Too Big For My Britches
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.
Some have a question about a song.
Others simply want to shake hands and say hello.
I've always believed those conversations are just as important as the concert itself.
Maybe even more important.
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.
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 a memory surfaces that wasn't there the night before.
Sometimes the audience needs to hear something a little differently than the band rehearsed it.
That's one of the advantages of performing solo.
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 fifty years ago.
I've always been more interested in telling the truth.
That's probably 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 wasn't much 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.
They waited patiently while I finished talking with everyone else.
Neither one seemed to be in any hurry.
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.
Looking back...
that's exactly what it was.
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.
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.
They asked if I'd been playing.
I smiled.
"Yes, sir."
"How's it going?"
"Pretty good."
Then I recognized the voice.
It was one of the two men from the concert.
He laughed.
"Well... we've been talking."
My heart started racing again.
"We'd like to come out and visit with you and your parents."
"Would that be okay?"
"Sure."
"When?"
"How about this Saturday?"
"I'll have to ask my dad."
"That's exactly who we'd like to talk to."
We settled on a time.
I thanked him for calling.
Then we hung up.
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.
Just...
"Okay."
Looking back...
Dad had lived long enough to know something I hadn't learned yet.
Opportunities deserve excitement.
Decisions deserve patience.
Saturday finally arrived.
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 few pleasantries.
Then we all sat down in the living room.
One of the men explained who they were.
They talked about the group.
The music.
The concerts.
The recording studio.
Life on the road.
Then they got to the point.
"We think Bill has something special."
Dad didn't say a word.
He simply listened.
They explained they were looking for a young performer to travel with the group.
Someone who could open the concerts before the full band came on stage.
It wasn't really a tour.
It was more like a live audition.
Five concerts.
A couple of weeks on the road.
If everything went well...
then we'd all have a much bigger decision to make.
They looked over at me.
Then back at Dad.
"We know he's only fifteen."
"We'll look after him."
"He'll be safe."
There was something comforting about the way they said it.
Not like businessmen trying to close a deal.
More like big brothers trying to reassure a father.
Dad sat quietly for a moment.
Then he looked over at me.
"Billy Boy..."
"You want to do this?"
I don't remember hesitating.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled.
Just a little.
Then he looked back at 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 thinking about what this trip might be like.
Now...
I was about to find out.
Funny thing is...
packing didn't take long.
I didn't own much.
A few changes of clothes.
A toothbrush.
Some guitar strings.
My Yamaki.
That was about it.
Looking back...
I probably packed more dreams than luggage.
Packing my dreams took a whole lot longer.
And they took up a whole lot more room.
I remember looking out the window as the miles rolled by.
Every now and then Dad would ask a question.
Mostly...
we just drove.
Looking back...
I wonder what he was thinking.
I never asked.
I wish I had.
By late afternoon we pulled into the hotel where the group was staying.
Dad parked the car.
For a second...
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 ever knew.
Most of the guys were in their twenties.
They had apartments.
Real lives.
They were full-time musicians.
Living on the road.
Living in recording studios.
Making music for a living.
I was fifteen.
I still needed somebody to drive me to rehearsal.
Looking back...
they understood that better than I did.
They never made me feel out of place.
If anything...
they quietly looked after me.
Like a bunch of older brothers who had decided the new kid was going to be just fine.
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 loaded into 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 watched Dad standing alone in the parking lot.
He smiled.
Raised one hand.
I waved back.
Looking back...
I've often wondered what he was thinking as that bus disappeared down the road.
I never asked.
I wish I had.
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.
Bigger dreams.
While everyone else unloaded equipment, I wandered over toward 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.
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."
Funny thing is...
he was right.
Once the lights went down...
everything changed.
The applause faded into the background.
The audience disappeared.
It was just me...
and my guitar.
Music has a funny way of doing that.
It shrinks the room.
Twenty thousand people somehow become twenty.
You stop thinking about the crowd...
and start thinking about the next lyric.
The next chord.
The next story.
Before I knew it...
the set was over.
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.
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 had always been 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 remember thinking...
This is pretty cool.
I don't think it was the attention that changed me.
It was how quickly I started expecting it.
That's a dangerous thing for a fifteen-year-old boy.
Probably 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 the time...
I thought he meant to enjoy it.
I think he meant something very different.
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 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.
Others...
I wish I'd never opened.
Nobody tells you success changes people.
Sometimes...
it changes you so slowly...
you don't even notice it's happening.
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.
Looking back...
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 hands.
And yes...
there were usually 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 compliment 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 all at once.
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 strange part is...
if you'd asked anybody on that tour...
they probably would have told you I was still the same kid they'd met in Des Moines.
They would have been right.
Mostly.
The biggest changes weren't happening where anybody else could see them.
They were happening inside me.
And I didn't recognize them.
Not then.
Not at fifteen.
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.
I don't remember much about the drive.
I remember looking out the window.
I slept most of the way home.
Looking back...
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.
I think everything had changed.
The biggest changes just weren't visible 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 almost every day I was gone.
I had so much to tell her.
The concerts.
The bus.
The crowds.
The people.
The music.
The girls asking for autographs.
The whole adventure.
I couldn't wait to tell her everything.
Then I finally saw her.
She smiled.
I smiled back.
She asked how the trip had gone.
I remember shrugging.
"It went pretty good."
That was about it.
I still don't completely understand why.
I had so much to tell her.
Instead...
I told her almost nothing.
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.
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 spent a lot of time thinking about every detail.
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 finally 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 had already decided.
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.
I think that was the first time it truly hit Dad.
This wasn't just a boy dreaming anymore.
Now...
it was a family making a decision.
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.
Thinking...
When do I leave?
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 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.
Funny thing is...
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 hadn't disappeared.
It had simply moved farther away than I wanted it to be.
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.
Looking back...
Dad wasn't correcting my behavior.
He was warning my heart.
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.
Dad wasn't trying to keep me from the dream.
He was trying to keep the dream from getting ahead of me.
At the time...
I couldn't see the difference.
Now...
I can't imagine a father loving his son any more than that.
Funny thing is...
I didn't lose Maybe that day.
I didn't lose music.
I didn't lose the dream.
What I lost...
was something much harder to see.
Somewhere between the applause...
the attention...
the crowds...
and the compliments...
a fifteen-year-old boy quietly started believing he was older 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.
That's why he skipped rocks instead of giving speeches.
That's why he simply said...
"Billy Boy...
you're getting a little too big for your britches."
It wasn't criticism.
It was love.
He wasn't correcting my behavior.
He was warning 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.
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