The Gift
Six eleven forward and center Keith Tower joined the Magic roster in 1993, at the inception of the Shaq era. He played a limited but important backup role with the team. Rich DeVos and the DeVos family had purchased the Magic in late 1991, and Rich delighted in giving players a special gift at Christmastime. For Christmas 1993, he gave each player a beautiful Bible with the player’s name embossed on the cover.
When Tower opened his gift, his first thought (as he later told me) was, Man, what a lame gift! Tower would have been happier with some sort of electronic device. He took the Bible home, set it on a shelf, and ignored it for the next few years.
In 1996, Tower joined the Milwaukee Bucks. Before training camp, he wanted to take something with him to occupy his downtime. He had plenty of electronic gadgets, but he was bored with them. He took down the Bible, blew off the dust, and tossed it in his suitcase. Then he took off for Milwaukee.
One night in his hotel room, Tower took out his Bible, began reading, and became convicted of his need to follow God. He prayed and invited Jesus Christ to take control of his life.
After retiring from the game, Tower and former Magic teammate Andrew DeClercq cofounded HighPoint Church in Orlando. The church began with four people meeting for a Bible study in DeClercq’s home and grew into a dynamic congregation with hundreds of members. And it all began with Rich DeVos’s “lame gift” of a Bible at Christmastime.
Pete Maravich
“If You Don’t Save Me, Nothing Will”
I arrived in 1973 as the general manager of the Atlanta Hawks, and my assignment was to resuscitate a dying team. The talent-laden Hawks had been play-off contenders for more than a decade but had never reached the top. As I assumed my duties, the team was poised for a promising season. But the team quickly unraveled, losing sixteen of the first seventeen road games after New Year’s Day. We had great players, a great coach, yet the team couldn’t get in sync.
Coach Cotton Fitzsimmons tried every trick in the book to motivate his players, but nothing worked. His biggest challenge was our superstar guard, “Pistol” Pete Maravich. Brash and confident, Maravich dazzled crowds with his behind-the-back dribble and pinpoint shooting. But Fitzsimmons couldn’t get Maravich to play within the team’s system. Maravich was a thrill a minute to watch, but he refused to fly in formation. We didn’t have a real team—we had one run-and-gun performer and four other guys who ran up and down the court watching Maravich shoot.
Near the end of our frustrating 1973–74 season, I talked to attorney Fred Rosenfeld, one of the owners of the New Orleans Jazz. An expansion franchise, the Jazz was hungry for top-drawer talent. “We’re interested in Maravich,” he said. “Pete went to Louisiana State, and our fans love him.”
“You’re dreaming,” I said. “You can’t afford Pete Maravich.”
The fact is we wanted to trade Maravich, but to the Jazz? What could an expansion team offer in trade?
Rosenfeld kept calling, and each time he called, his offer was more creative. Finally, he called with a suggestion that was the perfect yes-yes. I had Fitzsimmons sit in as I dickered with Rosenfeld. I wanted our head coach to have the final say on any talent we acquired or lost. In the end, we got a sweet deal. New Orleans landed Maravich, and we ended up with a wealth of draft picks, all destined to be good ones.
I drove over to Maravich’s condo to give him the news. A clause in his contract gave him approval over any trade. I laid out the deal we had made for him, and he was shocked. “That’s it?” he said. “That’s all you got for me?” But in the end, Maravich’s new contract in New Orleans was very lucrative for him.
Maravich retired from the NBA in 1980, having never won a championship. He became so bitter over the emptiness of his life that he destroyed all his career memorabilia. His personal life went to pieces. He turned to alcohol and drove his sports car down country roads at 140 miles an hour hoping to kill himself.
One sleepless night in 1982, Maravich called out to God and said, “If you don’t save me, nothing will. Take over my life.” After he prayed that prayer, his life changed. Everyone who knew him was amazed at the transformation in his life. The old egotism and abrasiveness were replaced by a quiet humility.
After Maravich’s conversion, he and I became reacquainted. He told me he attributed his lack of a championship ring to immaturity, a lack of discipline, and an unwillingness to sacrifice personal glory for the good of the team.
In 1987, Maravich was inducted into the Hall of Fame. Around that time, his father, basketball coach Press Maravich, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Pete was with his dad during his final hours and later said that he whispered in his father’s ear, “Dad, I’ll be with you soon.” He evidently had a premonition that his time was short.
Weeks later, Maravich was in Southern California for a radio interview with James Dobson. A longtime NBA fan, Dobson asked the former NBA star to play a pickup game with him at a church gym near the studio. Dobson was dazzled by Maravich’s skills.
