People sometimes ask me if there was one moment when I knew music was going to become more than just something I enjoyed.
Truthfully...
there was.
It happened because two men stayed after a concert.
Funny thing is...
I don't remember much about the concert itself.
I've played thousands of shows over the years.
They tend to blend together after a while.
What I remember...
is what happened after the music stopped.
Even today, after almost every concert, I stay around for a while.
Some people want an autograph.
Others have questions about the songs.
I've always believed those conversations matter just as much as the music.
The songs may bring people through the door.
The conversations are what send them home feeling like they actually met the person who wrote them.
Looking back...
I don't think those two men were only listening to the music.
I think they were trying to discover the person who wrote it.
Sometimes people ask why the lyrics change a little from one night to the next.
I usually just smile.
The truth is...
songs are living things.
Some nights a different word tells the story better.
Sometimes an old memory finds its way back into a song.
Sometimes the audience needs to hear something a little differently than the band rehearsed it.
When it's just me and a guitar...
the song is free to become whatever the story needs it to be.
I've never been interested in singing a song exactly the way I wrote it years ago.
I've always been more interested in telling the truth as I understand it today.
Maybe...
that's how the songs were written in the first place.
One conversation at a time.
One memory at a time.
One honest moment at a time.
That night was no different.
People gathered around after the concert.
We laughed.
Told stories.
Answered questions.
Eventually...
the crowd began to thin out.
Most everyone had gone home.
Except for two men.
One of them stood quietly, absentmindedly spinning a guitar pick between his fingers.
The other had his hands tucked into his pockets, smiling as he watched the conversations unfold.
When the last person walked away...
they finally stepped forward.
One of them reached out his hand.
"Bill?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't think we've met."
I shook his hand.
"No, sir. I don't believe we have."
He smiled.
"We've been watching you."
At fifteen...
those four words were enough to make my heart start racing.
Not because I was scared.
Because I hoped they were about to say exactly what every young musician dreams of hearing.
They introduced themselves and explained they were with a touring musical group based in California.
They'd heard about me.
Someone had suggested they stop by and listen.
So they did.
Then they smiled.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
They asked how long I'd been playing.
Who my musical influences were.
Whether I'd traveled much.
How I felt on stage.
How I connected with audiences.
How I handled performing in front of large crowds.
One question caught me a little off guard.
"What do you do after the concerts?"
I shrugged.
"I stay around and talk to people."
They looked at each other.
"Every night?"
"Sure."
"Why?"
I smiled.
"I think it makes the stories more honest."
They looked at one another again.
Then one of them smiled.
"That's probably how the songs were written in the first place."
I laughed.
"I guess I never thought about it like that."
The conversation continued for a while.
Easy.
Comfortable.
More like sitting around talking with old friends than being interviewed.
They weren't just learning whether I could sing.
They were quietly getting to know me.
They weren't just listening to the music.
They were trying to discover who I really was.
Finally one of them stood up.
"Bill..."
"We'd like to meet your parents."
I remember blinking.
"My parents?"
He nodded.
"We think there may be an opportunity here."
At fifteen...
I don't think I heard another word.
My heart was already halfway to California.
A couple of days later...
the phone rang.
Back then we only had one phone.
It hung on the kitchen wall in the kitchen.
I'd caught myself looking at it more than once over the previous few days.
Every time it rang...
I wondered if it might be them.
Dad wasn't home.
Mom was busy.
So I answered it.
"Hello?"
A friendly voice answered.
"Hi... is this Bill?"
"Yes, sir."
We exchanged a few pleasantries.
He asked if I'd been playing.
I smiled.
"Yes, sir."
"How's it going?"
"Pretty good."
Then it hit me.
I recognized the voice.
It was one of the two men from the concert.
He laughed.
"Well... we've been talking."
I don't think my heart had ever beaten that fast.
"We'd like to come out and visit with you and your parents."
I remember staring at the phone for a second.
My parents?
Nobody had ever asked to meet my parents because of my music before.
"Would that be okay?"
