by James Brown
My goal through all of that was simply to be who I was created to be. Some people are designed to be the stars, while others are designed to support them. All are important. The reality, I believed, was that our show would be a success if the viewers enjoyed Terry, Howie, and Jimmy. It’s all about what we bring to the table that makes another look good.
I learned that truth years before from Coach Wootten, who would stop and rewind the film so that we could watch—for the third and fourth time—the player who had left his feet to knock the ball out of bounds to help our team, or set the pick that led to the pass that led to a basket. It wouldn’t ever make the box score, and most people would never notice it, but Coach always did. And he made sure that we did. He made sure it would stay with us when he wasn’t.
That’s true in life as well. Even if we’re not the star and no one really sees what we do, there are others who see our contributions. Those in the know will see what we do. And even when we don’t think they do, God sees—He is always in the know. I take solace in that, plus it also causes me to go out of my way to make sure that I openly appreciate those whose contributions might not be noticed by others. The bellhop or the housekeeper at my many hotel stays, or the cab driver, or the grips or statisticians on the broadcast sets. I know them all by name in my regular spots—at my hotel, on the set, or on my route. I make it a point to do that. They deserve my time and respect no less than anyone else. They have remarkable and interesting life stories. They, too, need to know that they are someone special. I try to make sure they know that they are—to me.
It’s an important part of the role I know God wants me to play.
CHAPTER 11
… AT THE RIGHT TIME
Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. Then they can train the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.
Titus 2:3–5 (NIV)
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 was a traumatic day for our nation.
It was a long day, while as a nation we watched and heard reports coming in from everywhere early that morning that a plane had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. And then minutes later we were horrified with the report that a second plane had hit the second tower of the World Trade Center. The reports kept coming in and we learned that what we had feared the most—was true. America had been attacked. Television accounts recounted over and over the grim reality of that truth. We prayed unintelligibly through the numbness which had now overcome us.
Much has been said, shared, and written about that day, but memories of that day have flooded me then and in times since—in addition to the obvious shock that I felt, with periods of reflection characterized by a range of emotions—all centering on the safety of my family and how soon could I get home to them. My initial reaction was probably a lot like yours—it felt completely surreal to have my morning filled watching planes flying into buildings; it was hard to believe what we were watching. Then those feelings gave way to fear. Where were the other planes around the country? Were the attacks over? Would they ever be over? The reports kept coming in. Hijacked commercial airliners were used. Other attacks had been orchestrated—one on the Pentagon and another, apparently diverted by passengers on the plane from its intended target, instead crashing in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Air Force One was en route to DC.
Emotions across the nation and world swirled in confusion and grief. I gathered the faces in my heart of all whom I loved.
I was in San Antonio visiting my brother John at the time. I was very concerned about my family’s safety because of the reports of a plane that crashed into the Pentagon. I needed to hear the voices of Dorothy, Katrina, Mom, and the rest of my family. At that moment I needed to reconnect with them that day—it was something more than reassurance that they were okay—it was a search for the reassurance that everything would be okay.
I sighed a huge sigh of relief after the initial calls home to find out that my family was all right, and all I wanted to do was to get home. Nothing else. I wanted to go home. I needed to be home. There were, of course, no flights to be had, as the airlines weren’t operating with the aviation system shut down across the nation for security reasons. Cars weren’t available to rent in San Antonio, as others had beaten me to the punch.
The executives at FOX called, and they still hadn’t gotten an official word from the NFL on whether games would be played that weekend, but if they went ahead with the schedule and the games were played, FOX would need me back in Los Angeles for the studio show. In anticipation of the games being played, FOX advised that they were going to send the car and driver that they used to transport me in LA to come and get me in San Antonio, to assure that I would be back in Los Angeles by the weekend.
I wanted to go home. I needed to be home.
By the time the car arrived at my brother’s home in San Antonio, Paul Tagliabue, the Commissioner of the NFL, had just announced that the games for that weekend had been postponed. FOX wouldn’t need me in Los Angeles after all, and they offered to have the two drivers, Vincent Sims and Mike Neeley—it turned out that they sent two drivers because of the distance—drive me back to DC. And so the three of us left to make the trip from San Antonio, Texas, to Maryland—Vincent, Mike, and myself.
It was an unforgettable time for me. Every moment since the morning of that Tuesday has been seared in my consciousness. On our way back, we stopped at T.D. Jakes’s church in Dallas and worshipped there, sparking a discussion among the three of us about the spiritual ramifications of September 11. As we motored through Arkansas, the events of that day led to an even longer three-way conversation on faith more generally, as well as what it meant to be an American and a citizen of the world in 2001.
That discussion took us through Tennessee and Virginia.
Finally, we arrived in DC. Home, at long last. Mike and Vincent stayed at our home and attended church with my family. We rested a day or so before preparing for the long cross-country trip back to California.
Things were already beginning to change.