“You should come out of retirement,” Dobson said.
“Actually,” Maravich said, “this is the first time I’ve played in a while. I’ve been having chest pains for a year or so.”
“How do you feel today?”
“I feel great!”
Those were Maravich’s last words. Moments later, he collapsed to the floor. Dobson applied CPR while someone else called 911, but Maravich was already gone. An autopsy later disclosed a previously undetected heart defect. The coroner was surprised that Maravich had survived a strenuous ten-year NBA career with such a serious heart problem. Maravich died on January 5, 1988, at just forty years of age.
The old Pistol Pete was a difficult guy to know, work with, and deal with. His pursuit of basketball glory had left him empty and bitter, but God reached into his life and made a new man of him. I’m glad I got to know him—both the old Pistol Pete and the new man.
Four Absolutes
When Joe Gibbs was coaching the Redskins in the 1980s, he called and asked if I could speak at a team chapel service. I had a conflict that Sunday, so I called a missionary executive I knew, Wendell Kempton, and he did the service.
Sunday night after the game, I called Kempton and asked how the service had gone. He said, “It went great, Pat. Thanks for letting me stand in for you.”
“What did you speak about, Wendell?”
He told me, and what he said to the team that night has had a lifelong impact on me. He said, “I told them that there are four absolutes that you have as a Christian.
“First, you have a faith that is fixed. A biblical faith never changes. Keep your eyes on Jesus and your faith will never waver.
“Second, you have a forgiveness that is free. The Lord has forgiven all your sins. There’s nothing you can do to earn forgiveness, nothing you can do to get these sins off your neck by yourself. The Lord has given you a forgiveness that cost you nothing because it cost him everything.
“Third, you’ve got a fellowship with the Father. You can commune with him, pray to him, listen to him, and he will speak to you in the stillness of your soul. Through prayer, you can have fellowship with the Creator of the universe.
“Fourth, you have a future that is forever. In John 5:24, we see that when the time comes, you’ll be in the presence of the Lord. You’ll have an eternal home with him.
“A faith that is fixed, a forgiveness that is free, a fellowship with the Father, and a future that is forever—these are the four absolutes of your faith as a Christian.”
That was Kempton’s message to the Redskins that day, and I told him, “Wendell, I’m going to borrow that message and use it myself.”
He said, “Be my guest!”
Joe Gibbs and Wendell Kempton became close friends after that, and Kempton’s talk about the four absolutes has been my go-to message ever since.
Bill Bright
Four Spiritual Laws
I committed my life to Jesus Christ in February 1968 in Spartanburg, South Carolina, largely through the influence of Campus Crusade for Christ. A young woman in a Campus Crusade singing group handed me a booklet called “The Four Spiritual Laws,” and it had a big impact on my thinking. After my decision for Christ, I kept hearing the name Bill Bright, the founder of Campus Crusade for Christ.
Not long after I moved to Orlando, I heard that Campus Crusade was thinking of moving its head office from California to either Charlotte or Orlando. Bill Bright came to Orlando, and I was invited to have breakfast with him to help put Orlando’s best foot forward.
I told him that his four spiritual laws had impacted my life and my faith in a big way—and I also made my pitch for Orlando. “Bill,” I said, “if you want fresh-squeezed orange juice right from the tree in your backyard, you’ve got to move to Orlando.”
Campus Crusade moved its headquarters to Orlando in 1988, and Bill became a good friend.
Bill suffered for years from pulmonary fibrosis, a chronic and progressive lung disease. Breathing became an increasingly difficult struggle for him. I once went to see him at Florida Hospital in Orlando. I found his wife, Vonette, pushing him in a wheelchair along a hospital sidewalk. I recall the date clearly—September 10, 2001, the day before the September 11 terror attacks.
I said, “Bill, how are you doing?”
Smiling behind his oxygen mask, his voice a soft whisper, he said, “Just praising the Lord.” That was Bill Bright’s faithful spirit in a nutshell—never complaining, always praising God.
I once visited with Vonette after Bill’s death. We reminisced about Bill, and she told me of a phone call he received shortly before his death. The call was from President George W. Bush. The evangelist chatted with the leader of the free world for a few minutes, then Bill said, “Thank you for this call, Mr. President. I’m honored to receive a call from the most powerful man in the world, but soon I’m going to meet someone far greater—the King of kings and Lord of lords.”
On July 19, 2003, Bill met his Lord and King.