"Sure."
"When?"
"How about this Saturday?"
"I'll have to ask my dad."
He chuckled.
"That's exactly who we'd like to talk to."
We settled on a time.
I thanked him for calling.
Then we hung up.
For a few seconds...
I just stood there looking at the phone.
It wasn't just a phone call anymore.
For the first time...
this dream felt real.
Dad got home a little while later.
I don't remember exactly how I brought it up.
Probably somewhere between supper and the evening news.
"Dad..."
"Those two guys from the concert called today."
He looked up.
"They want to come talk to us."
Dad didn't say much.
"When?"
"Saturday."
He nodded once.
"Okay."
That was it.
No excitement.
No speculation.
No celebration.
He didn't ask about record deals.
He didn't ask how many people came to the concerts.
He didn't ask how much money they made.
He wanted to meet the men.
Just...
"Okay."
At fifteen...
I thought he wasn't nearly as excited as I was.
I think he was simply asking a different question than I was.
I was wondering if this might be the beginning of my dream.
He was wondering who was asking his fifteen-year-old son to leave home.
Dad had lived long enough to know something I hadn't learned yet.
Opportunities deserve excitement.
Decisions deserve patience.
Right on time...
a car pulled into the driveway.
The same two men stepped out.
Dad met them at the front door.
I remember handshakes.
Smiles.
A little small talk.
Then we all settled into the living room.
Funny...
the four of us were sitting in the same room...
but I don't think any of us were having the same conversation.
The two men were there to talk about music.
I was already imagining California.
Dad was trying to figure out who these men really were.
They talked about the group.
The concerts.
The recording studio.
Life on the road.
Then they got to the reason they'd come.
"We think Bill has something special."
I glanced over at Dad.
He never interrupted.
Never smiled.
He simply listened.
The two men explained they were looking for a young performer to open their concerts before the band came on stage.
It wasn't really a tour.
It was more like a live audition.
Five concerts.
I wish I could tell you I listened carefully to everything they said.
I didn't.
My imagination had already taken over.
Five concerts?
To a fifteen-year-old kid...
it sounded like a future.
"We know he's only fifteen."
"We'll look after him."
"He'll be safe."
There was something reassuring about the way they said it.
Not like businessmen trying to close a deal.
More like two men who understood exactly what they were asking a father to trust them with.
Dad sat quietly for a moment.
Then he looked over at me.
"Billy Boy..."
"You want to do this?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled.
Just a little.
Then he turned back toward the two men.
"All right."
"Let's see where this goes."
A few weeks later...
Dad and I climbed into the car and headed for Des Moines.
The group was already on tour.
We weren't starting together.
We were joining them.
The closer we got...
the quieter I became.
I'd spent days imagining what this trip might be like.
Now...
I was about to find out.
Funny thing is...
packing didn't take very long.
I didn't own much.
A few changes of clothes.
A toothbrush.
Some guitar strings.
My Yamaki.
That was about it.
The suitcase wasn't very full.
My imagination was.
I spent far more time thinking about where I was going...
than deciding what to take.
I remember staring out the window as the miles slipped by.
Every mile seemed to carry me a little farther from the life I'd always known...
and a little closer to the one I'd been dreaming about.
Every now and then Dad would ask a question.
Mostly...
we just drove.
I have no idea what was going through his mind that afternoon.
I never asked.
Maybe he was thinking about the concerts.
Maybe he was thinking about the miles between Missouri and California.
Or maybe...
he was simply trying to prepare himself to let his fifteen-year-old son go.
I'll never know.
By late afternoon we pulled into the hotel where the group was staying.
Dad parked the car.
For a moment...
neither one of us moved.
Then he looked over at me.
"Ready?"
I smiled.
"As ready as I'm gonna be."
We carried my guitar and overnight bag through the lobby.
One of the guys spotted us almost immediately.
"There he is!"
Suddenly I was surrounded by handshakes.
Smiles.
Backslaps.
Introductions.
Nobody treated me like a kid.
