The only problem was that Greensboro was eleven hours away. When I was a senior, there was a girlfriend in the picture. Isn’t there always?
I’d been dating her for almost a year, and naturally, she was way up on my priority list. She was headed to LSU, nearby in Baton Rouge. I wasn’t interested in North Carolina girls—this was the only one who counted. She confronted me, “Robby, you can’t go that far away! Can’t you find somewhere a little closer to home?” And you know, when your girlfriend says it to you, in just the right tone of voice, you’re likely to do almost anything.
I began to think about nearby colleges that had basketball programs. It was very late in the recruiting game, of course; the important schools had filled out their rosters. But I figured a Division I prospect like me could get some interest from a smaller NAIA program. I got out the phone book and called William Carey College in Hattiesburg, Mississippi—a simple ninety-minute drive. I didn’t know a great deal about Carey, just that it had a basketball team and wasn’t far from my girlfriend. I called the head coach and told him my situation. He hesitantly agreed to look at me in a tryout session—the team was already set.
“You’re too impulsive,” said my mom as she drove me up to Carey.
“Impulsive, but also close to home, if this works out,” I pointed out. She had to admit she didn’t mind that idea. Eleven hours away, and my parents would see me only for summer and Christmas, only making it to a couple games in person.
Something strange happened at the tryout: I played well—that is, I played really, really well. As if the spirit of Michael Jordan got into me for an hour. Afterward, Mom said, “I’ve seen every basketball game you’ve played, and a lot of the practices, and you’ve never played like that—ever. You must really like this girl!”
I shrugged. Again, it just felt like something that worked out. Just like magic.
When you’re young, you expect things to fall neatly into place. As you get older, you may begin to feel there are higher purposes at work. Some might even call it divine providence. In my seventeen-year-old mind, I thought it was all about a girl, but now I see other things were moving into place.
Coach was all smiles. It didn’t take him long to offer me a scholarship to play for the William Carey Crusaders. I called UNC-Greensboro and let them know I had a change of plans.
One simple, impulsive decision had vast implications. The irony was that two weeks after school started, my girlfriend broke up with me—having gotten the mistaken idea that I was cheating on her. Her reasoning was that I wanted to purchase clothes at the mall, something I hadn’t done before. If I’d wanted to cheat on her, I’d have gone eleven hours away! She was the whole reason I was here playing for an NAIA school instead of one that could be invited to March Madness.
But I took stock of my new home—a very Baptist new home.
My entire culture growing up was so thoroughly Catholic, I didn’t even know a Southern Baptist, and now I was surrounded by a whole army of them.
William Carey is named after the Father of Modern Missions, who lived in the eighteenth century. I was in a whole new subculture. There was no casual drinking. No Thursday night Frat parties. Faith was more overt, and I found myself to be the number one target of a campus game called “Convert the Catholic.”
I made a visible target, cruising through the campus in my red 944 Porsche, blaring uncensored Tupac tracks from the ten-inch bazooka subwoofers in my trunk. I always had a nice car because of my dad’s occupation. He’d told me that if I could maintain a B average and earn a college scholarship, he’d fix up any car I’d wanted to drive, other than a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. He forgot to mention Porsche, so that was my choice. He fixed one up and made it look brand-new.
I had brought my rap music, my alcohol, my sports car, and especially my Roman Catholic affiliation to this new Baptist world. For the first time, I knew what it was like to hold down first place on every local prayer list. Or to be a deer during hunting season.
I’d be walking to campus, and a vague acquaintance would approach me. “Hey, Robby! Wait up!” I could see the Bible and the tract in his hand.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“How’s basketball going?”
“I’m redshirting this year. Waiting on the six-foot-six and six-foot-ten guys to graduate.”
“Cool. Hey, if you were to die tonight, do you know where you’d—”
“Good talk, man, but I’m going to be late for class.”
I’d duck into a doorway—didn’t matter which doorway—and escape another barrage of earnest gospel invitations. I couldn’t understand this whole witnessing culture. All these people hardly knew my name, but they were intent on asking me to walk away from how I was raised and take on their form of religion. Catholics didn’t operate like this; you were born into it or you weren’t. When people asked me if I was a Christian, my go-to response was, “I’m Catholic.” End of story.
But I liked the school, and being the evangelism target didn’t put me off too much. I simply avoided it and lived my life.
Except for Jeremy Brown. He was the asterisk in the big conversion quest. Jeremy had a whole different approach to sharing his faith with me, and amazingly, he was the only one who seemed to have figured out the right formula. He offered friendship instead of an evangelistic sales pitch. Jeremy took the time to get to know me and let me get to know him, just the way any college buddy would. He cared about me rather than my religious scalp.
Jeremy loved playing the guitar, just like I did. He enjoyed all kinds of music and introduced me to Christian rock, which surprisingly turned out to be pretty good. Jeremy could look me right in the eye—literally. He was six-five, and I was six-six. Not to mention that both of us grew up in Louisiana. And occasionally, he would mention some aspect of his faith, not as a weapon aimed at me, but as a part of the whole world of Jeremy Brown—a world where I enjoyed hanging out. It made his faith intriguing instead of annoying. It was contagious.
