour essentially or like our it's easier to tear down your idols from a distance I guess.

SAM: I have this incredibly fond memory of coming here for my 30th birthday, my girlfriend at the time orchestrated this whole trip and we all stayed at the Hilton. It was me and a bunch of friends. And we went to Pickle's before the game. And then we went to the game and the Orioles won. And then we went to Pickle's after the game and we got free shots and we got free T-shirts. And when I was 30, I was really needing to escape from my life. And now it's almost 10 years later and it's like I feel like I'm sneaking into my past to kill it or something.

MAC: Dude, it's going to be an interesting couple of days.

SAM: And it certainly was!

MAC: I’m Mac Montandon.

SAM: I’m Sam Dingman.

MAC: And from Blue Wire, this is The Rumor.

SAM: Episode Four: The Old Box

SAM: Mac and I were feeling apprehensive about this trip to Oriole Park. But it also felt good to finally be able to take this concrete step of visiting the stadium. We’re trying to untangle the truth behind a vague rumor with an unknown source. A legend that’s been floating around in the vapors of the collective Baltimore consciousness for twenty-five years. And for months, we’ve been rummaging around in the memories of sources who were apprehensive about even talking to us. Most of them seem understandably suspicious that we’re asking about The Rumor, and on the rare occasions when they do offer up a tantalizing clue, the next thing they do is stop returning our calls and emails.

MAC: So Sam and I have decided to pivot. This is a story about a power outage. So we figured it was time to talk to some electricians. After all, their job is to keep wires from getting crossed. Maybe we'll finally get some straight talk.

MOAG: The worst gossips in the world are men when it comes to sports.

SAM: John Moag is the former head of the Maryland Stadium Authority, the organization that runs and manages Oriole Park at Camden Yards, the adjacent Ravens’ football stadium, and a bunch of other facilities around the state. And John delivered on the straight talk, though not exactly in the way we were hoping.

MOAG: Well, I probably heard as many stories as, you know, probably or I really don't believe any of them. I think there's probably a lot of urban legend going around. But, you know, I really don't care. All I know is that those lights came back on again.

MAC: John’s a technical guy. One of the reasons he doesn’t put much stock in gossip is that in his mind, the outage wasn’t really that remarkable.

MOAG: The failure with the lights was not just that game that had happened off and on a few times.

MAC: That season or other seasons also?

MOAG: Other seasons also.

MAC: So is there some sort of in the construction of the electrical system there? Is there something because it doesn't happen in every stadium, right? Because there's something about the construction there.

MOAG: You're asking the wrong guy about that.

SAM: The right guy to ask, John told us, is an engineer named Bruce Hoffman, who was the Maryland Stadium Authority’s executive director when the lights went out in 1997.

HOFFMAN: I wasn't there that night, but I certainly knew about it.

MAC: Though he wasn’t on the scene to diagnose the outage, Bruce seemed to agree generally with John, the events of August 14th were notable, but not unprecedented.

HOFFMAN: Oh, it was unusual. I mean, it only happened maybe, you know, I would think at the most once a year we had a problem like that where the lights would shut down. I probably wasn't involved with that. I do know that I had by that time, we had a very good team of people running in the stadium. I think the fellow that was in charge of electrical was a fellow named Ray Winfrey. He was electrical. And he would remember a lot more about a power outage than I can 20 something years ago.

SAM: And as we soon discovered, Ray...remembers everything.

RAY: Yes. My biggest thing, you know, with sports lighting, um that really caused a lot of sleepless nights, you know, I would say.

MAC: Now we’ve talked a lot in this series about how Cal Ripken was the embodiment of The Oriole Way - which was pioneered by Cal’s father, Cal Senior. An approach to winning ballgames that prioritizes the fundamentals of the game. Doing the little things right. Avoiding mistakes.

RAY: My father was the type of person that he wanted to make sure he wanted to make sure everything was right. If he was like a couple of minutes late, he would start sweating.

SAM: As near as we can tell, Ray Winfrey is basically the Cal Ripken, Jr. of wiring.