They treated me like I belonged.
That meant more than they probably realized.
Most of the guys were in their twenties.
They had apartments.
Careers.
Lives that seemed impossibly grown up to me.
I was fifteen.
I still needed my dad to drive me to the tour.
Maybe that's why they looked after me from the very beginning.
They never made me feel out of place.
If anything...
they quietly took me under their wing.
Before long one of the guys looked at his watch.
"We'd better get going."
I picked up my guitar.
One of the guys smiled.
"You ready?"
I looked down at the guitar case in my hand.
Then back at him.
"No."
Everybody laughed.
Then I smiled.
"But I sure want to be."
We climbed onto the bus.
The door folded shut behind us.
The engine came to life.
I found a seat by the window.
As the bus pulled away from the hotel...
I looked back.
Dad was still standing there.
One hand raised.
Watching until the bus disappeared from sight.
I waved until I couldn't see him anymore.
I've often wondered what was going through his mind that afternoon.
I never asked.
Some questions...
you don't realize matter until it's too late.
The next afternoon the bus pulled into the parking lot of the arena.
I stepped off carrying my Yamaki and followed everyone else inside.
The building seemed enormous.
Everything about it felt bigger than anything I'd ever experienced.
Bigger hallways.
Bigger stage.
Bigger sound system.
While everyone else unloaded equipment, I wandered over to the side of the stage.
The curtain was still closed.
I eased it back just enough to peek through.
Rows...
and rows...
and rows of seats.
I just stood there staring.
For the first time...
it really hit me.
Tonight….
those seats wouldn't be empty.
One of the guys walked up behind me.
"Whatcha doing?"
I pointed toward the auditorium.
"Just looking."
He smiled.
"Nervous?"
I looked back out across all those empty seats.
Then I grinned.
"That's a whole lot of people."
He laughed.
"Yeah..."
"It is."
Then he gave me a little slap on the shoulder.
"You'll be fine."
I smiled.
"I sure hope you're right."
Turns out...
he was.
Once the lights went down...
everything changed.
The applause faded into the background.
The audience disappeared.
It was just me...
and my guitar.
Funny how music does that.
A room full of strangers suddenly feels like your own living room.
You stop thinking about the crowd.
You stop thinking about yourself.
All that's left...
is the next lyric.
The next chord.
The next story.
Then...
almost as quickly as it began...
I played the last chord.
For just a heartbeat...
everything was quiet.
Then the audience stood...
and applauded.
I smiled...
walked off stage...
and leaned against the wall backstage for a second.
I thought...
Did that really just happen?
I walked offstage smiling.
One of the guys gave me a high five.
Another one just nodded.
No big speeches.
No dramatic congratulations.
Just musicians acknowledging another musician.
Then something happened I wasn't expecting.
People waited for me after the show.
For me.
A few wanted an autograph.
Some wanted to ask about a song.
Others simply wanted to shake my hand.
Honestly...
most of them were girls.
I won't pretend fifteen-year-old Bill didn't notice.
He noticed.
Every fifteen-year-old boy would have.
Until then...
girls were somebody you hoped might notice you.
Now...
they were walking over to introduce themselves.
Some wanted an autograph.
Some wanted a picture.
Some just wanted to stand there and talk for a few minutes.
I thought...
This is pretty cool.
And it was.
I don't think it was the attention that changed me.
It was how quickly I got used to it.
That's a dangerous thing for a fifteen-year-old boy.
Truthfully...
it's probably dangerous for anybody.
One of the guys watched the whole thing from across the room.
When I finally walked over, he grinned.
"Getting used to it?"
I laughed.
"No."
He smiled.
"Don't."
At fifteen...
I thought he meant...
Don't get used to girls asking for your autograph.
It took me a long time to understand...
he was talking about something much bigger than that.
That night the bus rolled toward the next city.
Most everyone else talked.
Laughed.
Played cards.
I found a seat by the window.
Watching the highway disappear into the darkness.
I couldn't stop smiling.
Twenty-four hours earlier...