I had no intention of enlisting in the William Carey Baptist army, but my defenses were worn down, and I actually found myself playing in a Christian rock band. I guess we had nothing better to do. Jeremy played rhythm, I handled lead guitar, and we had two vocalists and a drummer.
Christian rock was now my jam—not the beliefs, just the tunes. As a matter of fact, we’d have jam sessions late at night in my dorm room until someone would call security. The guard would come knocking at the door to tell us to turn off the amps and go to sleep. Of course, the guys would be hiding under my bed by this time. I’d put on my robe, shut the lights off, mess up my hair, go to the door, and innocently tell the guard, “It wasn’t us, sir. We were trying to sleep, but we hear it, too. Hope you can find out who’s doing this.”
He’d shake his head and walk away, while we plugged back in to lay down a few more riffs.
The band was just for kicks, except for my tendency to go over the top. After two months of practicing, I went to the college president and asked him if we could play at Carey Fest, where various Christian bands were invited to perform. The idea was, why not have the school’s own band represented?
He agreed, and I went back to share the good news with the band.
“You did what?” asked the drummer. “We’ve never played in public!”
Jeremy said, “Robby, what name did you give them? Because we don’t have one.”
“Oh, yeah. Guys, we’re officially the band Nothing Better to Do. Because, you know, that’s what we’ve got.”
A couple of them rolled their eyes.
I think it worried Jeremy that his Christian band was fronted by a non-Christian, and it was about this time he decided to sit down with me and take the next step in sharing his faith. He had earned the right to speak, because he was my best friend. So I listened.
“I know you don’t have a deep, daily faith in Jesus Christ,
” he said. “You were raised in the church and taught about Jesus, but that’s not exactly saving faith. There has to be a time when you go from death to life. It’s absolutely necessary for eternal life. It’s all about saying ‘yes’ to him with everything you are. Not to mention you avoid hell by going to heaven when you die.”
“I get that,” I said. “But I was christened as a baby.”
“Sure, but Jesus wants to have a real relationship with you—not just something your parents did when you were too young to understand. Saving faith comes from the heart. You and I are friends because we chose it. That’s why it’s a real friendship, something we live out every day. Friendship is active and real. So is a saving faith in Jesus.”
“I get that, too. It makes sense. But how do you do it exactly?”
“If this is something you really want, Robby, if you understand that sin is a part of your life, and you can’t handle it alone, you can cry out to the Lord through repentance and faith. All you need to do is pray a simple prayer, like the one I’ll give you, and mean every word. Robby, do you think you’re ready to pray that kind of prayer with me?”
“Sure.”
“You’re really sure about this? It’s serious, man.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
He prayed, leaving spaces after each phrase for me to repeat. I acknowledged my sin before God, my need for his forgiveness, and asked Jesus to save me. Afterward, he gave me a big hug and welcomed me into God’s kingdom.
And for several days, I figured I was just like Jeremy and all the “Carey Christians” now. He led me along, took me to church, and I did all the things I felt I was supposed to do. But for me, as a musician, it was like playing a song I didn’t know, just chord by chord from a chart, without feeling the melody. I have to feel the song inside, and I didn’t feel this form of faith inside me. I’d said a prayer on the basis of not wanting to go to hell, without understanding there needs to be a deeper, more personal and desperate desire. I needed to feel the weight of my sin and the need for salvation.
What I lacked was something greater than “magic”—the supernatural effect, the transformation of new birth. My commitment wouldn’t last, and in time I would understand that the test of real faith is fruit.
Jesus said you tell a tree by what it produces, and what came out of my life wasn’t the fruit of godliness. I was a good kid from a good family, but still lost as lost could be.
Yet the seeds had been planted for that tree of eternal fruit. Someday the seeds would sink into the soil, and the real transformation would come. Just like magic.
For now, all I could see was the illusion.
Chapter 4
Biz Whiz
On college campuses, the weekend begins on Thursday. Even in Southern Mississippi. Even at a Baptist college. I may have played in a Christian band in 1995, but I was partying like it was 1999.
I had a red Porsche, a tendency to drink, a crowd-pleasing magic act, and a love of fun and excitement. In retrospect, my college basketball career never stood a chance.
In high school, I was used to being the big guy at six-foot-six. In college ball, even at an NAIA school, there were taller towers. Some of our guys were six-ten and six-eleven, so I couldn’t just park under the basket, wait for a pass, and take my shot. I actually had to learn to move the ball in traffic, including dribbling.
Don’t laugh—dribbling may sound pretty basic, but at a higher level of ball, against gifted athletes, it’s not a given, even with my work ethic.
The coach expected a big return on a Division I scholarship guy like me. He was in my face, pushing me harder than I’d ever been pushed as an athlete. After a while, as I struggled, my longtime love for basketball began to cool off.
Still, I had a campus jock image to maintain. My roommate played baseball, and I knew he dipped snuff. But on my birthday, September 20, he said, “Hey, I think I’ll pick up a pack of cigs.”
