Learn something everyday!

Keeps you fresh. 

Going backwards is not an option.

Positional Leadership gives you positional power. 
It doesn’t make you a leader!

Differences can make us stronger!

America is changing.

  
For many its exhilarating and introspective.  

Scary for others. 

America is changing!

They came from near and far, a migration of young male leadership from Cornell, Purdue, Kentucky, Georgetown, Arkansas, SMU, two HBCUs, (Historically Black Colleges and Universities) and many others. In all sixty-nine African American males came to Campaign, Illinois for a weeklong Leadership Conference, with the goal of nurturing their own leadership skills and “to save the world.”

I was honored to be among them.

It was a Leadership Summit for African American college males, the vision of my good friend Dr. Ainsley Carry, Vice Provost for Student Affairs at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. Dr. Carry’s vision was to gather African American males in a weeklong session to discuss leadership, visions, personal goals and aspirations. My alma mater sent three young men. I was asked to facilitate one of the sessions.

It was historic, enlightening and exciting!

The organization, Leadershape, conducts these workshops around the country, generally with student leaders from the same college or university.

This would be different.

I arrived at the rural airport in Campaign, Illinois. My well-meaning escort to the hotel gushed about how polite and positive the young men were. While making chitchat, she revealed it was a genuine but pleasant surprise to her. I wondered, what she had expected? After all, their colleges, and universities had selected these young men. I realized that she expected what she had been exposed to, the media stereotype. I started to say these young men were the “normal” ones. But I didn’t. She meant well. Young men like these as a rule don’t exist in her world, not in numbers. They do in mine. These young men were the African American males I’d known most of my life, responsible, diligent, accountable, wanting to make a difference. They had been selected by their universities and colleges, communities and families to represent them. I chuckled, “Sixty-nine, African American young men in rural Illinois, for a week, and they didn’t even make the news cycle.”

Now that is a story.

As a cluster facilitator, I had a group of about twenty young men for an hour-long discussion on any subject the young men wanted to talk about. After some preliminary discussion about my background, acting, writing, consulting and my current role as Chair of the Auburn Foundation Board, we dug into a full-throated discussion on business and social issues. They were bright, giving, respectful of other views, and different depending on their own     individual background and goals.

They summarized that there were two aspects of the session they could never duplicate in their everyday lives. One was to share time with so many other accomplished males like themselves, hear their dreams and aspirations, share time, laugh and hope for a better world. The other was participating in a forum where they could be heard. Where they could say things they wanted to say and not fear reprisal, where they could say things to me that did not shock me but instead they found an understanding ear; an ear of experience, an ear that had lived their experience. That was a highlight for me.

One young man asked me. “Where do you see your life now?”

“Great question,” I shot back, “but an easy one, I’ve paved the road for you guys. Soon I will move over, hand off the baton and watch you guys run with it into your future.”

Several young men wrote me personal letters of thanks. They gave them to me before I left.

…I hope you enjoyed your time experiencing and exploring these enlightened young men at Leadershape.

…It has been so empowering.

…Thank you for coming to Leadershape and offering your knowledge and wisdom. Your contribution elevated my experience to an entirely new level.

When we again gathered as a full group I shared with them an experience from a previous Leadershape session for student leaders on the Auburn University campus. It was, and remains, a memorable experience. Dr. Carry challenged that group to envision that one day a President of the United States would emerge from among them. One young man has taken that challenge to heart.

I laid that challenge on the African American males. Someone in their group would aspire to one-day hold the highest office in the land. Eyes lit up. I watched the idea settle into their young brains. I saw the thought pass through the mental barriers society had placed there and come to rest within their heads, I can do that, I, can be President of the United States.

It was quite an experience.

I rolled into Birmingham Alabama, my hometown, for a couple of days of Board meetings, to hang out with some friends and to visit with my 90 year-old Dad, when, bam… a heavyweight championship fight broke out on the University Of Alabama-Birmingham (UAB) campus, Don King and all.

Deontay Wilder, never heard of him? I hadn’t either. But now you know. He’s the recently crowned WBC (World Boxing Council) Heavyweight Champion and he lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. That’s right Tuscaloosa! He stands 6’7” has an undefeated record of 34-0 and the man throws bombs! Whew!! I could feel the challenger’s pain from my third row seat.

Here’s some background. Deontay won the title last January at the boxing mecca of the world, the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. He defeated Bermane Stiverne for the WBC crown, making Wilder the first Heavyweight Champion from Alabama, since the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis.