Initially we had thought that, after some time at home, I would ride back with them, but FOX had arranged for the rental of a large bus—similar to the type that John Madden uses for his travel—for us to make the trip to Los Angeles: David Blatt, a FOX producer, Dorothy, and me. We took three and a half days to get back across the country, stopping in big cities and small hamlets, doing pieces on the reaction of the people we met along our journey to the terrorist attacks of the prior week.
Edifying and reassuring.
Those were the words that sprang to mind as we journeyed across the nation during those few days, where American flags flew, it seemed, from nearly every building and home. We talked with the typical man- and woman-on-the-street, soliciting and gauging their reactions and current states of mind to the attacks of that day a week ago. The reactions were the same across party lines, educational backgrounds, socio-economic status, ethnicities, and professions: We are all Americans. We don’t know what the future holds, but we will get through this—together.
That was the overriding theme of the week, and I was glad to find myself in this unique position to interact with so many around the country so soon after such a tragic event on our soil. It seemed as though those events served to shake, awaken, and unify the collective pride for our land, its people, and the principles upon which our country was founded. The collective soul of our country emerged in one voice. What was right and what was wrong, in the minds of those we met, was very clear. The right way to go as a people—together as a country—was clear to everyone we met along the way.
A fond memory of good people—my fellow Americans.
And in the days which followed in our country, we came together. People from every walk of life—men, women
, white- and blue-collar workers, mechanics, company CEO’s, teachers, students, people of every race, color, culture, and background, united in one common theme—America. In one unified voice, every member of Congress joined hands on the steps of the U.S. Capitol to sing their allegiance to our country and each other.
The focus of those we spoke to was not on our differences, but on the things that unite us. In the strain of those times, what was right and good about us—things that tied us together as a people—came to the forefront of our thoughts and lives. The healing would take time, but the determination had set in, as only it can in America. The right way was clear. The right way was ahead of us to follow together as a nation, as heroes from every corner of this land rose up where they were needed and began to reach out to each other, to restore our national confidence in ways we had done so many times before, and to rebuild our lives and nation.
My mother described herself as “The Titus Woman.” She felt that way because in the little three-chapter book of Titus in the Bible it says, among other things, that the older women teach the young women to love their husbands, to love their children, to teach them how to be good wives and mothers.
Mom formally and informally taught women about marriage, family and sacrifice. She always stressed the importance of making the home a place full of love and caring. Women naturally took to my mother and she was, in turn, naturally attracted to the needs of other women.
She always had the gift of encouragement. She always made others feel better in whatever they were going through in their life at the time. Even as people came by to visit Mom with the intention of lifting her spirits, inevitably they would leave feeling better about themselves because Mom moved their spirits! It was a gift from God—and she allowed it and Him to flow through her—no matter how she felt, to bless others.
The bottom line is, Mom’s example was a wonderful model for me. A model of how to treat people, how to encourage them, how to pass along the benefits of experiences I’ve had. People would call her every day seeking guidance or prayer. If I was ever calling her—or anyone else was calling for that matter—and she was praying, she wouldn’t click over to take our call. Those times that she could spend in prayer were sacred times to her. She loved being an encourager—for anyone and everyone. I remember vividly the times when she was praying with conviction for the needs of people that she may not have particularly liked!
Beyond that, she was always receptive to the opportunities where she might be able to help someone in whatever fashion she could—she was very prudent with the gifts and resources that God had given her. She would find homeopathic remedies to help Mr. Washington in her neighborhood, who suffered from a debilitating cancer late in his life. She would never allow him or Mrs. Washington to reimburse her, but would always point out that she was simply “sowing.” She would sow her time and her prayers and her money, with purpose. God’s purpose. She knew that when she sowed, others would be blessed. When someone would try to repay her, she would say, “Don’t make me miss out on my blessing.” They never did.
I don’t know if you would classify them as blessings or not. But I love cars. Classic cars, muscle cars, and hot rods.
I have always loved hot rods, and currently have several—fewer than I owned a couple of years ago, though. But even more than the cars, however, I love the kind of cars enthusiasts call “drivers,” as opposed to just “show cars.” Going to a car show is my chance to escape from the busyness of my schedule. At car shows everyone is just the guy or gal next door. Nobody cares about titles or positions, or companies for which you work, and nobody puts on any airs of his or her own. If I weren’t such an inquisitive soul, always eager to learn as much as I can about people, you’d never know from what walk of life people at these shows came.
I think the thing I like most about cars and being around people who like them also, however, has become the opportunities it provides me to interact with people from a varied spectrum of life experiences, occupations, faiths, and interests. I suppose it’s the grease on our hands from working on an engine, changing the oil or a tire—that has a leveling effect—as well as the common interest we all share that brings a diverse group of people together. In any event, I was always taught by my parents to look beyond and behind titles and trappings, and to look toward the person’s heart. Being around car people gives me a chance to do that. At shows we enjoy each other’s company: doctors and mechanics, professors and factory workers, it just doesn’t matter. That’s just how I like it. No pretense or pride, just people.