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“Just on special occasions. And tonight is a special night.”
I had never smoked before, but college is all about figuring out how adulthood should look. I well knew that my grandfather, Mom’s dad, died from smoking. He was so addicted at the end of his life, he tried getting workers to smuggle cigarettes into the nursing home while he was on oxygen. I told myself I was only going to smoke on special occasions, such as a birthday.
And a little later, weekends. For me, they were special occasions, right?
And a little after that, I threw in Thursdays. Like I said, they’re part of the weekend on campus.
Then, what the heck, Monday needed to be a smoking day, too, because that’s when Monday night football happens.
After that, I was a full-blown smoker. Why not consider life a special occasion? I brought my several-pack-a-day habit home for the summer, when I sold cars to pick up some extra cash. When you’re in college, summertime is a special—well, you get the idea.
When I came back to Hattiesburg in September, I was a chain-smoking, coffee-guzzling, six foot-six inches of out-of-shape. I came off the court wheezing after cross-court fast breaks, with the coaches glaring at me. What should have been a productive off-season turned out to be a nightmare when school started back.
One day I was late to practice (again). I caught the usual verbal abuse and was told to start running. With every huffing, puffing step, I came closer to the boiling point. I hadn’t come to South Mississippi to run up and down the steps of the gym. An assistant coach, who wasn’t my biggest fan in the first place, made a choice remark to me as I loped by. I tossed an even choicer remark right back—not cool for scholarship players who are underperforming. Earn a starter spot, or at least make the squad, and maybe you attain a few sarcasm privileges. Me, not so much. None of this stopped me from firing back, and smoke started coming out of the assistant coach’s ears. He snapped, “Go upstairs and change! You’re out of here.”
Everybody on the team turned my way.
I responded with another smart-alecky comment, went upstairs to grab my gear, hung my Nike team shoes around my neck, and headed for the door.
“Leave those shoes, Gallaty!” the coach shouted. They were team property.
I whirled around. “Come and get ’em!”
As he walked toward me, I reached back as far as I could and launched them over his head toward the back wall. “They’re all yours, Coach.”
I knew now I’d burned this bridge to the ground. I crossed the point of no return. This wasn’t one of those little storms that would blow over in a couple of days. I was dispensable to William Carey basketball. There would be no coming back now, no cooling-off period followed by a “let’s put this behind us” handshake.
Oddly enough, my college basketball career lasted a season and a half; smoking lasted nine years.
I wasn’t one to look back. I still had a lot going on, and maybe now, an extra edge—a touch of attitude. I was invited to every party. They’d be waiting for me when I made an entrance with my briefcase of card tricks, scarves, and illusions. Most drinks were purchased by others as compensation for the tricks. I was the man of the hour, and all of it was a recipe for disaster.
Sure enough, I was pulled over in traffic by the police one night, coming from a party. I had taken advantage of more than a few free drinks. Swerving red sports cars aren’t overlooked by the state police.
I parked my Porsche on the shoulder close by my school, stood beside it, and went through field sobriety tests. (Little did I know, my wheels would be taken away from me after this semester for finishing with a 1.9 GPA.)
Meanwhile, my buddies were driving by in their own cars, honking and waving. I waved back, grinning each time. The officer looked up at me and said, “You wave at one more car and you’re headed for the backseat of my cruiser—then to the station, where I’ll book you.”
“Yes sir,” I said, and focused on pulling myself together.
He gave me a closer look and said, “Are you a Christian, son?”
Where did that come from? I followed his eyes to the cross I was wearing. “Yes, sir, I am,” I said.
“Well, I’m going to give you a warning. Just this once. But don’t ever drive again if you’ve been drinking. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now you call a friend to come drive you home. Got it?”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
I began to think about how my parents would react if I got a DUI. I’d somehow dodged a bullet. As I sat down behind the wheel and watched the officer drive away, I told myself it was time to clean up my act. Basketball was gone—good riddance—but I needed to cut out the foolishness. This wasn’t the way I’d been raised.
I gathered my resolve and walked the straight path—for a whole day or two. Then, as always, my newfound determination faded, like me trying to run a fast break. I was morally out of shape, and I was more interested in trying on identities: jock, Christian rock star, magician, life of the party, whatever anyone was looking for.
And now, a new one: I was trying on the mask of the business whiz—the ultimate symbol of adulthood.
I was invited by my roommate to attend a PBR—Public Business Reception—for a company called American Communications Network. The line the spokesman gave me would be one I would perfect: “If the money were right and it fit into your time schedule, would you be open to looking at a serious business opportunity?” Who could say no to that?
This was a multi-level marketing organization, a telecommunications company looking for young people who were energetic, aggressive, and needed money. That was me. So Dad and I attended the meeting and listened to their pitch. “You can sell long distance service,” the spokesman said. “We give you the opportunity to build your own business and make thousands of dollars while working part-time. The only limit to your success is in the time and passion you bring to it. We have young adults buying new cars, touring Europe, or financing grad school.”
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