RAY: I'm kind of like dedicated that way. I just want to make sure everything's perfect.

MAC: In episode 1, we heard Cal responding to a question about the Rumor on NPR in that calm, measured, quietly confident way of his. And when we asked Ray what went wrong on August 14, 1997, well he did the exact same thing.

RAY: There was a rumor that we turned off the lights because Cal wasn't there or something. There was a rumor going around. But it was a true it was a true defect in and in the lighting system. What happened on one of the towers, uh, there was a ground fault that we didn't know about...

MAC: And true to form, Ray gave us an intensely technical description of what went wrong.

RAY:’s actually something with high amperage and high voltage and all - it just trips the circuit...

MAC: Just to summarize it: there was a glitch in the tower that caused a ground fault which a bad breaker couldn’t detect and fix. That made a section of bulbs go dark.

RAY: ...turned the power on, that center ground fault down and that did it.

MAC: So Ray and his crew went to work diagnosing the problem.

RAY: So what we did is that we started to bring, uh, we were trying to bring it back on, but then we would turn off all the individual circuits and we would bring the individual circuits back up one by one. We got the power to the point where we had 18 lights out on the tower. Now, we had 800 lights total on the tower, but we had 18 lights that we couldn't get up.

SAM: 18 lights. Out of 800 total bulbs in the bank behind the first base dugout. That’s it. That’s all that stood between the Orioles and Mariners playing the game that night. Sure doesn’t seem like much.

RAY: The stadium's history is one year we had one leg overheat, and it was 36 lights out on that tower. And you could actually see the shadows on the field. And they played the game fine. It was 36 lights out and they continued to play the game.

MAC: That’s right in a previous year, the team had played a game when double the number of lights were out compared to the 1997 game that was postponed.

RAY: It was just strange because it was 18 lights. It looked, it looked looked fine, but they didn't want to play. So, um, I stayed thirty six hours that day.

MAC: Ray worked through the night to try and figure out what had caused the outage that forced the game to be postponed. He’s stuck in the middle of what he just told us is basically his worst nightmare: a problem with the sports lighting. He spends hours working tirelessly to get things up and running again. And then, all of a sudden, not long after the game has been officially postponed...

RAY: just after midnight, all the lights came up just as pretty.

MAC: The lights just...come back on. All by themselves

RAY: I mean, we were just I was like, what what's going on here?

SAM: Mac and I had the same question.

SAM: Ray Winfrey is the reason Mac and I were in Baltimore to visit Oriole Park.

MAC: Right because after our initial phone interview with Ray who was fast becoming my favorite person in the world, he kindly offered to give us a tour of the ballpark's electrical system.

SAM: Hence our harrowing trek down 395 to Cal Ripken way. We left our sitcom set and walked over to the stadium to meet up with Ray and his giant clutch of swinging keys. There was no need to fret about fence hopping on this trip. Before we knew it Ray was unlocking the gates and taking us inside.

MAC: Into perhaps the largest elevator Sam and I have ever been.

SAM: This, this is like the original…

RAY: Yeah!

SAM: Down into the depths, far beneath the field. And then into a room buzzing and vibrating with electrical currents emanating from row upon row of refrigerator-sized breakers. For a moment, Mac and I thought we might be staring at the very breaker that failed on the night of August 14th, 1997. But before we could take out our fingerprint dusting kit, Ray told us that this wasn’t the literal breaker - that one is in a different part of the stadium, down a different hallway close to the Orioles clubhouse, where Ray didn’t feel comfortable taking us. But he assured us that the breaker we were looking at was basically the twin of the miscreant breaker on the night of the outage.

RAY: Fourth line breaker in this area here, okay and these they're like these dials here…

MAC: As Ray launched into another one of his eloquent soliloquies about the finer points of transformers and ground faults, Sam and I stared at this giant industrial cabinet, covered in black switches and orange high voltage stickers, wondering if we were finally standing in the same sort of spot where, as The Rumor alleges, someone cut the power to the lights above the Orioles dugout. I had to fight the impulse to shine a flashlight in the dusty corners of the room, in hopes that I might find a rusty pair of hedge clippers.

