Dr. Seuss, The Lorax
We were driving to baseball practice.
Henry, just six at the time, was a bit apprehensive. Outside of the occasional backyard wiffle ball game, he’d never played organized baseball and he didn’t really know any of the kids on the team. He looked out the window, the weight of the world on his shoulders, as we neared the ball field.
“Little man,” I began, “are you doing okay?”
He sighed deeply and responded, “I guess I’m just nervous.”
He turned his gaze to the rearview mirror of the car. We locked eyes and he added, “Dad, the hardest part is just going. Once I’m there, I’ll be fine. But Dad, going is scary.”
My little man had it right.
Going is scary.
Showing up is the hard part.
But once we’re there, we’re glad we faced our fear, pushed it aside, and stepped up to the plate.
Henry was aware of this important truth at the age of six. I was twenty-four years old when I finally learned this lesson.
I’ve always been a slow learner.
It was early in the morning and I was getting ready for work. When the phone rang and I saw my mom’s number, I knew that something must have happened because she never called that early.
She asked if I’d heard the news. Jack Buck had died. She wanted to make sure I knew, and to let me know that a Buck family member had called the house to invite me to his funeral.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Now, sporting fans around the country knew of Jack Buck. He was a spectacular sportscaster, so highly regarded that he’d been inducted into various Halls of Fame, including those for Major League Baseball, the National Football League, and the National Radio Hall of Fame.
And while he may have been known nationally, he was beloved in St. Louis. Jack was the voice of baseball for generations of St. Louis Cardinals fans. For nearly fifty years, his deep, raspy voice brought the play-by-play action of baseball to millions of fans.
Jack was royalty, but he was far from some distant celebrity to me.
Jack Buck was one of the reasons I was alive.
Let me tell you a little about this remarkable man.
This was a man who learned about a tragic fire that had engulfed a nine-year-old boy the very night it happened. Even though he had never met me, the following day he came to visit. Jack walked into my hospital room and saw a little boy tied down to a bed, burns on his entire body, unable to see, tethered to machines, and wrapped from head to toe in bandages.
This was a man who lost his breath at that first sight, before composing himself and pulling a chair across the tile floor so he could sit down right next to my bed. My eyes were swollen shut, so I didn’t know who had just entered my room until I heard a cough and then a very familiar voice: “Kid. Wake up. You are going to live. You are going to survive. Keep fighting. When you get out of here we’re going to celebrate you at the stadium. We’ll call it John O’Leary Day at the ballpark, and it will make all this worthwhile.” There was a long pause before he added, “Kid, are you listening to me? Keep fighting.”
This was a man who somberly left my room after that first visit, made his way down the hall before pausing and leaning his head against a wall, letting the emotion catch up with him. The staff consoled him, but said there was no chance that I’d survive.
Undeterred, Jack came back and visited the following day, in spite of my dire prognosis. “Kid. Wake up. You are going to live. You are going to survive. Keep fighting. John O’Leary Day at the ballpark will make it all worthwhile. Keep fighting.” His voice became a constant over the five months I spent in the hospital. He visited too many times to count.
This was a man who kept the promise of John O’Leary Day at the ballpark. He met our family at the stadium, proudly pushed me around in my wheelchair, introduced me to every player, and allowed me to broadcast part of the game with him. While I was seated next to him in the booth, he saw the scars, the bandages, the wheelchair, and the many struggles that remained for me. He also saw the joy, the grit, and the possibility that endured.
This was a man who, rather than accept that I’d never be able to hold anything with my damaged hands, sent a baseball to my home the next day, signed by a Cardinals player, with a note: “Kid, if you want a second baseball, you’ll have to write a thank-you letter to the guy who signed the first one.” With the help of my parents, I held a pen between my bandaged hands, sent a thank-you letter to the player, and, in doing so, took a mighty step toward returning to normalcy.
This was the man who followed through on that promise and sent me a second signed baseball.
After a second thank-you note, he sent a third baseball.
Then a fourth. (Are you seeing where this is going?)
Ultimately Jack Buck, an incredibly busy guy, made the time to send sixty baseballs to a little boy with no fingers.
In doing so, Jack Buck taught me how to write again.
Which means he was one of the reasons I was able to return to school.
This was a man who received the highest honor in Major League Baseball when he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame the summer after I was burned. He received a crystal baseball to commemorate the honor. Twelve years later, he came to my college graduation to drop off a gift. It was his priceless crystal Hall of Fame baseball. I was twenty-two, directionless, unemployed, and probably still groggy from being out late the night before. I had no idea who I really was or what I might do in life. And he gave it to me.
This was a man who struggled mightily with Parkinson’s disease for years and then was diagnosed with stage four cancer. This incredible man, who was so full of life, slowly withered in a hospital bed for the final five months of his life.