I was sitting at home wondering what this was all going to be like.
Now...
I was riding a tour bus to another city.
It didn't seem real.
I think that was the first time I realized music could open doors I'd never even imagined.
Some of those doors led exactly where I'd hoped...
into my dreams.
Others...
I'd learn to wish I'd never opened.
Nobody tells you that success changes people.
Not all at once.
Little by little.
One standing ovation.
One autograph.
One compliment.
One opportunity.
Until one day...
you look back...
and realize you're no longer the same kid who climbed onto the bus.
By the second concert...
things didn't feel quite so overwhelming.
I still got butterflies before I walked on stage.
I hope I always do.
But once I stepped into the lights...
it started feeling familiar.
Every city was different.
The routine wasn't.
Load in.
Sound check.
A little time to kill.
The concert.
Meet people afterward.
Load out.
Drive through the night.
Wake up somewhere new.
Then do it all over again.
Funny thing is...
it didn't take long before it all started feeling normal.
That probably should have scared me a little.
It didn't.
I loved every minute of it.
The guys treated me like one of the band.
They joked with me.
Picked on me.
Taught me little things that had nothing to do with music.
How to pack quicker.
How to stay organized.
How to be ready before somebody had to ask.
Nobody ever sat me down and gave me a lecture.
They just lived it.
And I watched.
I learned as much from watching those men as I did from listening to them.
Every night...
people waited after the concert.
Some wanted to talk about the music.
Some wanted an autograph.
Some just wanted to shake my hand.
And yes...
there were always girls.
Quite a few of them.
At first...
it all felt unbelievable.
Then...
without even realizing it...
it began to feel expected.
That's the dangerous part.
Not because I suddenly thought I was somebody special.
Because extraordinary things quietly started feeling ordinary.
Nobody wakes up one morning and decides to become arrogant.
It happens one "Great show" at a time.
One standing ovation at a time.
One autograph at a time.
One pretty girl at a time.
I don't think success changed me overnight.
It whispered to me.
Night after night.
City after city.
Until one day...
I stopped hearing the whisper.
Because it had become my own voice.
The biggest changes weren't happening where anybody else could see them.
They were happening inside me.
And at fifteen...
I didn't recognize them.
Just like that...
it was over.
Five concerts.
A couple of weeks that felt more like a lifetime.
One last load out.
One last ride on the bus.
One last hotel.
One last breakfast with the guys.
Funny how quickly people can start feeling like family.
The goodbyes weren't long.
Musicians aren't very good at long goodbyes.
There were handshakes.
A few hugs.
A lot of smiles.
One of the guys slapped me on the shoulder.
"Keep playing."
Another one grinned.
"We'll be seeing you."
At fifteen...
I never doubted that for a second.
Dad met me where we'd agreed.
I tossed my overnight bag into the back seat.
Laid my guitar beside it.
Then climbed in.
"Well?" he asked with a grin.
I smiled.
"It went pretty good."
He laughed.
"That's it?"
I shrugged.
"Well..."
"What all do you want to hear about?"
That was apparently all the invitation he needed.
For the next hour...
the car became my audience.
I told him everything.
The concerts.
The crowds.
The bus.
The hotels.
The music.
The people.
The applause.
The girls.
Everything.
I talked...
and Dad listened.
Funny...
I don't remember much about the rest of the drive home.
I remember looking out the window.
I remember how tired I suddenly felt.
I slept most of the way home.
I've often wondered what Dad was thinking while I slept.
He'd just watched his fifteen-year-old son step into a world neither of us had ever imagined.
Maybe he was proud.
Maybe he was excited.
Maybe he was worried.
Maybe...
he was all three.
I never asked.
I wish I had.
When we finally pulled into the driveway...
everything looked exactly the way I'd left it.
The house.
The yard.
The garden.
Willow Creek.
Nothing had changed.
At least...
nothing I could see.
The biggest changes...
were happening inside me.
I just didn't know it yet.
Monday morning...
life picked up right where it had left off.