SAM: I imagined a dastardly Orioles front office official in a trench coat and a ski mask, his dress shoes clanging against the iron stairs as he approached the humming row of breakers, glancing over his shoulders before he started frantically flipping random switches on the breaker. But the longer Ray talked, the more Mac and I realized what was actually going on was that we had no idea what he was talking about.

SAM: Just to make sure I understand the sequence of events that you were talking about. For one of those outages to hypothetically happen. Seems like there would have been a problem in a room like this. Not this specific room, but the one that we couldn't get to.

MAC: It was obvious that he was trying to explain what’s supposed to happen when the breaker is working normally. And how, for some reason, that hadn’t happened on August 14th. But it didn’t explain how or why it didn’t happen.

SAM: So as enticing as it was to believe that this echoey basement full of steam pipes and buzzing electrical cabinets was the scene of the crime, it still felt like we hadn’t found what we were looking for.

MAC: Two all-time faves right there. I have a signed Eddie Murray picture...

MAC: But then, Ray took us upstairs. The clanks and whistles and echoes of the breaker room faded as we entered the stadium’s club level. Here, instead of zip-tied ethernet cable and security cameras, the walls are lined with framed snapshots of the Orioles’ past triumphs and the players and managers who engineered them: Frank Robinson, Boog Powell, Ken Singleton, Al Bumbry, Earl Weaver ––shoutout to The Earl of Baltimore!––Brooks Robinson, Eddie Murray, Jim Palmer and, yes: Cal, Cal, Cal.

SAM: The Ironman’s steely blue eyes almost seemed to be watching us as Ray led us past a series of lounges and empty concession areas. Finally, he opened another door and ushered us through. And suddenly, we found ourselves in the press box.

SAM: This is crazy for me, actually because when I used to come as a kid, we would sit in Section 43, just like right on the other side of that wall. So I would always kind of like peek around the corner and look inside the press box.

RAY: Yeah man...

SAM: I remember craning my neck from my dad and I’s seats, watching the sportswriters and broadcasters fiddling with their lanyards and scribbling in their notebooks. While the fans yelled and drank, the press always seemed emotionless and focused - their gazes fixed on the field. I wondered what an Orioles game looked like to them. What it would be like to be the person whose job it is to shape the narrative of the team for its fans. And here Mac and I were skulking around that same press box, looking for reasons to call that narrative into question. My stomach lurched but before I could find a bucket to retch into, Ray was opening a door at the back of the press box.

RAY: Matter of fact, the old box is still there.

SAM: This is still the old box?

RAY: And you can see like they have their first base sports lights...

MAC: The old box was a simple gray square hanging on the wall of an otherwise-empty closet. Printed across the top were the words “Lighting Control Cabinet.” And right in the middle, a big black button, with two more words written in marker underneath it: “1st Base.” If someone really did cut the lights on the night of the outage - this was the button they would’ve pushed to do it.

SAM: This was it - the scene of the alleged crime! Somehow, it felt fitting that it would be located in the back of the room where the stories are made.

SAM: These buttons on here, these don't do anything anymore?

RAY: No..

SAM: Oh, can I try turning one of the light switches?

RAY: Yes, yes..

SAM: I spent an uncomfortably long moment flipping switches and jabbing buttons…

MAC: It did go on for a while.

SAM: I was trying to imagine what it would’ve felt like to know that cutting the power might be the only way to preserve Cal’s consecutive games streak. Mac, meanwhile, had more pertinent concerns.

MAC: You know that night lights went out, is there any way humanly possible that like a person could give him if everything was still intact, like, make just a certain section go on or off in the stadium?

RAY: Somebody want if somebody could get in here, they had to get past this door, and the lock, then they would need the right key.

MAC: And back in '97 how many people would have had access to the key to...?

RAY: Probably four of us. Yeah. Who knew?