Vonette told me about a conversation she had with her husband shortly before his death. She asked him why God allowed him to go through such suffering. Bill told her, “What I’m going through is so minor. I’m here in a bed of ease, surrounded by people who love me. Suffering is a matter of perspective. It’s not pleasant, but God allows only so much—and I feel so blessed.”
“It Doesn’t Begin to Compare”
Former defensive tackle Roosevelt “Rosey” Grier of the New York Giants and Los Angeles Rams has had quite a career as a football player, actor, and speaker. He was also the man who captured and subdued the killer of Robert F. Kennedy in Los Angeles in 1968. Grier recently told me, “I look back on my life, at the things I’ve done and the people I’ve known, and as wonderful as all of that is, it doesn’t begin to compare to the moment I came to know Jesus Christ as my Savior.”
Tony Dungy
“Hug Them Every Chance You Get”
Tony Dungy is perhaps best known as the head coach of the Indianapolis Colts, who won Super Bowl XLI on February 4, 2007, defeating the Chicago Bears. Away from the sidelines, Dungy is committed to serving Christ and serving others. He’s actively involved with Athletes in Action, Fellowship of Christian Athletes, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Boys and Girls Club, Prison Crusade Ministry, and many other ministries.
Dungy’s faith was severely tested three days before Christmas 2005 when his eighteen-year-old son, James, was found dead in his Florida apartment. The coroner concluded that James had committed suicide. At the funeral, Dungy stood before fifteen hundred mourners and urged them never to take family for granted.
He recalled the last time he had seen his son, which was at Thanksgiving as James was leaving for the airport. “I told him, ‘I’ll see you later,’” he recalled. “I didn’t get to hug him. I knew I’d see him again pretty soon, so it didn’t really bother me very much. We talked on the phone a lot the last few days. . . . He was saying—as the guys on the team knew he would—he was saying, ‘Dad, we’re going to the Super Bowl, and when we do, will I be on the field?’”
At that point, he choked up, then finished his thought. “I said, ‘Yeah, man. You know the hard part is getting there, but if we do, you know you’re going to be on the field.’ But I never got to hug him again. That’s one thing I’ll always think about and always remind people to do. Hug them every chance you get. Tell them you love them every chance you get because you don’t know when it’s going to be the last time.”
After hearing Dungy’s strong Christian testimony at his son’s funeral, many people made a decision to follow Christ. Dungy later told a reporter, “If God had talked to me before James’s death and said his death would have helped all these people, it would have saved them and healed their sins, but I would have to take your son, I would have said, ‘No, I can’t do that.’ But God had the same choice two thousand years ago with His Son, Jesus Christ, and it paved the way for you and me to have eternal life. That’s the benefit I got, that’s the benefit James got, and that’s the benefit you can get if you accept Jesus into your heart today as your Savior.”4
Warren Wiersbe
The Furnace of Affliction
Warren Wiersbe became the pastor of Moody Memorial Church in Chicago while I was with the Chicago Bulls. I sat under his ministry during my final three years there, and I’m convinced there has never been a finer Bible teacher. In those days, he was just beginning to write the many important books that continue to impact the world to this day.
One time at lunch together, I told him about some frustrations in my career. I expected him to give me some answers—or at least some sympathy. Instead, he seemed positively pleased that I was going through adversity! “Now, Pat,” he said, “don’t waste your sufferings. Life is full of problems, so you might as well put them to good use.”
Wiersbe left Chicago not long after that and moved to Lincoln, Nebraska, to take over the Back to the Bible broadcasts from founder Theodore Epp. He had a long ministry there, and he continued to live in Lincoln after his retirement from the broadcast. Every time I have a speaking engagement in Lincoln, I swing by his home for a visit and a booster shot of encouragement. I love talking to him and perusing his vast library, which occupies the entire basement level of his home.
The last time I was in Lincoln, Wiersbe and I had lunch together. He told me, “When we go to heaven, we will take with us the Bible we have in our hearts and heads. That’s why it’s so important to study the Bible while we are here.”
I said, “What are your thoughts on heaven, Warren?”
He said, “First, I think we will teach each other and learn from each other in heaven. Second, I think there will be a point where a big screen comes down and you’ll be shown a complete replaying of your life, from birth to glory. Tears will flow when you find out all that God did for you, and then an angel will come and wipe away all your tears and say, ‘It’s all right now. Don’t worry anymore. You’re home.’”
He shared one more thought with me that day. “Don’t ever give up on what God can do. We are impatient, but God is so patient. He’ll answer our prayers in due time if we remain patient in our requests.”