School.
Homework.
Practice.
The talent show was coming up.
On the surface...
everything seemed perfectly normal.
But it wasn't.
Not for me.
More than anything...
I wanted to see Maybe.
I'd thought about her every day I was gone.
I'd imagined telling her everything.
The concerts.
The crowds.
The bus.
The musicians.
The feeling of walking onto those stages.
The feeling of hearing people applaud.
Every night I'd collected another story.
I couldn't wait to tell her.
Then I finally saw her.
She smiled.
I smiled back.
She asked how the trip had gone.
I shrugged.
"It went pretty good."
That was it.
Funny...
For two weeks I'd stood around after every concert talking to complete strangers.
Answering questions.
Telling stories.
Signing autographs.
I couldn't seem to stop talking.
But when the one person I'd thought about every single day asked me about the biggest experience of my life...
I suddenly had almost nothing to say.
I've spent a lot of years thinking about those four words.
"It went pretty good."
The truth is...
it went far better than "pretty good."
It was the most exciting thing I'd ever experienced.
Nothing else in my fifteen years came close.
Not because I loved it more than I loved Maybe...
but because I'd never felt anything like it before.
Somewhere during those two weeks...
something inside me began to change.
Ordinary life suddenly felt...
ordinary.
School.
Homework.
Walking the halls.
Even the wonderfully ordinary life Maybe and I had built together...
no longer carried quite the same excitement it once had.
I didn't choose for that to happen.
It just did.
I think that's what I was really afraid to tell her.
Not about the concerts.
Not about the crowds.
About me.
She knew me well enough to see when something had changed.
And whether I admitted it or not...
something had.
I wasn't afraid she'd be jealous of the tour.
I was afraid she'd realize...
before I did...
that the boy she'd fallen in love
with was beginning to chase a dream
that couldn't be left standing in the
school parking lot when the final bell rang.
I think she would have seen it in my eyes.
I know I eventually did.
So instead...
I smiled.
"It went pretty good."
Four words.
Safe words.
Words that kept us from having the conversation I wasn't ready to have.
Because if I'd told her everything...
she might have realized...
before I did...
that music had quietly become the most exciting thing in my life.
And once that happened...
the first goodbye had already begun.
We talked.
We laughed.
We walked the halls together.
Everything looked the same.
Everything sounded the same.
Everything felt...
just a little different.
Not because of her.
Because of me.
She hadn't changed.
I had.
I just didn't know it yet.
I think that's what makes growing up so confusing.
You don't wake up one morning and become someone different.
It happens quietly.
One experience at a time.
One opportunity at a time.
One standing ovation at a time.
Until one day...
the people you love begin talking to someone who isn't quite the same person they knew before.
Neither of you realizes it.
Not yet.
A few days later...
a large envelope arrived in the mail.
California.
Dad laid it on the kitchen table.
For a moment...
neither one of us said anything.
There were contracts.
Schedules.
Information about the tour.
Information about school.
There was even a plan for a private tutor
so I could keep up with my classes while I traveled.
One section described the person who would
be responsible for looking after me on the road.
Reading through it...
it was obvious somebody had thought of everything.
Dad looked at me.
"Looks like they've done their homework."
I nodded.
"It sure does."
Truthfully...
neither one of us really understood most of what we were reading.
Dad closed the folder.
"I think we need somebody smarter than us to look this over."
A few days later...
he took everything to an attorney.
For about a week...
we waited.
I don't remember worrying whether the contracts were legitimate.
I'd already made up my mind.
In my mind...
I was going.
The attorney finally called.
Dad met with him that afternoon.
When he came home...
he laid the folder back on the kitchen table.
"Everything's legitimate."
"The contracts are solid."
"The people are exactly who they say they are."
There wasn't a catch.
There wasn't a scam.
There wasn't a hidden surprise.
The dream…was real.
For a long moment...
neither of us said a word.
I think that was the moment it truly hit Dad.
This wasn't just his fifteen-year-old son dreaming anymore.