MAC: Now this was and please forgive me here, a light bulb moment? Because our central question in this story is, did someone do something funky with the lights on August 14 1997? Well, if they did, this is the room where the funk transpired. And Ray had just told us, there are only five people who could have accessed this room, him and four other guys.

SAM: So if the only way to control the lights was to have a set of keys to this room containing the old box, we just have to find these other four guys, and account for their whereabouts on August 14, 1997. Ray had just handed us and please forgive me the keys to the story. It would have been exciting, if it weren't also terrifying.

SAM: It's like it feels like we're infiltrating somehow.

MAC: That’s Sam and me talking in the living room of our Airbnb again.

SAM: I have this feeling that somehow this project is my coming to terms with leaving baseball behind or leaving the childhood version of myself behind or recognizing that my love for it doesn't serve me in the same way that it used to or something I don't know if I can fully articulate it yet. And that this is somehow a way of instead of doing what I'm, perhaps a more mature adult might do, which is to just mindfully release that feeling through meditation or something, I feel like this project is sort of like publicly driving a stick through its heart.

MAC: Hmm. Well, that's rather grim Sam

SAM: I know that sounds dramatic - but come on, you guys are used to that by now. I had this ominous feeling that calling The Four Keys was going to...well, to unlock the truth once and for all. Oriole Park was already feeling like a different place than it had when Mac and I pulled off the highway onto Cal Ripken Way. Now we had seen the underbelly. And we don’t know what the Four Keys are going to tell us, but it’s possible it will change the way we think about the Orioles forever. So later that night, Mac and I head back to the ballpark - to enjoy a game just as fans one more time, before the scales fall from our eyes.

MAC: We sit in section 84, row 9, seats 1 and 2 on the aisle.

SAM: Out behind the left field wall, not far from the Oriole bullpen.

MAC: In many ways, sitting in the stands, taking in a game, it’s all so familiar, so comfortably the same as it ever was…

SAM: We yell “O” during the national anthem, as is the wont of us O’s fans.

{Clip of the crowd yelling OOOOOOO!}

MAC: We drink cheap yet expensive beer.

SAM: Now the question becomes, is this a two beer game?

SAM: And we watch the O’s get crushed by the Blue Jays.

SAM: I think it might be a two beer game.

MAC: But something else happens that is... less expected…Later that night, as the game rounds inevitably towards another Orioles loss, Sam and I look around the stadium. The night is humid to the point of swampiness. The crowd is a little thin - repeated seasons of inevitable irrelevance aren’t great for ticket sales. But in spite of all that, everyone who is there seems lively. Spirited, even.

SAM: And there’s this one kid in particular whose belief in Orioles Magic seems unshakeable. He looks to be about seventeen - pudgy, wearing a pair of mesh shorts and a replica Cal Ripken jersey. He has a long, scraggly ponytail and a battered outfielder’s mitt. He spends the entire game barking insults at the Blue Jays’ outfielders, trying to get the crowd to join him for chants he’s made up, and singing along at the top of his lungs to the music between innings.

MAC: And meanwhile, to the left of ponytail guy, there’s a quiet fellow in a Red Sox cap - which is an interesting choice, considering the Sox are not competing in the game he’s there to see. And this guy, he’s also brought his glove, which spends much of the night resting on his knee, because he’s busy digging cans of tuna out of his backpack, slicing into them with a can opener, and eating their contents raw with a plastic fork.

SAM: As the sound of Ponytail Guy’s improvised cheers and smell of Tuna Man’s dinner blend in the thick night air, I turn to Mac and gesture to Pony Tail Guy and say, “Mac, that was me when I was seventeen.”

MAC: And I do not say, “What a coincidence, because I used to be just like Tuna Man!” Because...well, I guess I’ve never really been comfortable enough in my own weirdness to mainline raw tuna with a plastic fork in a public setting.