I had Wiersbe on my radio show in November 2013, and he talked about the purpose of adversity in our lives. “The most important thing you have to do in life is learn to deal with difficult times,” he said. “I’ve learned that there are four steps to dealing with adversity. First, developing the courage to face adversity. Second, developing the wisdom to understand adversity. Third, developing the strength to do what we have to do. And fourth, having the faith to wait. Nothing teaches patience like the furnace of affliction.”
An hour with Warren Wiersbe is the equivalent of a semester in seminary.
Chaos on the Court
NBA referee Dick Bavetta holds the record for most games officiated and most players ejected in a single game—ten brawling Knicks and Nuggets in an infamous game in December 2006. Bavetta once reminded me of a game he officiated in the early 1980s between the Philadelphia 76ers and the Boston Celtics in Boston. Though the game took place during my tenure, I was not in Boston Garden for that game. I’m sorry I missed it!
In those days, there were just two refs on the court, and Bavetta’s partner was Jack Madden. The crowd was raucous; the rivalry was intense. Early on, Madden collided with a Celtics player, broke his leg, and was carted away, so Bavetta had to work the rest of the game by himself.
He called the two coaches together—the 76ers’ Billy Cunningham and the Celtics’ K. C. Jones. He said. “Let’s cooperate. Okay, fellas?” The spirit of cooperation lasted about twenty seconds.
Before long, chaos reigned on the court. Bavetta had to charge Jones with a technical. Then he looked in the corner and saw Julius Erving of the 76ers and Larry Bird of the Celtics choking each other, so he ejected both. Then he charged Cunningham with a technical and tossed him out of the game. As Cunningham headed for the locker room, he was pelted and jeered by Celtics fans. Then Bavetta realized that Cunningham had received one technical, not two, so he had to go get Cunningham out of the locker room.
When the final buzzer sounded, Bavetta thought his career was over as well as the game. He was sure there had never been a more out-of-control game in the annals of the NBA.
The next day, Cunningham was quoted in the papers praising Bavetta for having the courage to eject Erving and Bird. That commendation caused NBA officials to take notice of Bavetta. No longer was he viewed as a rookie but as a fair-minded, battle-hardened pro.
“That was the turning point of my officiating career,” Bavetta told me. “I started getting choice assignments because the league started looking at me as a leader.”
Bavetta’s experience reminds us that we should never run from adversity, because adversity reveals what we are made of.
Joe Torre
“Be Vigilant!”
Longtime infielder and baseball manager Joe Torre has battled prostate cancer for years, and he knows the meaning of adversity. He became aware of my cancer battle, and when I saw him at a recent event, we chatted about cancer and encouraged each other. At the end of our conversation, we shook hands and parted. Torre took a few steps, then he turned and called back to me, “Be vigilant!”
I knew what he meant. Don’t leave anything to chance with this illness. Stay on top of it. Don’t let up. Fight it. Make it to all your appointments. Take your medicine on schedule. Monitor how you’re feeling. Be vigilant.
I think about those words every day. That’s good counsel, cancer patient or not.
Peter Gammons and Dean Smith
A Huge Day
Peter Gammons has been a prominent baseball writer for years and is now a baseball commentator on television. He went to the University of North Carolina and wrote for the student newspaper. This was during Dean Smith’s tenure as the ultra-successful North Carolina basketball coach.
Gammons told me he was at his desk at the Daily Tarheel when the phone rang. It was Coach Smith. Recalling that phone conversation, Gammons is still amazed. “He was calling me, a student writer! Coach Smith said, ‘Peter, one of the top sportswriters in the country, Frank DeFord of Sports Illustrated, is coming to Chapel Hill to spend the day interviewing me. I’d like you to come over and sit in on the interview, to see how he does it, so you can learn from him.’”
That was forty-some years ago, Gammons told me, and it was a huge day in his life. “Think of it,” he said. “One of the greatest coaches in the history of sports thought to invite me, a student newspaper writer, to observe a great sportswriter conducting an interview. Coach Smith knew it would be helpful to me in my career. Needless to say, it was, and I’ve been indebted to Dean Smith ever since.”
Bill Stern
Nobody Bigger
During the 1930s through the 1950s, there was nobody bigger in sports broadcasting than Bill Stern. He was the voice of sports in America, and he wrote books and newspaper columns, always with a touch of exaggeration. He was much beloved and had a huge following.
