If I Only Knew Then...

by Charles Grodin

  In 1971 the United States still had a military draft, and if you were not crazy, handicapped, married with kids, or a full-time student, you were off to Vietnam. I had been a full-time student at the University of Southern California the year before and intended to return, but while I was in the hospital the team I belonged to, the Los Angeles Dodgers, had pulled some strings and enrolled me in Arizona State University in Tempe, near where the Dodgers had a training camp.

  At the end of the 1970 season I was the heir apparent to Maury Wills, the shortstop with the Dodgers. After winning just about everything I could, and playing all the games, it seemed that I would be given the job the next year in Los Angeles, but I was not around for the September call-up. My head was bandaged for about two weeks, and the team was not going to commit to me, as they didn’t know how I would react as a hitter after the beaning. I was enrolled in Arizona State University when the doctor gave me the okay to play in the Arizona Instructional League, where the Dodgers had a team just down the road from Arizona State, in Mesa.

  No one was happier than I was to play and show the top men I could still do the job. I was off to the games in the Instructional League. I passed all the tests of playing and got my hits and proved that I was not going to let a little ball to the face stand in my way. Classes continued, and when the military draft lottery was established my number was in the high three hundreds. I really felt blessed.

  I was living in the Sigma Chi fraternity house and was enjoying time as a student and a player with a few bucks in his pocket. The house had a flag football team. Flag football is a version of American football, but instead of tackling players, the defensive team must remove a flag or flag belt from the ball carrier. Over the years, contact leagues have emerged, in which offensive and defensive players can block in certain zones.

  We had a bunch of great jocks who would get together and have fun on the field and fun after the game as well. We were undefeated going into the last game of the season. It was two weeks from spring training and the semester was winding down. The final flag football game was against the law school team. We’d shut them out the week before, and I really didn’t see any reason to play them again. I woke up the morning of the game and had dreamed that rain had canceled the game, but we were in Arizona and this was not the case. I had a strong feeling in my gut that I should not play this game. There was nothing in it. I had already proven to most that my speed and agility were not to be matched on the ASU flag football field. But after talking to the guys I decided to start the game and just be a decoy for the other guys and let everyone else have the fun.

  Well, on the opening kickoff I was the decoy as we faked a reverse with me pretending to get a handoff. I made my fake and my teammate ran down the sideline as I watched the other team try to get his flag. While I was watching, somehow I was clipped from the side and my knee was torn apart. I tried to tell the Dodgers that this happened practicing baseball, but it didn’t matter. I went to the most important spring training of my life in a full leg cast. When I was finally able to run full speed again, Maury Wills had resigned from the Dodgers, but they began grooming Bill Russell to be the shortstop.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  I knew that day to trust my gut, but I didn’t have the courage to tell my peers that I had “a feeling.” Since that day I have always tried to trust my gut. There were times when the results were not perfect, but I always know that the right way to go is with what you feel is right.

  HENRY S. SCHLEIFF

  CEO, Hallmark Network

  I am lucky to have some very good friends and even more fortunate to have a friend like Chuck Grodin, who’s constantly doing favors for others, including myself, and asking for nothing in return. This is why I am writing this brief note about mistakes—and what I have learned from them. At first glance, you might not see the connection, but hopefully the following will clear that up. You see, Chuck Grodin is one of the most successful and creative people in the industry—he’s a writer, producer, actor (film, TV, and theater), TV host, and syndicated radio commentator, and he’s probably taken on a few roles I’ve omitted. He asked some of his friends to submit their thoughts on mistakes and what they have learned. As usual with Chuck, it’s for a good cause: all of his proceeds from the sale of this book will go to HELP USA, which provides a variety of critical services to the less fortunate, such as low-cost housing, job opportunities, and the like. And, as you can see from the list of people who have contributed pieces for this book, many of Chuck’s friends and colleagues have answered his call, not only because it is a rare favor that he has asked of them but because of the relief to so many that this book will help provide. Chuck asked me more than once to contribute, and I didn’t say no. But since I am so busy, as most of us are, I never really responded, which is even more egregious because I’m a fellow board member of Chuck’s for HELP USA.

  My mistake was that I hadn’t responded to a minor request, for a noble purpose, from someone who has given so much to me, my family, and, indeed, our society with his successful advocacy for prison reform and his efforts on behalf of the homeless. While I was trying to think of what my biggest mistake is, my most important mistake—and, believe me, the volume is staggering—I realized my most recent mistake. I should have understood that a dear friend was asking for a favor, not even on his behalf but rather to benefit an important organization like HELP USA.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  I’ve learned that sometimes you have to see the bigger picture—that is, as busy as we all are, we should be quicker to respond to a friend, especially one who is so interested in helping others. Anyway, I’m glad I’ve contributed these few words—I’m glad I caught this mistake and rectified it, in my fashion, before it was too late.

  Most of all, I can’t wait for another friend who is trying to help people to ask me for something. And, Chuck, if you have another book, just give me a call—but if it’s on mistakes, I’ll have to find another one!

