As the summer of 1979 was heating up, I was dithering over a momentous life decision. I had an intriguing job offer that would take me away from the only home I’d ever known in Springfield, Missouri, to a small town about an hour north of New York City. The cons were many, the pros few.
But I had a plan. My cousin Mike was coming to town. We hadn’t seen each other since our early teens. He was a musical prodigy, known for his keyboard mastery, and already an established studio musician in Nashville. So in my mind he had a “man of the world” air about him, and I figured I’d pick his brain. (He would later go on to play for the Allman Brothers, James Brown, Steve Winwood, and have hundreds and hundreds of performing and song-writing credits, including a Billboard No. 1.)
Through family connections we made a date to meet in an isolated part of the Ozark Empire Fairgrounds before his gig with a featured country music act. I remember we sat on abandoned bleachers in the blindly bright August sun. I asked how life was treating him and got an update on his work in Nashville and future prospects. And of course he asked about me.
So I shared my anxiety. I had a chance to move to New Windsor, New York, to be assistant editor of … I could hardly believe it … Chess Life magazine. They’d wanted an expert chessplayer who had experience on monthly publications. I fell a short on both counts, but close enough that I had bluffed my way through the interviews and received an offer.
Ah, but the pros and cons. The US Chess Federation was in deep financial peril, with membership and income tanking after Bobby Fischer refused to defend his world title in 1975. The leadership was snarled in soap opera-scale infighting, personal animosities, and deep divisions about how to address the crisis.
To boot, the offer was “sight unseen.” I’d talked only to the executive director over the phone, and was not offered a chance to visit the office and meet the New Windsor staff. It smacked of disaster.
Still, I said to Cousin Mike, I’d get a chance to see New York City, and working on a monthly magazine seemed like it’d be fun. Still, in Springfield I had a steady job at a national newspaper chain and might get a chance to move up.
His response was instantaneous. “You gotta do it.” I even remember his gesture, right hand, palm down, making a quick karate-chop-like motion. “If you don’t, you’ll always wonder what would have happened.”
Now, I was already there on that count: knowing that, if I took a pass, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been. It was in fact the only reason I hadn’t already declined.
No, what left a lifelong impression was his instant and absolute certainty: “You gotta do it.” Just like that.
And a voice went off in my head. What was I thinking? Of course I had to do it.
I went home that day and accepted the job. A week or so later, I spent my birthday driving around town to say goodbye to friends. And sometime around Labor Day 1979, I was on the road, heading east.
A Debt of Gratitude
I’d caught up with Cousin Mike a couple of times after that. But in 2016 I was in Nashville for a conference, and I decided it was time to thank him. Over the years, that 1979 conversation had ballooned in importance in my memory.
After a driving tour of downtown Nashville (the replica of The Parthenon is pretty trippy, by the way), we landed at his favorite BBQ joint. Over ribs and root beer, I told him I needed to thank him for changing my life. He looked puzzled.
I recalled that conversation nearly three decades past. How he’d shaken me out of my indecision and set me on a course that had turned out well indeed. I’d made great friends in New York and established connections that launched me on a high-tech career when I later moved to California. One of those friends even introduced me to my future wife. None of this would have happened without the assured tone of his advice. I even showed him the hand movement, swiping forward. “You gotta do it.”
Mike shook his head. “You know Frank, I don’t remember that conversation,” he admitted. “I’m glad it all worked out for you.” Then he took a breath and continued: “But quite honestly, given how strung out on drugs I was in those days, it’s remarkable I said anything coherent at all.”
I recall hearing the sound of a balloon popping in my head. This bright and shining memory had just gone poof. Well, only for a moment.
I leaned back, hopefully a wry smile on my face. He was sitting there, clear-eyed, serious – and with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. From that moment in the summer of 1979, we’d both spun off on our separate journeys. He’d turned his life around, gotten straight and had a remarkable career in the music business. Things had worked out well for me as well. So I told Cousin Mike I was still thankful for the advice and will always value the certainty in his voice that got me moving into the future.
And I Do
I often wonder what I would have heard had I spent a dollar at the fortune teller’s booth on my way out of the fairgrounds on that steamy August day. Had she said that, 30 years hence, I’d be living in Silicon Valley, California, I’d be working in marketing (which would have sounded equivalent to selling my soul) for a computer company no less (I’d majored in English to avoid anything related to math or science), and I’d be married to a wonderful farm girl (who hailed from Korea) … well, I would have demanded my dollar back.
Regardless of the circumstances on that fateful day, Cousin Mike’s advice was, and still is, the best I’d ever gotten. I owe him a lot. What mattered that day was not the actual advice, but his clear and emphatic certainty. He kicked me out of my paralysis and down a path into an unknown and unknowable future – one that turned out far better than any I’d have ever planned for myself.