From 1965 to 1968, I was the general manager of the Spartanburg Phillies, and we were beginning to attract national attention with our team and promotions. One day, someone said to me, “Did you hear that Bill Stern did his whole national show on you and the Spartanburg Phillies?”
That was the first I had heard of it. I later learned that Stern had read an article in a national trade journal about my work in Spartanburg, and he had proceeded to turn that into his editorial of the night. I was thrilled.
I was twenty-six years old at the time and a huge fan of Stern. I phoned him and thanked him for the national attention he had given me. He said, “Listen, if you’re ever in New York, be sure you come by to see me.”
Just before Christmas, I was in New York, and I made an appointment to visit with Stern in his office. He surprised me by doing a taped interview with me for another show. He couldn’t have been more gracious. To have a big-time sportscasting legend show me such kindness was a huge boost to my confidence and self-esteem.
Larry Bird
A Game of H-O-R-S-E
When I moved to Orlando, Larry Bird was coming to the end of his career with the Celtics. On the Celtics’ first trip to play the Magic during the 1989–90 season, I requested that Bird come on my radio show, which I broadcast from an Orlando restaurant. Bird joined me on the show for a half hour. It was lunch time, the restaurant was packed, and the patrons were thrilled to see Bird there and to hear him talk about his career.
That night, my twelve-year-old son Bobby was serving as a ball boy. He was out there early during the warm-ups, retrieving balls for Bird. After a while, Bird said to Bobby, “Want to play a game of H-O-R-S-E?”
Bobby swallowed hard, and his eyes got big. He said, “Sure!”
So Bobby Williams and Larry Bird played a game of H-O-R-S-E. Bobby was thrilled and speechless.
The next morning, on the front page of the Orlando Sentinel, there was a color photo of Bobby and Bird engaged in their game of H-O-R-S-E. Bobby has it framed in his home today.
That incident gave me a great perspective on Larry Bird. He was an NBA superstar who never lost the common touch, who never stopped caring about kids and thinking about his influence on them. He went out of his way to befriend and influence the next generation.
Jesse Jackson
“I Think I Could Have a Positive Influence”
A few years ago, Orlando hosted the NBA all-star weekend. One of the events at the all-star weekend is the annual legends brunch on Sunday, put on by the Retired Players Association. I was one of several people honored at the brunch. Also attending was civil rights leader Jesse Jackson. I’ve known Jackson since my days as the general manager of the Chicago Bulls.
During the brunch, Jackson took me aside and said, “What’s going on with Dwight Howard? What’s the young man thinking about?” At that time, our star center was talking openly about wanting to be traded to another team.
“You tell me, Jesse,” I said. “We’ve done all we can to make him happy here in Orlando. I think it would be a big mistake for him to leave.”
“Absolutely,” Jackson agreed. “Dwight could own this town. He could have a hotel named after him out on the hotel strip if he would remain loyal to this community. He has no business leaving Orlando. I don’t usually give out my phone number, but please give Dwight my number. Have him call me. I think I could have a positive influence on him.”
So Jackson gave me his number, and I passed it on to Howard. I know that Howard and Jackson talked, and after that conversation, Howard agreed to play one more season in Orlando. But a year later, Howard left Orlando and played for the Lakers for just one season before moving on to the Houston Rockets.
I think Howard has since learned that what Magic co-owner Rich DeVos once said is true: “When a great player leaves, loyalty and love for him are not automatically transferred to the next city.” Howard will never have the satisfaction of playing out his career for one team and will never have his number retired. For whatever reason, Howard chose a different path.
Regardless of the outcome, I’m grateful that Jesse Jackson made the effort to have a positive influence on our young star center.
E. H. Nelson and Danny Litwhiler
A Lesson in Integrity
From 1940 to 1951, Danny Litwhiler was an outstanding outfielder who played for the Boston Braves, the St. Louis Cardinals, the Philadelphia Phillies, and the Cincinnati Reds. He was the first major leaguer to play an error-free season. While playing with Cincinnati, he appeared beside Jackie Robinson in a publicity photo to show the world that the formerly all-white team had welcomed its first African-American player. Litwhiler took a lot of flack from bigoted fans and small-minded players, but he was proud of his friendship with Robinson.
Litwhiler credits his family and one great coach for shaping his character. “One of the outstanding mentors in my life,” he told me, “was my coach at Bloomsburg State, Dr. E. H. Nelson. He got me into professional baseball. He actually gave me the money so that I could go to my first professional team, and he insisted that I go.