During the end of his life, as he suffered for five months in a hospital bed—the same amount of time as I’d spent in one as a child—how many times did I visit him?
The truth I’m about to share still pains me to admit seventeen years later. I hate to put these words to paper.
Not once.
I didn’t visit Jack one single time.
It wasn’t because of my demanding schedule. It wasn’t that I was indifferent to all he’d done for me. It wasn’t that I was ignorant of the mighty struggles he was facing. It wasn’t because I was too arrogant or preoccupied. I certainly thought of and prayed for him daily during that time.
So why not write him?
Why not call?
Why not just show up at the hospital, walk to his room, step through the door, pull up a chair, sit beside him, and say, Kid, wake up. You saved my life. You are why I write. You are why I went back to school. You are why I am where I am today. You changed the arc of my life. Kid, are you listening to me? Keep fighting.
Why didn’t I do that?
I wasn’t free. No, I don’t mean with my time, but with my mindset, my sense of self, my belief in my own value. I never went to visit my friend because I had an excuse we all use when we live in fear: Someone else will do it.
Somebody else will go. People with bigger titles. People who are better friends. People who are more important, more connected, more impactful than me will go visit.
And when that excuse wore out, the voice of fear whispered another lie: Some other time. Tomorrow I’ll visit. Next week.
I kept putting it off.
And then I missed my chance.
That’s why my heart broke when I got the call from my mom.
You’d think that after my mom’s call, after learning that Jack had died, I would have learned the lesson, right?
I think you know the answer.
Four days later, as I pulled into the parking lot for the funeral, preparing to pay my last respects to my friend, it happened again.
I took a deep breath.
Straightened my tie.
Turned off the car.
And noticed a black Mercedes parked next to me. Stepping out of it was a Hall of Fame football player. A man who broadcast NFL games on television nationally and was a close friend of Jack’s.
I glanced behind me.
Walking past were the owners of the St. Louis Cardinals. They ran a billion-dollar business, had influence, fame, and wealth. As they made their way into the church, they waved at another group of friends approaching.
From the front seat of my Jeep, I began taking inventory of what I saw around me.
Expensive cars.
Celebrities.
Current baseball players.
Former All-Stars.
Family members.
In other words, these were Jack’s friends. People of worth, value, substance. The type of people who had showed up at the hospital. The type of friends who were with him when it actually counted.
I slumped back in my seat, defeated.
Think back to a moment in your life when you realized you didn’t belong. Maybe while you were competing in a sporting event where everyone else was faster, better, or twice your size? Or on your first day at a new school when everyone else seemed to know the answer, and you didn’t even understand the question? Or when you walked into a new job and felt the steep learning curve ahead of you and feared that you’d never catch up?
Well, that day I looked at those important people and realized that they had been with Jack during the good days and had shown up during the bad days.
I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I saw the kid he’d visited dozens of times in the hospital. I saw a young man who didn’t visit once when the roles were reversed. I saw a fake, an outsider, someone who just didn’t measure up.
I turned the car back on, reversed out of my parking spot, and drove away. Yeah, you read that correctly.
Not only did I not visit Jack in the hospital; I didn’t even go to his funeral. But this time, as I drove away, I knew what I was doing was wrong. And I began to cry.
You might think that twenty-four-year-old men are incredibly in touch with their feelings. That at that age we are willing to share the deep secrets we keep, and the truth of our emotions.
Yeah, right.
Before that day, like most guys my age, I had perfected the art of keeping everything bottled up, pushed down, under control.
I didn’t tell people how I felt, what I needed, or how they impacted me.
But on that drive, I stopped trying to keep it all inside. I pulled over to the side of the road as the tears coursed down my cheeks.
I thought back to all the times he’d visited, all the gifts he’d given me, all the lessons he’d taught. How had I missed my chance to repay a small part of it? I had chosen to not show up, to never really thank him, to never say goodbye. To never tell a man who loved me well that I loved him back.
On the side of the road, with sobs racking my body, I felt the utter enormity of my mistake.
And I made a commitment to never let that happen again.
No more regrets.
No more fear.
No more hiding who I was and how I felt.
No more sideline living.
I looked at my watch. It was too late to make it to the funeral. But I would do something else. Take other steps. I would never again pass up an opportunity to tell someone I love them, skip a chance to visit someone in need, overlook an occasion to utter the words “I’m sorry” or “thank you” or “I love you.”
I made the commitment to live more bravely, fearlessly, and freely.
To my everlasting regret, I wasn’t able to live like this while Jack Buck was alive.
But he had helped me once more, this time from the grave.