  KHALIAH ALI

  AS TOLD TO LAWRENCE LINDNER

  President, Khaliah Ali Apparel

  My son’s school was going to hold an auction to raise money for scholarships. I promised to get sports stars to contribute memorabilia—boxing gloves from various fights, basketball jerseys, and so on. I promised I would get figures in fashion to donate items like pocketbooks, front-row seats to shows, and other auctionable items. I promised too that I’d help with media planning, and also promised to help with planning the nuts and bolts of the event itself. I promised myself way into overcommitment. Everything I said I would do was on top of my already overextended workload—running my clothing line and going to bat for a number of other charities, not to mention raising my son.

  I handled the pressure in what seemed at the time to be the best approach. I procrastinated. “I have three more months” became “I have two more months” became “I still have three weeks,” and then reality hit.

  In the end, I managed to pull off somewhere between 50 and 70 percent of what I had said I could accomplish. It wasn’t a complete disaster, but in the process, I made people at the school really nervous, and also put them out because they had to go the extra mile as a result of my own lack of punctuality and get things to the auction that I had said I would get there myself. A lot of the items came in literally moments before the auctioneer started talking.

  Everyone was very gracious, and even grateful for my contributions, but that only made it worse. I knew I had let them down and caused a lot of anxiety and drama that just hadn’t been necessary.

  I let myself down too. I love my son’s school and all that it does for him and really wanted to give back. But something that should have been a joyful endeavor became a miserable chore because I had let things slide. It all turned into an obligation rather than something coming from a willing place.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  You owe people your authenticity. The truth was that I could never have possibly come through on everything I had promised, and altho
ugh I meant well, if I had followed the principle of truth up front, it would have made everything very easy. There’s a natural law and order in the world, and things flow if you just follow it. In this particular case, if I had promised less and delivered 100 percent of what I promised, it would have gone a lot further than my promising more but not being able to deliver the whole package.

  I also learned that love is a gift, not an obligation. If you remain true to yourself and do what’s really doable rather than promise too much because you think you’re supposed to, the gift of love you have to offer will remain true.

  JOHN BURTON

  California State Senator,

  1997–2005

  When I was going to law school I worked as a bartender at Bimbo’s 365 nightclub, and a friend of mine, Michael O’Neil, and I were as close to being degenerate gamblers as kids in their twenties could be. One day Mike came to me and said, “Bernard (which, God only knows why, was his favorite nickname for me), I’ve got an immortal lock.”

  The Cleveland Browns football team, which was a powerhouse in those days, was playing the San Francisco 49ers in San Francisco that Sunday in an exhibition game. Mike said, “The Browns are only laying six points. It’s an absolute lock—let’s scrape up money and bet the house.” In those days the house would have been two hundred dollars each. We had trouble finding a bookmaker to take the bet and chased all over town trying to get it down. Finally, five minutes before game time, we found a part-time bookie sitting in the Lucky Club, a bar on Stanyan and Haight near Kezar Stadium. We joyfully laid the bet and gave him our two hundred each, then went to watch the game. The 49ers ended up beating the Browns, and we lost our money. As we were leaving the game, somewhat pissed off, one of our buddies asked why we would ever bet on the Browns in an exhibition game when it was common knowledge that Paul Brown, Cleveland’s coach, never cared about winning exhibitions.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  Never bet on a Paul Brown team during the exhibition season, but more important, never go around chasing an immortal lock bet, because whenever you do, the odds are that you’ll lose. I have learned many other things from my many mistakes in life, but for some odd reason that is the one that I always remember.

  PHIL MILLER, MD, FACS

  Facial Plastic Surgeon

  In the beginning of my surgical training, a well-respected, illustrious, and talented surgeon stood in front of our class of surgical interns and said, “An excellent surgeon is not one who is technically skilled. An excellent surgeon is one who is truly gifted, one who has that unique ability to determine when to perform those techniques and when not to, when to operate and when not to operate, and when to do certain maneuvers and when not to do certain maneuvers. That is a truly gifted and excellent surgeon.”

  Those were the words that inspired me during my surgical training. Through the long and arduous process, the endless sleepless nights, the demanding pace and pressure, I tried to never forget those words of wisdom. There is a lot to learn in becoming a surgeon, and I wondered when the time would come, if ever, that I would be granted that gift presented by my first mentor.

  Throughout the years, after thousands of operations that I first witnessed, then assisted in, then performed, the technical skills came and the intended results followed. The prodigious information was transformed to knowledge and then second nature, and, finally, consistent and reliable results were obtained. But I among many of my colleagues strove for true excellence. And so, though I found my patients increasingly satisfied with their results, I have been somewhat irked by results that could have been slightly better.

  I went back to the books; I learned and studied more; I began reading more what others had conceived and thought. Nevertheless, the results again were satisfying the patients but not satisfying me. No matter what I tried, no matter what I read, no matter what I heard, I was incapable of bringing my results to that next level.