“The reason he gave me money to play pro ball was that I was already playing semipro ball for eighty dollars a month while living at home. If I took the position with the Tigers farm club in Cherleroi, Pennsylvania, I would be paid only seventy-five dollars a month, out of which I’d have to pay room and board plus transportation. So going pro was a step backward financially.
“Dr. Nelson had faith and confidence in me. He believed I had the character qualities—the work ethic, perseverance, and commitment—to become successful in the major leagues. He believed in me more than I believed in myself, and he invested in me.”
From Coach Nelson, Litwhiler learned the importance of being a role model. After his playing career ended, Litwhiler coached and managed in the minors for several years. In 1955, he took a position coaching baseball at Florida State University and became known for developing his players as athletes and men of character.
“As a college coach,” he told me, “I stressed academic achievement, good character, and proper dress. At rest stops, I told the team before they left the bus, ‘Don’t take home anything you haven’t paid for.’ Years later, I got a letter from a former player, now a teacher and coach. He said, ‘Remember when you used to say, “Don’t take anything you haven’t paid for”? Well, my senior year I went to the bookstore as I had for three years and stole all my books for the semester. I went to my room and looked at the books, and your words came to my mind. So I returned the books to the store and never stole again. Thank you for teaching me a lesson in integrity.’
“Over the years, many of the players I coached came back and told me how much I had helped them get a good start in life—not only as baseball players but as men. It brought tears to my eyes to hear them thank me for playing a part in their training and character growth. I could never repay my coach Dr. Nelson. But I think he’d be pleased to know how I repaid his influence in my life by influencing other young men.”
My Mentor
I had the privilege of being mentored by the great baseball owner and innovator Bill Veeck. He presided over some of the storied teams of professional baseball: the Cleveland Indians, the St. Louis Browns, the Chicago White Sox, and the minor league Milwaukee Brewers. As an owner, he never had a door on his office, and he answered his own phone and mail. He was generous in donating his time and advice to me, and he left a lasting imprint on my life. To this day, I try to run my own office as he ran his.
I first met Veeck in 1962 when I was twenty-two years old. Three years later, I completed my first year as the general manager of the Philadelphia Phillies farm club in Spartanburg, South Carolina. It had been a long, tough season because we didn’t have a very good team. Despite the team’s lackluster performance, however, the fan response was great. We drew 114,000 people to the games. Nevertheless, I was discouraged because our team had finished near the bottom of the rankings.
So I called Veeck. He listened patiently as I poured out all my woes. Then he asked, “Pat, how many people did you draw to the ballpark this season?”
“A hundred fourteen thousand.”
“How many of those people had a good time?”
“I think all of them did.”
“Tell me one other thing you could have done this summer that would have provided as much fun to that many people.”
“I don’t think I could have done anything more than I did.”
“Pat,” he said, “you never have to apologize for showing people a fun time.”
During that phone conversation, my outlook was transformed. I realized I was doing something important for thousands of people. While I don’t claim to be another Bill Veeck—there will never be another—I’ve patterned myself after the maestro.
Veeck was my mentor, my role model, and my friend. It was my good fortune to know him and learn from him.
Florence Griffith Joyner and Sugar Ray Robinson
“It Doesn’t Matter Where You Come From”
In January 1995, I attended an awards banquet at the Washington Hilton. The highlight of my evening was being seated at the head table next to Florence Griffith Joyner, better known as “Flo-Jo” and “the fastest woman of all time.” She was the first American woman to win four medals in one Olympic year—three gold and one silver at Barcelona in 1988—and she set records in the 100- and 200-meter races that still stand today. She passed away in her sleep in 1998 as the result of an epileptic seizure.
During our conversation in 1995, I told Flo-Jo about our daughter Daniela, who was then fourteen and had developed a talent for running. I asked her if she would sign a picture to Dani. “I’d love to,” she said, so I gave her our address.
“There’s no telling what this might mean in Dani’s life,” I said.
“Oh, I know!” she said. “Let me tell you my story. I was one of eleven children growing up in South Central Los Angeles. I didn’t have much of a future ahead of me. But when I was eight years old, I got to meet Sugar Ray Robinson, the boxing champ.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Sugar Ray looked me in the eye and said, ‘It doesn’t matter where you come from, what your color is, or what the odds are against you. All that matters is that you have a dream, that you believe you can do it, that you commit to doing it.’ Right there, I was sold on what my future could be.”
A week after I met Flo-Jo in Washington, DC, Dani received a package containing two signed photos and a handwritten letter on Flo-Jo’s letterhead. It read:
Dear Dani,
I wish you all the best in athletics and school. If you set a goal, work hard, and believe in yourself, you will accomplish anything you believe in! If you ever have a moment or two, I’d love to hear from you. Take care, Dani, and always follow your dreams!