SAM: Right - but, that’s kind of the whole point, right? These two guys seem so comfortable in their own weirdness. I used to know that feeling. It’s how I felt when I went to games with my dad. When I too was scraggly, and out of touch, shouting into the hot summer night at the top of my lungs. In my life outside Oriole Park, I usually felt as ill-fitting as my over-sized replica Ripken jersey. But inside, I was with my people. Oriole Park was the only place I really felt at home. And seeing those two guys brings those feelings flooding back - and they’re still with me the next morning, as we drive back to New York...

SAM: I think it kind of crystallized for me last night when we were at the game, and there was that guy with the ponytail. I do have this sense of like a lost connection with that kid. Obviously, there's some things I'm glad I'm not about him that I'm glad I'm not connected with any more. But I also feel like there may be some good things that I've lost connection with. And they seem very bound up in baseball. And the idea of answering this question feels connected to that.

MAC: Well, that’s a great answer - I wish I had that answer! Bastard.

MALSTROM: So I was tasked with designing the electrical infrastructure that supported the sports lighting.

SAM: Back in New York, Mac and I get on the phone with Bill Malstrom. And Bill’s not one of the Four Keys - but don’t worry, Ray gave us their names, and we have calls out to all of them.

MAC: But in the meantime, we’ve decided to track down Bill because Ray had mentioned that Bill’s company - Malstrom Electric - was instrumental in designing and implementing the electrical system at Oriole Park.

MALSTROM: And I also was tasked with the responsibility of designing and coordinating the installation of all the underground banks to include the medium voltage primary from the local electrical utility here, Baltimore Gas and Electric, as well as coordinating feeds to various substations throughout the ballpark data.

MAC: I mean, this sounds like a massive undertaking. Had you ever done anything at this scale?

MALSTROM: No, no. But I never ate an elephant before. I hear it's one bite at a time

SAM: After the power went out that night in 1997, when everyone else in the ballpark was scratching their heads over what was happening, Bill was one of the guys 115 feet above the ground...

MALSTROM: Yeah, well, for the most part, I was up on the tower.

MAC: Oh, wow. Oh, wow.

MALSTROM: Well, yeah, that's, that's where the problem was.

MAC: Bill scrambled up the light tower to diagnose the problem - to figure out why those 18 bulbs wouldn’t come on. High above the stands, he was peering into a mess of circuits, trying to figure out which one of them was causing the blackout.

MALSTROM: It's comparable to a needle in a haystack. Because it was an intermittent ground. I'm looking at the individual circuits that are going out to the electrical wiring system, trying to isolate a particular circuit out of dozens that is occasionally going to ground and tripping the main that's feeding that tower. I mean, we tested the same problematic circuit numerous times. And then when we finally caught it at the right time when it moved and shorted to ground, then we caught it then. Then we had it.

MAC: Bill had it but not before umpiring crew chief Al Clark had already decided to postpone the game.

MALSTROM: I can remember it was a yellow wire. Your choices are brown, orange and yellow. Yeah, dozens and dozens of each color. So it was one it was one of the yellow ones, I remember.

SAM: So Bill says this, and I’m thinking - wait, is that it? After a months-long journey, that started with a casual conversation Mac had a birthday party he didn’t realize he was supposed to wear a Hawaiian shirt to, which had somehow morphed into this harebrained interrogation of shadowy knuckles and shadowy characters, of shock jocks and disgraced journalists and Aaron Ledesma, a harrowing existential rumination on myths and gods and truth and heroes, full of dangerous dances with both wolves and Mad Dogs? After all that - was this really just a story about a little fucking yellow wire?!

MAC: This little fucking yellow wire, it sure sounded like the final MASSIVE fucking nail in the coffin of conspiracy. Bill was basically telling us that in order for the conspiracy to work, someone would’ve had to climb up the light tower and compromise this little yellow wire, so that when that big black button in the press box got pushed, the lights would fail.

