If someone had told me twenty-four hours earlier that I’d be giving a motivational speech to a group of athletes at a high school in Wyoming, well…I’d have been skeptical!  Yet here I was stepping onto the shiny basketball court’s midcourt center circle, still petitoning the Lord for words to guide and inspire.  What could these young men possibly expect from me?

Silently, I prayed, “I trust you Lord with all my heart.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed one of the basketball backboards with its ten foot high rim.  It excited me now as it did when I was playing high school basketball in the early 1970s. 

But how did I even get here…to this high school basketball court at South High School?  Now that’s an interesting story. 

Presidential Barbershop

Twenty-four hours earlier I was on the phone to my son-in-law, Kerry.  I was sitting in a rental van in downtown Cheyenne outside the  Presidential barbershop.

“So, this is where you go for a haircut?”

“Yes,” replied Kerry.  They’re pretty good and reasonably priced.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I stepped out of the van into the cold and icy wind making a bee line for the West Lincolnway downtown barbershop. Entering, I found myself in a clean, spacious  barbershop ensconsed in a two story red brick building.  It was a fairly new establishment which seemed to have little to do with the American West or cowboys for that matter. Several male and female patrons waited to be called by a pair of young barbers.  The clientele was hip and diverse.

The shop’s owner, a handsome man with smooth skin, black mustache and a long shiny ponytail, showed me to the barber chair. A colorful wall poster depicting a piece of the New York City skyline immediately caught my attention.

“My name’s Angel. I’m the owner of The Presidential.  What are you looking to do today?”

I shared the fact my son-in-law had recommended him.

“Oh yes, Kerry…really nice guy. And his wife Cassie.  Good people.”

I smiled and nodded, “Yes…Cassie’s my daughter.  I’m visiting from LA but”…and pointing toward the poster said, “I come from that city.”

New York City is what bonded us—we may have had different journeys but for the two of us it all started in Brooklyn—me from Marine Park and and Angel from Bushwick.  As Angel got to work trimming the snow white goatee, I asked if he was from the “Borinquen” (Puerto Rico).

He laughed. “You speak Spanish?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“No,” he insisted.  “I used to speak Spanish. I was born in Brooklyn to Puertarican parents.” 

To say we “hit if off” would have been an understatement.

Angel Maldonado

Angel was an interesting ‘cat.’ He was a US Marine veteran, musician, barber and community organizer.  He found Cheyenne a few short years back and decided to lay down roots.  

The barber became energized talking about the community, especially those people residing in the ‘economically challenged’ section of town.  He was also ecstatic to have been recently awarded a part time community affairs job assisting one of the local high schools.

His tone suddenly changed, becoming serious.

“The football team has lost forty-seven games in a row.  Sadly, that’s a Wyoming school record we’re not proud of.  We’re starting over, putting together a winning program with new coaches and people from the community like me.”

I liked everything Angel Maldonado had to say.   Yes, I felt bad for the kids…losing forty-seven games in a row and setting a Wyoming high school record for consecutive losses could suck the life out of any young person and deleteriously affect a school’s morale.  However, the more passionate he became about the kids and their team, the more I became emotionally invested.

I surprised myself when I blurted out, “Angel, how can I help these kids?”

He smiled and said, “Look, you said you were an FBI and DOJ agent…had a career.  I’m sure you could motivate them. Maybe give them a pep talk? Share something that made a difference in your life?”

The die was cast.  I sat there a moment running my fingers over the freshly manicured goatee all the while envisioning a pep talk to high school athletes.  I sort of liked the idea.

“OK Angel, I’m all in!”

Angel rested his hand on my shoulder and said, “Come by the high school tomorrow at 4 pm.  The kids are going to love it!”

I paid Angel and left.  Over the next twenty-four hours I thought about putting the motivational speech to paper.  But, for whatever reason, I nixed the idea—too perfect, too polished, not spontaneous enough.  No, I would call on the Holy Spirit—it would be a last minute thing.  The spirit would move me and the words would flow.

And that is exactly what happened! When I arrived at the gym and walked onto the polished hardwood floor, they were all waiting for me—coaches, school administrators and young men enrolled in the football program—thirty plus boys ranging from freshmen to seniors.  I shook hands all around with the grateful coaches.  The boys were sitting in a circle on the floor. They were no doubt tired—I had witnessed three groups of about ten boys pulling a fire truck several hundred feet in the freezing cold winds of Wyoming. It was an impressive feat of strength, teamwork and determination.  

The Holy Spirit

I stepped onto the center circle at midcourt and yielded to the Holy Spirit.  I talked about the FBI, how I had failed my first physical fitness test at Quantico and was demoted to the remedial class. I was so embarrassed and afraid to fail that I somehow found the strength and the will to practice sit ups, push ups, pull ups and the two mile run every day.  I pushed myself to the limit and fed off the criticism of two fellow classmates who had belittled me.  I used the criticism as fuel to do better. That added up to the first lesson of Perserverance.

Then I explained during the final physical fitness test, I was amassing sufficient points to pass the test and graduate as an FBI agent. My scores almost doubled on every station…and, even better, I completed enough push ups to meet the minimum score.  

The two mile run now lay ahead of us—the final event. As the gun sounded I went out quickly. At one mile I found myself in the top quarter of the class.  However, at six laps I began slowing down.  I had gone out too fast, too quickly and was now paying the price. At seven laps, with one final lap to go, I stopped dead in my tracks—I was exhausted and could hardly move. I doubted if I could finish the race. 

My class was catching up…fast.  Just then one of my classmates, a lawyer named Erik, caught up and begged me to get moving again.  He promised to stay with me right to the finish line.  That someone would stop their run to coax me to the finish line was astoundingly selfless.  I responded to Erik’s challenge.  My legs started moving again.  I was walking, then jogging slowly, then faster until we were both running in tandem.  Together, we sprinted the final one hundred years finishing neck a neck.   

I ended the story, looking at each boy with a hard stare.

“So what’s the final lesson here?”

The concensus was ‘Teamwork!’’

“That’s right. Help each other. Believe in each other.  Dig deep and find out you’re stronger than you’ve ever imagined.”

The boys left one by one shaking my hand and thanking me for the talk.  The last boy shook my hand and, before turning to leave, said, “Thanks for believing in us Mister Strange!”

THE END