For his first title defense, Deontay wanted to do things differently. He wanted to defend his crown in his home state of Alabama. That’s right. He turned down the MGM and Vegas for Alabama. Specifically, he wanted to fight in his hometown of Tuscaloosa and on the campus of the University Of Alabama. They said no! Who knows why?

Birmingham raised its hand and grabbed its first Heavyweight Championship fight in the City’s history. It was quite an event!

City dwellers, suburbanites, and out-of-towners, some from as far away as Russia crammed the UAB Bartow Arena. Ring card girls in skimpy, short shorts stood on high heels, sashaying back and forth ready to announce the upcoming round. The ShowTime Network was visible all over the place with its cameras telling the Birmingham story to an international audience.

In the less-than-VIP quality VIP room, recognizable names and faces, drank chatted and ate with some of the celebrities. My friend Big Charles Barkley gave me his customary “thank you” as he wooed a small group of admirers. He always gives me a thank you, telling me “You know I always say thank you to you.”

“I appreciate you Charles,” I told him.

“Thank you,” he again repeated to me. I smiled and moved on as others fell over themselves to get his autograph and a picture. Charles obliged them all.

“The Real Deal,” former heavyweight champion, Evander Holyfield strode in looking all fit and ready to kick some a__. He looked great! I kept trying to get a good look at his ear. You know the one Mike Tyson bit a plug out of in one of their Heavyweight Championship fights. I couldn’t find it. The ear looked whole to me. I wonder if someone bites a chunk out of your ear, does it grow back?

With his security guard standing nearby, “The Real Deal” conducted a thirty-minute tutorial to a small crowd on heavyweight boxing championships. Evander calmly explained how Deontay could beat that night’s opponent, and with improvement, “He could beat the Big Russian,” Wladimer Klitschko, the king of today’s heavyweights. That was saying something! But if Evander says it, hey, you have to listen. The man has a heart as big as any that ever set     foot in the ring.

The biggest celebrity of them all was Don King. That’s right, Don King! He was a gentleman, which threw many of the VIP’ers for a loop. They wanted to dislike him based on his media characterization. While trying to wolf down his food, he was constantly bombarded with autograph and photo requests. “Mr. King would you mind if I take a picture with you?” He obliged every person, gave everyone a smile and never did get to eat his food.

“Get him Deontay,” the young woman screamed in her shrill and annoying-as-hell high-pitched voice. “Get him.”

She sat right behind my friend O.T. and me. From the opening bell of a round to the closing bell of that round, she screamed in a piercing scream, “You better knock him out. Knock him out Deontay! Git him.”

While screaming she would jump, throw punches and scream some more. “That’s my brother,” she announced. “Git him, bro. Git him Deontay. You better knock him out.” O. T. caught several of her punches with his head. “Excuse me.” She screamed at O.T. when he rubbed his head. “Git him,” she continued screaming at her brother. “You better knock him out.”

“You better duck,” I told O.T.

She only caught me once, an elbow to the head. “Sit down,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t. She would not have heard me anyway. She was in a zone. “Git him. Knock him out Deontay,” she continued. I let it go.

The place got really loud! The crowd blew the roof off of the noise meter.

The ring card girls did their slow sultry walk between rounds.

Deontay finally connected on a couple of bombs in the 9th round and the challenger, Eric Molina, who wasn’t a bad fighter, had had enough. He gave in to the pummeling he had been taking the last few rounds. Enough was enough! He went down and didn’t make it up before the count of ten. The night was over.

My friends, and I poured out of the arena with the still enthusiastic crowd. It had been a great night.

Birmingham had done itself proud. “Git him Deontay!”

Reflecting on Father’s Day, I think about the man for whom I am named and realize how much I lucked out. Man, did I luck out!

I never looked outside our home for a hero or a role model. I never looked to sports figures. My guy was living in the house with us.

Daddy turned 90 this past April. He has a pacemaker and he can be testy but other than that he’s in great shape. He drives his truck, walks in a nearby park, works in his yard and attends church regularly. Watching him as I grew up, I knew he was what I wanted to be as a man.

Daddy accepted responsibility. Born into a sharecropping family in Elmore County Alabama, he grew up poor. He was forced to drop out of school early and often to work in the fields. It’s one of his regrets. “I was a good student,” he tells me. “I was good in arithmetic.” To this day, he can add and subtract numbers in his head if needed. He got his GED after a stint in the army.

He met my mom and began the journey that produced my two sisters and me. He gave his all to us, his family. I was and am his only male child. He taught me. He taught me about work, doing what needs to be done. He taught me about integrity, a man’s word is his bond. He taught me about giving, being there for others whether they were related to you or not. He taught me not to dwell on the negatives of a situation, but to realize I was passing through on my way to somewhere else. He taught me how to love your wife, unconditionally.