SAM: We had to admit: that did seem far-fetched. Nowadays the stadium runs on a much simpler and more efficient LED lighting system. But back in 1997, they were still using the original halogen bulbs and circuits that Bill and his team had rigged up when the stadium first opened. The system was so analogue that Ray told us you could literally hear the coils vibrating when the lights were on. And both Bill and Ray said the most likely scenario is that over the years, those vibrations had nudged an errant screw, little by little, until it was pressed against this offending yellow wire. Until finally, one fateful night…

MAC: But Sam and I aren’t quite ready to close this case. For one thing, the aging analogue system might explain why there were a handful of other outages at Oriole Park over the years. But it doesn’t explain why those outages hadn’t resulted in postponed games, and this one did. And speaking of this one - which outage are we talking about exactly?

SAM: Right. After we’d been on the phone with Bill for a while, we asked him to confirm which game he’d been telling us about - the night he climbed the tower. Just to be clear, was it the same night Mac and I are investigating - August 14, 1997?

MAC: And that’s when the conversation took a turn…

SAM: I'm curious, you know, and whatever you're able to say, the explanation that you've just given seems pretty cut and dry to me. I mean, it seems like, you know, there was a mysterious issue going on, although, you know, perhaps not so mysterious in the ultimate analysis of it. And you climbed up the tower and diagnosed, were eventually able to diagnose it and the problem was fixed.

MALSTROM: Right. So I say here, here's what you can't do. Here's what you can't do. Based on what I told you, you can't connect it to a day.

SAM: Right.

MALSTROM: You can't even connect. I mean, you definitely can't connect it to a day, you can't connect to a particular game and you can't even connect it to a month. I remember it was hot.

SAM: Mac and I couldn’t tell if Bill was being cagey for some reason, or if he genuinely couldn’t recall the date of the power outage. And when we pressed him on this point later in the call, things got even stranger.

MALSTROM: We talked about the streak.

MAC: Well, I was talking about the lights. But if you want to talk about the streak, we can talk about that too.

MALSTROM: Oh, well, isn't that the same conversation?

MAC: You tell me, Bill.

MALSTROM: All right. So I don't know. Guys exactly what I can say on this on this subject. This is thin ice for me.

SAM: And again, if this is a dumb question, I apologize. But where does the sensitivity about that specific day fit into this?

MALSTROM: I'm only telling you that I can't comment on what I don't know. So even if you suggested a date, oh, oh, this sounds like you know, that particular day and whatever month? I couldn't I couldn't say yes or no.

MALSTROM: Yes, I do.

MAC: Can I ask one more potentially annoying question?

MALSTROM: Go ahead.

MAC: Can you tell us who they were playing?


MAC: Fair enough.

MALSTROM: Not without making a phone call.

MAC: Should we...Do you want to make that phone call and let us know if we're able to chat with you again?

MALSTROM: Sure. Yeah, I can do that.

MAC: Next time on The Rumor...

SAM: While we wait for Bill Malstrom to make his mysterious phone calls, we turn the Four Keys to the story...

ERIC: You know there's 1000s of people walking around in the background.

ALONZO: Somebody from the Orioles did have a key!

MAC: And after months of feeling like we’re the ones who have a screw loose, Sam and I do what countless lost souls before us have done, we head west... in search of the Mariners’ side of the story, hoping that might finally shed some light on all this…

STONE: I just remember there being a lot of confusion and a lot of frustration from the Mariners side.

REBOULET: I guess the Mariners decided they weren’t playing.

LARRY STONE: Lou Piniella told them, look, if we're going to play, you're going to play without us. It’s going to be a forfeit.

SAM: The Rumor is hosted, produced and written by... Sam Dingman & Mac Montandon.

MAC: Editing and mixing by Sam Dingman. Research and archival by... Mariam Khan. Booking help by... George Noble. Production coordination by... Devin Shepherd.

SAM: Additional production support from... Isabelle Jocelyn & Shwetha Surendran. The Rumor is executive produced by... Peter Moses & Jon Yales.

MAC: Our outro music is Farewell Transmission, by Songs: Ohia.

SAM: If you’re enjoying The Rumor, don’t forget to tell two friends, and make sure to leave us a five star review in Apple Podcasts. Thank you for listening, and we’ll talk to you next time.