On the morning of Jack Buck’s funeral, as I drove away from the church, I drove toward my grandparents’ house, where my family gathered to enjoy Sunday dinners, birthday parties, and holiday celebrations. Grandma and Grandpa were the classic couple from the Greatest Generation, humble, faithful, hardworking, and patriotic. As they neared their sixtieth anniversary they were still wild about each other.
For the first time in my life I stopped by unannounced. When they answered the door you’d have thought Publishers Clearing House was there to let them know they’d just won $10 million. Emphatically, they wondered what I was doing there before joyfully inviting me in. We visited for a couple of hours and had lunch together. Before leaving I thanked them not only for lunch but for being two people I respect dearly, love greatly, and long to be more like. I hugged them, thanked them again, and told them I loved them. They knew it already, but I wanted them to hear it clearly from me.
Freedom.
The next evening I took my parents to dinner. It’s easy to lose touch with those you love the most in the busyness of life. I wanted to take time to thank them for all they did for me. They had been my constant advocates during my darkest days and my cheerleaders during the brightest ones. I wanted them to know the extent to which I respected and loved them. They were my heroes when I was a little kid growing up, but I wanted them to know that they still were. Those were hard words for a twenty-four-year-old to say out loud, but seeing their faces afterward made it worthwhile.
Freedom.
Later that month, Jack Buck’s widow graciously met with me so I could share the profound impact her husband had made on my life. While Jack, years earlier, had told Carol about what I’d been through—the fire and the recovery—he’d never told her about the repeated visits to the hospital, or John O’Leary Day at the ballpark, or the sixty signed baseballs, or the crystal Hall of Fame baseball. She was blown away. She shared that hearing the story made her husband come back to life for a moment. She hugged and thanked me.
More freedom.
I then wrote Jack a long letter of apology for not being the friend to him that he’d been to me. I recounted all the things he’d done for me as a child, all the times he’d visited, all the love he’d given me, and how his actions had changed my life. With that letter in hand, I took his son, Joe Buck, out to coffee. At a packed coffee shop in St. Louis, seated across from Joe, with tears clouding my eyes, I read the long letter I wrote to his dad. It was difficult to get through. But it was also incredibly liberating.
More freedom.
As a burn patient I had vowed that when I got out of the hospital I was never going to go back. That intense fear of hospitals and the painful memories of what I had endured in them lingered. It was one more layer that had kept me from showing up to visit Jack. But I was no longer going to let that fear keep me from entering into important moments in the lives of people I loved. Sometimes the very best way to overcome a fear is to dive directly into it. So I trained for twelve months to become a hospital chaplain and spent three amazing years visiting with kids like me, who were facing extreme difficulty but who were also learning firsthand the power of genuine courage, resiliency, and hope.
You guessed it: more freedom.
Embracing the power of mentorship—something I’d learned from Jack—I became active with an organization that does exactly that. Big Brothers Big Sisters matches children who might benefit from a positive adult role model with adults willing to make a difference. Jack’s mentorship is why I became a Big Brother. It’s why I served as an ambassador for the organization. It’s why I am active today on the board of advisors for BBBS.
Only after Jack’s death did I slowly begin sharing my story. I’d been asked to relate it before, but had never felt sufficiently worthy, capable, or ready. It took me fifteen years to tell the story of what happened on that January day when I caught fire. First I shared it with a group of three Girl Scouts. (I know. I was pretty big-time.) Then, with a group of twelve volunteers. Followed by a meeting with twenty retirees. It started extraordinarily small, but the important part is that it started. As groups continued to invite me to speak, I began to realize how life-giving it was to own my scars and share my story. I took a leap of faith and turned a side gig into a lifelong mission. What has kept me incredibly humble and hungry as that mission has grown is recognizing where this story began: with the reality that one person can in fact change the world, and has the daily opportunity to do more with whatever they’ve been given. It’s a message that has everything to do with what we can accomplish together when we are brave enough to just show up.
And finally, it’s why, when Beth and I were blessed with our first child, we sought to name him after someone we hoped he’d emulate.
We named him Jack.
Jack Buck influenced me profoundly during his life. But, ironically, he may have saved his greatest lesson for me for after his death.
You see, when I was in the hospital he’d begun every visit with the words “Kid, wake up.” It took Jack’s death for me to finally heed those words.
I stopped living chained to the bench. I finally stepped forward and owned that my life was a gift and could still be used for good.
It turns out that when you reawaken your sense of freedom, you stop giving in to fear, stop existing on the sidelines; you stop saying “somebody else” and “some other time.” You start risking bigger, daring greatly, accepting accountability. You start recognizing that this is the time, that you are the one, and that the best is yet to come.
And it is then that you’ll recognize the truth of what Henry told me on the way to his first baseball practice: Once you show up, once you’re finally there, you realize that you are fine.
Going may be a bit scary.
But it’s worth it.