Now...
it was his job to decide whether to let that dream become reality.
The next morning...
Dad was already sitting at the kitchen table when I came downstairs.
Coffee.
Newspaper.
Pretty much where he always was.
Mom was fixing breakfast.
It looked like every other morning.
I poured myself a glass of orange juice and sat down.
Dad folded the newspaper.
Not all the way.
Just enough to look over the top of it.
"Billy Boy..."
"We've made a decision."
I remember smiling.
Not because I knew what he was going to say.
Because I was certain I already knew.
I was already wondering when I'd leave.
What I'd need to pack.
What California would be like.
It never crossed my mind there might be another answer.
Dad laid the newspaper on the table.
"We're going to pass."
I just looked at him.
Certain I'd misunderstood.
"What?"
Dad didn't answer right away.
He looked down at the newspaper for a second.
Not because he was reading it.
Because he was choosing his words.
Finally he looked back up.
"We think you're too young."
I remember wanting to argue.
Not because I thought they were wrong.
Because I knew I could do it.
I'd just proved I could.
The concerts had gone well.
The people liked me.
The group liked me.
The attorney liked the contracts.
Everything had lined up.
Everything...
except time.
Mom reached over and squeezed my hand.
"I know this hurts."
That was enough.
I needed out of there.
I quietly pushed my chair back.
Nobody stopped me.
Nobody tried to change my mind.
Dad simply nodded.
"Okay, Billy Boy."
I walked out the back door.
Crossed the yard.
And headed toward Willow Creek.
I don't remember taking my guitar out of the case.
I just remember sitting beneath that old willow tree.
Listening to the water.
Watching it move past me.
Trying to understand something that didn't make any sense.
The contracts were good.
The people were good.
The opportunity was good.
So...
why?
I wasn't questioning Dad.
I was questioning life.
At fifteen...
those felt like the same thing.
I sat there for a long time.
Long enough for the sun to move across the trees.
Long enough for the disappointment to settle in.
Long enough to realize...
the dream had disappeared.
After a while...
I heard footsteps behind me.
I didn't turn around.
I already knew who it was.
Dad sat down beside me.
For several minutes...
neither one of us said a word.
We didn't have to.
The creek had always been a pretty good place to think.
And sometimes...
a pretty good place to say nothing at all.
Finally...
Dad picked up a small rock.
Skipped it across the water.
Then, without ever looking at me...
he spoke.
"Billy Boy..."
"You're getting a little too big for your britches."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
He smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because he knew I didn't understand.
He skipped another rock.
"Someday..."
"You will."
That was it.
No lecture.
No sermon.
No dramatic speech.
Seven words...
that would take me more than fifty years to understand.
After another minute he stood up.
Brushed the dirt from his jeans.
Looked down at me.
"Come on."
"Your mom's probably wondering where we disappeared to."
I sat there another minute.
Watching the creek.
Thinking about everything...
and understanding almost nothing.
I thought Dad had taken something away from me.
Fifty years later...
I think he gave me something instead.
Time.
Time to become the man the dream would eventually require.
Back then...
I couldn't possibly have understood that.
At fifteen...
I thought the dream had slipped through my fingers.
I don't think it ever did.
It simply waited until I was ready.
I didn't lose music.
I didn't lose the dream.
I didn't even lose the opportunity.
What I was losing...
was myself.
Somewhere between the applause...
the attention...
the crowds...
and the compliments...
a fifteen-year-old boy quietly started believing
he was more important than he really was.
Not because he meant to.
Because success has a funny way of whispering to young people.
If you're not careful...
after a while...
you stop hearing the whisper.
You start believing it's your own voice.
Dad heard it long before I did.
That's why he came looking for me at Willow Creek.
Not to stop the dream.
To protect the dreamer.
He wasn't correcting my behavior.
He was protecting my heart.
I didn't understand those words at fifteen.
It took me more than fifty years.
Turns out...
Dad wasn't raising a musician...
He was raising a man.
Stage Lights, Algebra and Bad Decisions