Love,
Florence Griffith Joyner
Flo-Jo
“What You Are, Not What You Have”
Marian Wright Edelman grew up under segregation in South Carolina. Her father was a Baptist preacher who taught Marian and her four siblings to serve God and others. He died when Marian was a teenager, and his last words to her were, “Don’t let anything get in the way of your education.” She studied law at Yale and was the first African-American woman to practice law in Mississippi. She fought hard against poverty, illiteracy, and institutionalized racism. In 1973, she founded the Children’s Defense Fund to assist poor children in America. I once interviewed her for a book on character.
“I learned about character,” she said, “from my parents and the other adults in my community. The legacies that parents, teachers, and church left to my generation of black children were priceless: faith reflected in daily service, the discipline of hard work and stick-to-it-ness, and a capacity to struggle in the face of adversity.
“Giving up was not part of the language of my elders. You got up every morning, and you did what you had to do. You got up every time you fell down and tried as many times as needed to get it done right. My elders had grit. They valued family life and family rituals and tried to be good role models and expose us to examples of character.
“Role models were of two kinds. First, there were those who achieved in the outside world, like Marian Anderson, my namesake—the contralto who broke the color barrier in the music world and received the UN Peace Prize. Second, there were those who didn’t have a lot of education or worldly status but who taught us by the special grace of their lives the message of Christ and Gandhi and Dr. King: The kingdom of God is within you—in what you are, not what you have.
“My role models taught me that the world had a lot of problems, that black people had an extra lot of problems, but that we were obligated to struggle and solve those problems. Being poor was no excuse for not achieving. Extra material gifts bring with them the responsibility of sharing with others less fortunate. I learned that service to others is the rent we pay for living. It’s the very purpose of life and not something you do in your spare time.”
Bart Starr
“The Impact We Have”
In 1967, when I was running the Phillies farm club in Spartanburg, South Carolina, the Packers won Super Bowl I. They were on top of the world, and there was nobody bigger in the sports world than Packers quarterback Bart Starr. I was determined to bring Starr to our ballpark for a personal appearance, even though it really stretched our meager promotions budget to pay an honorarium of five hundred dollars.
Starr came that summer and spent two days at our ballpark. He played golf, did media interviews, signed autographs, and threw passes to the fans on the field at our ballpark. He could not have been more gracious, and we got our money’s worth and more. To this day, when I see him or talk to him on the phone, Starr mentions that wonderful summer in 1967.
In August 2010, I spoke at a waste management convention near Greensboro, Georgia. My topic was leadership, and I mentioned how important it is to empower and encourage people. Afterward, a man came up to me and said, “My name is Kevin, and I used to live in Birmingham, Alabama, where I worked on the tail end of a garbage truck. One of the homes on our route belonged to Bart Starr. Many times, he’d come out and ask me how I was doing and give me a word of encouragement. He became like a second father to me. I can’t thank him enough. I took his motivational insights to heart, and since then, I’ve been promoted to management. The impact of Bart Starr on my life will never leave me.”
I could hear the emotion in Kevin’s voice as he told me that story. Starr’s influence had clearly touched him deeply. When I related this story to Starr over the phone, he said, “Isn’t it interesting the impact we have on people when we don’t even know it?”
We truly never know what kind of influence we have on others. That’s why we always need to be aware of how we affect other people. We need to make sure that every word we say, even to the guy who hauls our trash, is a word that uplifts and inspires.
The Dirty Shoulders Principle
Former NBA forward Gil McGregor was a broadcaster for the Charlotte and New Orleans Hornets for more than two decades. He taught me a concept he calls “The Dirty Shoulders Principle.” He said, “You can tell a guy with a serving attitude by looking at his shoulders. If his shoulders are dirty, he’s a real servant.”
Why dirty shoulders? “Servants get their shoulders dirty when they lift others up and let them stand tall on their shoulders,” he explained. “A real servant doesn’t care who gets the credit. Servants just want to lift people up.”
McGregor was a friend of the late author-poet Maya Angelou, the Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University. McGregor once told me, “A group in Winston-Salem attempted to contact Maya Angelou, hoping she would agree to cook dinner as a fund-raiser for the March of Dimes. When they were unable to reach her, someone in the group called me and said, ‘I hear you know Dr. Angelou personally. Would you be able to help us get in touch with her?’ So I called her and asked if she would help the cause. She immediately said yes. I thanked her, then added, ‘I hope you don’t feel I’m using our friendship in order to get you to volunteer.’ She laughed and said, ‘Mr. McGregor, if one cannot be used, it only means that one is useless.’”
