In my Ph.D. section on connecting, I tried to impart some of the lessons I've learned as someone known as a master at connecting with people. But I'd be remiss if I didn't tell one short, embarrassing story that taught me early on what may be the most important lesson of all.
It is a cautionary tale about what not to do and how not to act. The pursuit of a powerful network of friends is not in and of itself a bad thing. But the closer you get to powerful people, the more powerful you tend to feel. There is a point where your reaching out to others will pick up momentum; one powerful contact will lead to another and then to the next. It can be a very fun and motivating and important ride.
Don't let a little vanity seep into your actions or excite more expectations or create a deeper sense of entitlement. Don't get your Ph.D. in master connecting, and then, for some reason, forget all the classes and values that were your foundation.
Everyone fails in life. What will you do when the phone calls that were once returned immediately now don't even get a response?
When I ran for City Council of New Haven as a sophomore against a fellow classmate, the idea of a kid running for local government made a special-interest news item. It wasn't long before a reporter from the New York Times showed up to write an article. Little did I know then that that one Times article would provide me with one of the more painful and useful lessons of my life. For I had angered William F. Buckley Jr., the famous Yale alum known for founding the conservative magazine National Review and authoring dozens of books.
I ran for office as a Republican. The Republicans needed a candidate, and at Yale, they were the minority as opposed to the many limousine liberals who seemed to a steelworking kid from Pittsburgh insincere and unthinking. Anyway, I was a youngster, and I was still exploring my political sensibilities. I probably also had a certain affinity for the traditionalism of the moderate conservative party on campus called the Tories and a real fondness for their parties and the commitment of their leadership and alumni.
But this story is not about politics. It's about pride and ego. Back then, I hadn't yet realized that my upbringing could be a well of strength rather than weakness. Insecurity drove me to act in ways I wish I hadn't. My leadership style, for instance, was far from inclusive. While I was racking up accomplishments, my sheer will and ambition alienated a lot of people. I trumpeted my awards and failed to recognize those who had helped make them possible. Too much hubris and not enough humility, as my dad might say, though not in so many words.
I was showing all those kids whom I had caddied for back at the club that I was just as good as they were.
I lost the election, as you know, but the New York Times article had been read by quite a number of people, and by a few who thought being a Republican at Yale was a good thing. In my mailbox, weeks after the election, I received a short note.
"So happy to see that there is at least one Republican at Yale. Come see me sometime. WFB."
William F. Buckley Jr. had taken the time to write me\ I was floored. I became an instant celebrity in our small circle.
Of course, the man had issued an invitation and I, for one, was going to take him up on the offer. I immediately set about contacting Mr. Buckley to set a date for a meeting. He graciously invited me to his home and even suggested I bring a few friends along.
A few months later, with three other classmates in tow, I arrived at a Connecticut train station where we were greeted by none other than Mr. Buckley himself in an old pair of khakis and a wrinkled button-down shirt. He drove us to his home, where we met his wife, who was gardening at the time. It was a glorious day. We shared a few glasses of wine, talked politics, Mr. Buckley played the harpsichord, and then we all sat down for a lengthy lunch. Afterward, we were invited to take a dip in the Buckleys' beautiful pool with tile mosaics reminiscent of a Roman bath.
I couldn't let the opportunity pass. Mr. Buckley wasn't the only Yale alum dissatisfied with the political climate at his alma mater. Other conservative alumni were complaining. Many stopped giving money to Yale outright. I thought I had a solution that would be a real win-win for the campus and for these alums.
What if, I suggested, we create a foundation that allowed disenfranchised conservative alums the ability to give money directly to the undergraduate organizations that represented the traditional values they supported? Yale wins because it would be getting money that it otherwise wouldn't. Conservative alumni win because they could again feel good about their school and their ability to make a contribution. Students win because there would be more organizational diversity and money for campus clubs. What could be better?
Well, I made the pitch and I thought Mr. Buckley embraced the idea. He told me that he had started a foundation to fund a student publication a few years before that had never quite got off the ground. There was, he said, still money in the foundation, and he would be happy to put it toward my idea. That is, at least, what I heard. In my excitement, I left the i's undotted and t's uncrossed for fear of a good thing getting spoiled. "Never sell beyond the close," as they say, and I thought I had the close.
Do they ever add that you better be damn sure both parties know what, exactly, is being closed and that both remember thereafter?
When I returned to campus, I didn't conceal my excitement. I made sure everyone knew that I was the new president of a brandspankin'-new organization. Boy, wasn't I cool? I started searching out other alumni who might be interested in contributing to the cause. I hit the phones, and on weekends, I'd go to New York to pitch other alumni on the new foundation that William F. Buckley and I were starting.
"Bill Buckley put in some money. Would you also like to help out?" I'd ask them. And they did. On each return trip from New York, my head got bigger and bigger as I reveled in the famous and powerful people that were giving me (note the use of "me," not "us") money.
My poor classmates had to suffer my telling stories of my latest escapade to New York. Then, as quickly as it started, my ever-sobrief brush with fame came to a screeching halt.
As luck would have it, Mr. Buckley found himself one day in an elevator with one of the other famous alums who had pledged money. "Bill," this gentleman said, "I matched your contribution to this new foundation at Yale." To which Bill replied, "What foundation?"
It turned out that Mr. Buckley did not recall our conversation. Or maybe he told me one thing and I heard something quite different. Maybe he just thought I wanted to rekindle the magazine. But by then, it was irrelevant. Mr. Buckley could recall only his stalled magazine and a vague reference to restarting it at Yale. He told the other donor he was not the cofounder of a new conservative foundation at Yale, which I'm sure was the way he saw it. At which point, everything unraveled.
The pledges I had received needed to go unrealized, as there was no repository for them any longer. Mr. Buckley didn't return my calls. Most important, and to my shock, my friends who were present and equally excited that day at Mr. Buckley's didn't come to my rescue when I pleaded for them to explain that they had heard exactly what I had heard. My reputation had been tarnished among some important people. I was embarrassed among my friends after I had been gloating. And then to add rock salt to the wound, someone at Yale's college newspaper got wind of all that had happened and created an illustration depicting me as getting wounded by large, famous names being dropped from the sky. Ouch, indeed, and I deserved it.
Looking back now, I'm appreciative of the experience. I learned some valuable lessons. For one, I had to begin the journey to change my leadership style. It wasn't enough to get things done. You had to get things done and make the people around you feel involved, and not just part of the process but part of the leadership. I learned that commitments weren't commitments unless everyone involved knew what was on the table with absolute clarity. I learned how truly small the world is, especially the world of the rich and powerful.
Most important, I learned that arrogance is a disease that can betray you into forgetting your real friends and why they're so important. Even with the best of intentions, too much hubris will stir up other people's ire and their desire to put you in your place. So remember, in your hike up the mountain, be humble. Help others up the mountain along with and before you. Never let the prospect of a more powerful or famous acquaintance make you lose sight of the fact that the most valuable connections you have are those you've already made at all levels. I reach back into my past regularly to touch base with the folks who have meant so much to me since I was a kid. I go out of my way to tell the early mentors what they meant to me and how much they were responsible for my success today.