When integration came to the South and directly touched our lives, in one fell swoop my life surpassed his in terms of opportunity, unchained boundaries, and new journeys. Although fearful for me at times, he let the reins go. When my new world took me in directions that he could not fathom or wanted to travel in, he let me fly, never wanting to limit or hold me back from the good things I might discover on the journey. He tells me now, “I was afraid for you being in a world I knew nothing about. I’d never had a white friend in my life.” His world was different. But he did not attempt to color mine.

He learned about football when he was a baseball man. He bought us a home, then a bigger one when our family grew. He came to my games when often times he was the only black face in the crowd. He put himself in awkward situations in my new world, where he often felt ashamed of his lack of formal education, but he knew he needed to be there for me. Tears fall from my eyes as I write this because he gave us so much of himself and kept so little for himself.

The story I tell about my dad that makes me most proud, and there are many, is “the snow tale.” We had a massive snowstorm in Birmingham, my hometown, and the city was paralyzed. As an adult I had moved into my own home but kept close ties with Mom and Dad. Knowing they lived on a hill and it would be virtually impossible for them to go anywhere, I called my mom and we chatted about the snow and family matters. I asked to speak with my dad. She said, “He’s gone to work.”

Daddy worked in a pipe shop, American Cast Iron Pipe Company (ACIPCO). I asked, “how?” knowing he could not drive his car up the sloped driveway nor on the closed roads between his home and the pipe mill, which was a good thirty-minute drive from his house. Mom responded, “He left here walking.”

“You don’t work they don’t pay you,” he always told me.

That evening in the local newspaper, there was a shot of a lone figure walking along the railroad track in the snow heading toward the pipe shop, a solitary man doing what he had to do. It was my dad. “You don’t work, they don’t pay you,” should have been the caption.

Daddy worked. He worked at the pipe shop for thirty-five years. He worked a second job at a janitorial service for many years, and he had a “side hustle” as a plumber to pick up the extra money it took to send us to private schools for twelve years.

Because he worked so much, there was little to no time for us to play catch or do the Father-Son things that I might have wanted. But I wanted to be like him. And it wasn’t long before I started down that road of, “doing what it took.”

Daddy left home about five every morning for his 6:00 to 2:30 shift at ACIPCO. He returned around 3:00 in the afternoon before leaving again around 4:30 for the janitorial job. He returned home at 10:30 that night. Before long I was like him, leaving home at 6:15 am to catch the two city buses for the private Catholic High school across town, where I had integrated the football team, and returning at nearly 9:00 every evening after football practice and catching the two buses to get back home. Sometimes we would chat for thirty minutes or so before getting to bed and doing our thing again the next morning.

We talk now and he often tells me of the things he didn’t know when I began my journey into integration, sports integration, big-time college sports, professional sports and the world of white-collar work. He says how he wished he could have done more. “I never had any money to send you when you were in college,” he regrets. “I wish I had known more, so I could have helped you when you were struggling with your coaches and things that were not fair. I didn’t know,” he laments.

I tell him, “Daddy you taught me how to be a good man. It’s the best thing you could have ever done for me.”

The first time I told him I loved him I was well into adulthood. It caught him off guard. Expressed sentiment was not a part of our lives. It was and still is uncomfortable for him. Daddy showed his love for my sisters and me in ways that words could never express and for that I am forever grateful.

For my dad, Tom Gossom, I Love You, Happy Father’s Day.

They arrived at my front door at a little past eight o’clock on a Saturday night. I’d been expecting them for a couple of hours. The Stallion had called me nearly three weeks earlier to tell me he was coming up from Sarasota to visit Sherman and wanted to see the old teammates.

Having been out of town on the day of his arrival, I was last on the list. There are several of us who played at Auburn together and who live within a few miles of each other; Ken Bernich, an All-American Linebacker; David Williams a standout linebacker; Chris Wilson, a kicker; and Carl” Hollywood” Hubbard, another linebacker. Being last meant we could have more time to catch up.

When the doorbell rang, I limped over to the door and there they were. Their grins were as big and wide as mine. “TG” they both called out.

“Sherman and The Stallion,” I returned. They could barely get through the door before we were all over each other hugging, grinning and laughing.

As teammates we had played football together at Auburn University in the 1970s. Those had been good football years at Auburn. During my four years on the team, we finished #5, #8, and #9 in the country; never had a losing season and three of the four years we never lost a home game. It was good times.