The spring and summer weekends offer opportunities to go to the local cruise spots—to relive one’s teenage years, enjoy the fellowship, and appreciate the many fine restored cars of yesteryear. If you’ve never experienced going to a cruise night, where car lovers gather to proudly showcase their classic vehicles, then you may think it strange that we find the fragrance of high octane fuel rather soothing. So, after a frenetic week of activities, it’s not unusual for me to say to Dorothy, “Hey sweetheart, I’m going to ‘smell some gas,’ ” which is car vernacular for going to enjoy an evening at a local cruise spot!
General Motors created a limited edition Corvette last year, the ZR1. I heard that they may have made as few as twelve hundred of them, with many of those shipped overseas. Because I was one of the spokesmen for GMC, they allowed me to buy one of these limited number rocket ships! Because I had considerably pared down my automobile inventory—I have a 1969 black Camaro named “Black Cherry,” an orange 1941 Willys named “Zesst,” a black Camaro named “Black Pearl,” and now even Dorothy has a black and silver ’41 Chevy Cabriolet named “Amazing Love”—I convinced myself that I was able to justify adding this new Corvette to the mix.
One of the top executives at GM was personally approving the VIP list of those who would be offered the opportunity to acquire one of these beauties, and the first car to come off the production line went to Jay Leno. Incidentally, the second one went to the owner of a huge, high-end car auction, who was going to auction it off and give the proceeds to charity. I later heard that the car that he auctioned off received a bid of one million dollars. (The next time you hear the cliché about beauty salon gossip, remember it’s not gender based—come listen to the tales that car guys hanging out at a car show will spin.)
Making things more palatable and easier to justify, I wasn’t scheduled to receive my car until the following January, allowing me several months to demonstrate my new and more responsible approach to the stewardship of resources around the house. And then I received the call. Because of my spokesperson role, I was receiving car number seventeen off the line and that it would be ready in the next couple of weeks. I needed to remold my image quicker than anticipated, in the eyes of two of the ladies in my life whom I couldn’t fool.
It arrived, and it was beautiful. I had the guys down at Bubbas East Coast Hot Rods & Customs take one of my other cars, and surreptitiously placed the ZR1, under a cover, in its place in the garage. Dorothy knew that it was coming—someday—but I wanted a chance to tell her how shocked I was that it arrived.
I had initially heard that Jay Leno was going to get car number two off the assembly line. But when my brother John told me that he heard Jay on The Tonight Show talking about his excitement in waiting for his new ZR1 to arrive, I decided to give him a call to rub it in a bit. Since I already had mine in hand, I wanted to express my sincerest regret that his had not arrived yet.
Jay Leno is one of the great people of show business, or anywhere, frankly. He is just true salt of the earth. Just a regular nice guy. Who also happens to have a lot of really nice cars that I had a chance to see at his garage in Burbank, California—an unbelievable collection.
I first met Jay when I was in Los Angeles on a regular basis. I happened to go to a muscle car and hot rod show held in a park out there and all of a sudden, a guy pulled up in a car that looked like a bullet. No entourage, no posse. Just Jay Leno out for a drive.
Some time
after that he invited me out to see his cars, which he keeps in an airplane hangar. I was going to be on The Tonight Show that night, so we were passing time until we needed to meet with the writers. I was marveling at his collection when he announced that he had to fill one up. “Come on, let’s go for a ride,” he said. We climbed into his Stanley Steamer—1906, as I recall—and headed down to the gas station, at a speed far faster than I thought that car could, or should, be traveling. Just a couple of guys headed down the road wearing their old-fashioned automobile goggles. It was quite a picture.
Later that evening, Terry, Howie, and I went on the show. Jay had been hanging out with us in our dressing rooms, where I was eating the watermelon that they had brought me—I was on a special diet and had requested it. Terry and Howie had a variety of other fruit set out for them, but no watermelon. Jay said that he was sure that there was a joke there but that he wasn’t going to touch it. Once we were in front of the audience, Jay greeted us, and I thanked him for his hospitality, but I was wondering why—out of the three of us—I was the only one who had been given watermelon.
Jay just about jumped up from behind his desk, saying, “You ordered that watermelon, not me!” Terry and Howie just sat back and howled. He is such a good guy, but it was fun to turn the table on him for a moment and try to get him to squirm.
When I called Jay’s office I merely wanted his voicemail, to let Jay know Christmas had come early for me with the ZR1 delivery. Just one car guy sharing his excitement with another car guy. Plus, I wanted his voicemail because, although I had been a guest on The Tonight Show years ago, I wasn’t completely sure that he would remember me.
I spoke to his assistant and asked that she pass a message along to Jay. “This is James Brown. Would you tell him, please, that I got my new ZR1 and really love it.” She asked the color and I told her—cyber gray. She asked me to hang on. I assumed she was putting me through to voicemail.