Making Faces
In March 2014, I was in New York, where I was interviewed for the CBS Morning Show by anchors Gayle King, Charlie Rose, and Norah O’Donnell. The subject of our discussion was The Mission Is Remission, my account of my ongoing battle with multiple myeloma. That television appearance gave me a good insight into Gayle King, who is a close friend of Oprah Winfrey as well as a savvy and influential media personality in her own right.
King came into the green room before our segment. She had read the entire book and had two handwritten pages of notes. I was impressed! She wanted to go over her notes with me before we went on the air.
Finally, we went out to the set, and they conducted the interview. All three of my hosts asked excellent questions. It was one of the most thorough and well-prepared interviews I’ve ever had as an author.
Afterward, I went back to the green room. Moments later, King joined me and asked me a number of questions: “How did you think it went? What could we have done better? Did we ask the right questions? Were there any angles we missed?” She was incredibly caring and wanted to make sure she had given the interview her very best effort—both for my sake and for the sake of the audience.
Then King pointed to a machine in the corner of the green room—a camera that takes a sequence of four pictures. She said, “Pat, I want to get my picture taken with you! Come over here!”
Moments before, she had been totally focused on the interview. In an instant, her mood changed and she became light and chipper. “For the first picture,” she said, “let’s play it straight. Just smile for the camera. But for the other three, let’s clown around and have fun!”
So we got in front of the camera and did our “normal” shot. Then we made faces at the camera for the next three. We were like a couple of kids goofing around in the photo booth at the county fair. We both laughed and had a terrific time.
The next day, she emailed me the pictures, and I have those pictures as souvenirs of an absolutely unforgettable experience. I am now a lifelong fan of Gayle King—a media star who is not only a thoroughly prepared professional but also a deeply caring (and fun-loving) human being.
Mitch Albom
A Difference-Maker
I once had Mitch Albom on my radio show to talk about his new book Have a Little Faith. I said, “Mitch, what drives you to take on so many challenges and projects in addition to broadcasting and writing?”
“I want to be a difference-maker,” he said. “I’ve been very blessed with the success I’ve had and the money I’ve made. Now I have two great passions. One is the problem of homelessness. I’m deeply immersed in making a difference for the homeless here in Detroit. That’s heavy on my heart.
“Second, I feel a burden for the orphans of Haiti. I go down there at least once a month so I can be hands-on in trying to make a difference. I work directly with a number of different orphanages in Haiti. I wish I could tell you thousands of success stories, but it may be just dozens so far. I feel called to that work and to doing what I can to make a difference in as many lives as possible.”
Eddie Sawyer
“Thanks a Lot, Gene”
You never know how much a simple word of praise or thanks can mean to a player or employee. I learned this profound insight from Gene Conley, who spent eleven seasons in the 1950s and 1960s pitching for the Phillies, Braves, and Red Sox. I once had lunch with Conley, and we talked a lot about baseball. “Gene,” I said, “of all the managers and coaches you played for, who do you remember best?”
“Eddie Sawyer,” he said instantly. Sawyer managed the Phillies in 1948–52 and 1958–60.
I asked, “What made Eddie Sawyer so memorable?”
“His kindness. Eddie was the kindest manager I ever pitched for.”
“Do you have a favorite Eddie Sawyer story?”
“Sure—but I always get emotional when I tell it.”
“I’d love to hear it, Gene.”
“Back in 1959,” he said, “the Phillies were playing a doubleheader with the Cardinals. It was the bottom of the ninth, and I was in the bullpen. The Cardinals had two on and two out with Stan Musial coming up to bat. Eddie went out to the mound and removed the pitcher, and he waved me out to the mound to pitch.” His voice quavered as he remembered.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I struck out Stan Musial,” Conley said. “We won. I walked off the field, and Eddie was in the dugout. He shook my hand and said, ‘Thanks a lot, Gene. I appreciate that.’” Conley picked up a napkin and dabbed at his eyes.
I waited for the rest of the story—but there wasn’t any more. That was it! Why did Conley get so choked up? Because Sawyer said thank you.
There is a profound lesson in that story. Eddie Sawyer probably forgot all about his word of thanks to Gene Conley, but Conley still got emotional over that thank-you decades later.
It doesn’t take much to impact others and lift them up.