The guys ushered themselves in and exchanged pleasantries with my wife, joyce, and then it was our time.

The last time we’d been together had been a couple of years ago in the restaurant at the Auburn Hotel and Conference Center one Saturday night after an Auburn football game. That night we exhausted all our stories and begin to delve into the “do you remember game.” Names like Pete Retzlaff, Warren Wells, Willie Galimore, Sonny Jerguson, Homer Jones, and other old professional standouts brought back fond memories from our youth. Tonight, I was sure, would be just as much fun.

The Stallion, Ken Calleja, a running back was originally from Detroit, Michigan before moving to Sarasota, Florida. He was one of maybe less than a half dozen northerners on the team. Yankees, the other guys called them. Of Italian descent he was nicknamed the Stallion because of his sleek physique and his long flowing jet black hair. He was a handsome stud and he knew it… so did all the girls on campus.

The other half of the duo, Sherman Moon has health issues but other than being a bit thin you’d never know it. He is still Sherman, one of the best guys you will ever know. “Good as gold” is the description I use. If someone says they don’t like Sherman, get away from that person as fast as you can. Something is wrong with him.

Sherman, Ken and I were all ball handlers, the glamour positions on the football team. Ken was a runner. He’d run the hurdles in high school track and ran with a prance.

Sherman and I were receivers and occasional runners. With those positions comes a cockiness that is needed to run headlong into a defense of eleven angry men and think that you can out maneuver and out run them all. Yes, we liked ourselves.

Oftentimes after practice we’d brag over how good we’d been that day in practice. My favorite was “I was so quick out there today, I scared myself.”

Sherman and the Stallion were both “Florida Boys.” Florida Boys in that day and time was code for being soft. We were still playing football in the dark ages of less than ten passes a game, and “no pain, no gain,” “suck it up like a man” and “get your game face on.” With many small town Alabama roughneck boys on the team, the Florida Boys received undue criticism. The coaches were tough on them. But if you wanted to play, you paid the price.

It wasn’t long before the stories began to flow.

Ken was up first doing his Coach Claude Saia impression. Coach Saia was the Auburn running back coach. Stallion has him down pat. He not only sounds like Coach Saia, he can stand like him, walk like him, and mimic his facial expressions. One of our favorite lines from Coach Saia as he directed his running backs was to tell them, “You got to stay on Avenue One.” He never explained where in the hell Avenue One was, but all the running backs were expected to know. Ken could arch his hips like Coach and deliver that line better than Coach himself. I almost slid off the couch I was laughing so hard.

Sherman and Ken had come to Auburn at the same time, a year behind me. They were close throughout college and had many of their misadventures together. When Ken started to tell the story of the ballplayer who entered Auburn on what Ken called

“Double Secret Probation,” Sherman had to help him get the facts straight.

I interrupted, “What is double secret probation?” Apparently this young man’s grades were so bad in high school, that he’d been admitted into the University on Double Secret Probation meaning no one would admit to knowing how he got in but he only had one semester to prove he was college material and that did not include the football field.

The young man did not fare well during his one quarter on campus and decided to assist himself with his grades. His plan was to enlist some of his teammates, steal a professor’s test and secure for himself a great test score. He stole the test and scored 98 out of 100. It was however followed up by the F he was given for cheating. His double secret probation did not last the entire quarter and his teammates in the meantime received F’s as well for cheating. I had known the guy before he left, but didn’t know about the double secret probation or his misadventure in breaking into the professor’s office and stealing his test. I never knew what happened to him. I just knew that one day he was gone, never to be seen again.

We took turns talking about our offensive coordinator. Big Gene Lorendo, stood about 6’4” and was north of 250 lbs. His deep baritone voice struck fear in freshmen and sophomores. He was hard nosed and could boom out your name in such a threatening manner that you would check your football pants to see if they were wet. Since we were all on offense we all played for him. If Sherman went out for a pass, missed it and came back limping, we knew what was next. “MOOONNN ” he would bellow. “Don’t give me that hurt ankle shit, Moon.”

I often tell people as a sophomore, he changed my name from Thomas Gossom, to “Got Damnit Gossom.” You could hear him all over the practice field, screaming, “GOT DAMNIT GOSSOM.”

The stories flowed until well past midnight. I’m still laughing now several weeks later.

That night whatever issues we had with health, family, finances, or just life were forgotten as we fondly traveled back into a time that had shaped the rest of our lives. The memories in some cases were actually better than the actual time spent on the field.