  One day while in the operating room performing a delicate maneuver on the tip of a patient’s nose, I heard myself telling myself to do a maneuver that I had not considered until that very moment. It was a feeling that I had experienced countless times in the operating room but had always ignored. Instead, I would always follow the well-thought-out, meticulous, and comprehensive plan that I had orchestrated. Once again my initial response was to ignore that thought. But then it dawned on me: nothing else had worked; nothing else had been able to elevate my results to a greater place. And so, carefully and with some trepidation, I followed my instinct and performed the maneuver. And the moment I completed it, like a lightning bolt it struck me that this quiet voice, this intuitive sense acquired after years and years of training, was the answer to the problem. I performed that minor adjustment, and lo and behold, the end result was spectacular. I had achieved the insight and used the gift my mentor had referred to years ago.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  Although there is no substitute for thorough preparation for any initiative, you must be open to a spontaneous intuitive sense telling you to take a different direction. This intuitive sense is distinct from anxious fear or a debilitating insecurity. Rather, it stems from an experienced and confident knowledge that a subtle modification, or an alteration, or perhaps even an entirely different path could render extraordinary results.

  ERVIN DRAKE

  Songwriter, “It Was a Very Good

  Year” and “I Believe”

  I made a major career mistake by forming a songwriting partnership with a man named Jimmy. He was ten years older than I and had a different frame of reference in the pop arts, since he had come of age in the Al Jolson generation and I was pure Crosby/Sinatra. We had veto power on what we should write. I chose an older partner because I had always composed songs of the kind written by my idols: Porter, Rodgers/Hart, Kern/Hammerstein, Arlen/Harburg. I felt I could not write the commercial kind of Tin Pan Alley song, and I deeply wanted to make my livelihood in that field. Well, Jimmy could sure as hell write commercially or a switch on “what had been written before.” In other words, derivative work that was never fresh. Therefore, year after year we wrote very tired lyrics and melodies.

  Jimmy was a confirmed bachelor who stayed out late every night of the week and would show up at our office in the Brill Building any time he woke up, sometimes arriving at one p.m., just in time for lunch. To a married man with children who was trying to pursue a meaningful career, this was terribly defeating, and at times angered me. I let him know it from time to time, and he would shape up—for a while. Then too I wanted to write a Broadway musical comedy. That had always been my ultimate target. I felt I could function at my best in that area, but Jimmy refused to write anything of that magnitude “on spec.”

  It wasn’t until after we wrote “I Believe (For Every Drop of Rain That Falls . . .)” that I realized my profound mistake. When we created the song for a TV series, Jimmy pointed out that the musical structure I outlined was not the structure that Meredith Wilson had chosen for his song of faith, “May the Good Lord Bless and Keep You.” Once again he was looking for a paradigm that we might emulate with a slight switch. I answered that this song was just for a TV show, over and out, and therefore, why not do anything we felt like? That logic won him over, and “I Believe” became one of the biggest worldwide hits I’ve ever had. I then made up my mind that the next time I wrote a song of that potential magnitude, I would do it all alone, influenced by no one’s veto but my own, and that came about when I composed “It Was a Very Good Year.” I never could have written this song while I was collaborating with Jimmy. And then I wrote the score to What Makes Sammy Run?

  Before breaking our partnership, I asked my wife’s opinion. We were both very fond of Jimmy, and for good reason. He was a thoroughly decent, honest man whom our kids called uncle. I told Ada that I feared that if I split with him he would sink without a trace in our business—both in songs and television employment. She said that as fond as she was of him, the most important consideration was how I felt abou
t myself in my work. She knew of my deep frustration over the years of never being able to accomplish my aims. Jimmy and I split, and as I feared, he sank without a trace.

  It was not all that easy for me. When I told my agent, the William Morris Office, that I wanted single representation, they replied that I had “no track record as a single” and asked if I would just continue to let them offer me with Jimmy. “No,” I answered. I asked for and received my authorization papers back.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  Since then I have followed my own inner polar star. I still listen to thoughts that differ from mine, but I am more careful in what I accept.

  PEGGY SIEGAL

  Public Relations Executive

  For the past twenty-five years my career has evolved from working on national publicity campaigns to running projects for all types of motion pictures to specializing in very specific VIP screenings and media positioning of films. If you still have no idea what I do, neither does anyone else, so I always say, “I’m in catering” and “I went to college to be an usher.”

  I have developed a database of 20,000 accomplished people, coded by occupation. When my company is hired to screen a film prior to release, we are able to devise a list exactly tailored for those who will respond favorably—I hope—and spread the word.

  A few years ago, before my life-changing business collaboration with Bryan Bantry, I was asked by Lorne Michaels to organize a New York screening of his new film, Mean Girls. The movie was highly anticipated because it starred the hottest teen actress in the country, Lindsay Lohan. Paramount Pictures had made it very clear that this event was a “favor” to Lorne because he lives in New York and they were spending a fortune on a Los Angeles premiere. I have been a huge fan of Lorne’s since the beginning of Saturday Night Live. Being very precise, he was not easy to work for. So working with Allison Jackson, the special-events person at the studio, I began to put the night together. Paramount chose the brand-new Time Warner lobby, not the coziest place for a teen party. We hired designer David Monn, and in addition, I insisted we bring in the “bar mitzvah king of New York,” Tom Kaufman, to create the ultimate teen happening, complete with makeup counters, enormous Polaroids, a make-your-own-CD booth, and karaoke . . . all approved by Lorne.