After midnight the guys finally took their leave. I tried to get them to spend the night. They declined. They needed to get to Sherman’s. I thanked them for coming, for the memories, for the times, for the friendship. At the door, in between handshakes and hugs, we proudly spoke words we never would have as young, cocky, virile athletes. “I love you man, ” flowed from our mouths. “Love you too,” we all repeated.

What a special night!

We all showed up at Screen Gems Studio in Atlanta with anticipation. We were there for an in-person audition for a network television show. In-person auditions have become rare in the high technology world of today’s television acting. What was once an actor’s pride, to enter a room with producers, directors, and casting directors and “win the room” has now been relegated to putting your audition on tape and e-mailing it to either your agents or a pay subscriber service (which I refuse to do). Things change.

The opportunity was a USA network episodic in its second season. The character, Mike runs an old dive bar somewhere in North Philadelphia. Mike acts as a counselor to the young actor playing one of the leads, Neil, whose father and Mike were friends in Vietnam. In terms of a character, Mike is interesting, a character with layers and the possibility of recurring work. Mike was worth the time and effort.

Long past the excitement of “being on television,” this opportunity from a business perspective meant a boost in pension pay, earnings toward family healthcare, a payday and perhaps several if Mike recurred. It was strictly business.

But then it turned into something else.

Walking into the audition waiting area, an impromptu reunion took place. The boys were there.

Gordon and I worked together a couple of years ago on the Television Movie Game of Your Life. We had fun and most of our scenes together. I like Gordon’s work. I like Gordon. He’s a great guy to spend 14 hours a day with for several weeks making television.

Charles was the odds on favorite for the job. He has the look. Television is about “The Look.” The producer’s creed is, “We can teach someone to act. We can’t teach a Look.” Charles wears a white beard. He’s short in stature and talks with a comforting tone. I’ve known Charles since we both worked on In The Heat Of The Night in the 1990s.

Alonzo, I don’t know. We share the same agent. Seems like a nice guy. He laughed a lot at the stories flying around the room.

Tony, I’ve never worked with. He had a nice run on a Tyler Perry show. He’s been searching for the next opportunity ever since.

We were all there to read for Mike. That’s “The Business.” There were five of us for the one job. We all had a 20% chance.

The job would begin shooting one week later. We all knew whoever got the job would be getting “The Phone Call” within twenty-four hours. The others would not. I always say not getting the job is like the country western song, If your phone don’t ring, you’ll know it’s me.”

The Director was an hour late. Veterans to the “hurry up and wait,” aspect of the business, we took it in stride and took time to catch up. We were all there for the same job, but we’ve been in the business long enough to not let that fact get in the way of our friendships. We laughed and told stories. Gordon and I caught up on life. Charles told stories of his civil rights days. Alonzo laughed a lot. Tony told stories but fretted over the job. It showed in his eyes.

I enjoyed the experience. It had been a while. Over the last few years, since moving back from Los Angeles to Florida, business opportunities, production of a documentary film, and writing another book had taken me in different directions. I had managed to stay in the game with Game of Your Life, Drop Dead Diva, recurring work on Reckless and commercials. But, being at Screen Gems that day, brought back memories of eight successful years of the business in Atlanta, and thirteen more in Los Angeles.

Over the years there had been some 75 episodes of television, a half dozen films, a half dozen television movies and hundreds of commercials as talent, writer, and producer.

The director arrived. The casting agent apologized for him. The director did not apologize for himself. I was third in line to go in to read for him. When I walked in, the director was eating. I thought “Damn, he’s an hour late and he’s sitting in the audition eating a smelly sandwich.”

The casting associate positioned himself behind the camera. He would read with me. We exchanged pleasantries and took off. I did what I’d prepared but also went with the flow of the scene. I know Mike. I’ve known many Mikes over the years. He was not a hard guy to inhabit. It felt good. I had the room. But then, the director gave me the kiss of death. He turned to the casting associate and said, “All of them are so good.” I knew I was dead in the water. He didn’t need to blow smoke up my dress and make me feel good if he was going to hire me. Hiring me would make me feel good. It was Charles’ job. We all knew it.

I thanked the director and the casting director and met Gordon and Charles in the parking lot. Tony split. Alonzo having gone first was long gone. The three of us laughed and talked for another hour. We all vowed to get together but we knew the next time would probably also be an audition.

The skyline of Atlanta loomed in the background. It felt good to hang out with the guys, where I began my career. Soon, it was time for me to hit the road. Other business interests, outside of the business, beckoned. I gave the guys a hug and drove out of Atlanta.

By the way, my phone didn’t ring.

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