When I was about to graduate in 1992 from East Carolina University, there was one and only one company I wanted to work for: Up with People.  Because of the life changing experience that I had as a student in Up with People five years earlier, my goal was to earn a staff position so I could give something back to the non-profit global leadership organization that had made such an impact on me.  After sending in a written application and three reference letters to Up with People’s world headquarters, I was told by the Human Resources department that I’d be able to interview with one of the company’s Vice Presidents and Cast Directors, who happened to be traveling to central North Carolina in three weeks.

During the weeks prior to that interview, I depleted my savings account to purchase my first business suit, wing-tipped shoes, a silk tie and a leather briefcase.  I even went to the local Kinko’s and printed my resume on expensive linen paper.  And then I memorized it from top to bottom.  I wanted this job more than anything and I wanted to do everything possible to make a great first impression.  On the day of my interview, I drove two hours late in the afternoon to Cary, North Carolina, where Up with People’s Vice President had arranged to meet me at a Holiday Inn.  I walked into that meeting wearing the nicest clothes I had ever owned and carrying a brand new leather briefcase.

I was shocked when the executive I met in the lobby was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a Minnesota Vikings football jersey.  “Hi, my name is Terry Adams,” he said.  “I hope you like Monday Night Football, because my Vikes are about to kick off.”  With that, we walked across the street to a local pizza parlor to watch the game.  Mr. Adams told me politely to lose the tie and briefcase and to call him Terry.  The first “interview” question he asked me was: “What kind of pizza do you like?”

Four hours later, I drove back to East Carolina University scratching my head.  “What the heck just happened?” I asked myself.  It’s not that I didn’t like Terry Adams.  In fact, we totally hit it off.  He was the ultimate guy’s guy and he wore his South Dakotan values of Midwestern humility right on his sleeve (or should I say on his Vikings’ football jersey).  But he hadn’t asked me one question about my resume.  He hadn’t asked me about my grades (or lack of grades) in college.  And he hadn’t talked to me about Up with People or even discussed the job I was applying for.  Not once.  When the football game ended and he walked me back to my car, there was no mention of next steps or even a hint that maybe “someone from HR will be contacting you soon.”  Nothing.

So I was a bit surprised two days later when I received a phone call from a woman named Beth Bowling in Up with People’s Human Resources department. She told me that Terry Adams was also on the line.

“Are you near a refrigerator?” Terry asked me.

“Yes, I’m in my kitchen now,” I replied.

“Do you have any beer in your fridge?”

“What college student doesn’t keep a six pack of Natural Light in the fridge?” I said to him. (Yes, my taste in beer has increased slightly over the past two decades. )

“Well, pop open a beer and start celebrating,” said Terry. “How would you like to be a part of our Up with People team?”

I was speechless. But only for a moment. I quickly accepted the position he offered me as an Admissions Representative on Up with People’s road staff. And a few weeks after graduation, I went to work for Up with People.

Then, six months into that job, I made my very first big mistake.

Terry Adams was the Cast Director for the group of students I was working with and one day he asked me if I’d like to introduce the Up with People show at a high school in Des Moines, Iowa. This was a huge honor and it marked my very first public speaking opportunity with Up with People.  My job was to thank and recognize the local sponsors, community service partners and host families and then to welcome the audience to the show.  It was only a three minute speech, but it was an important three minutes.

I put on the same business suit I had purchased for my interview earlier that year and walked onto a stage in front of an audience of 3,000 Iowans.  As soon as the spotlight hit my face, though, I froze.  I was a deer staring at headlights and I couldn’t seem to get a single word out of my mouth.  I forgot what city we were in.  I forgot the sponsor’s name.  I forgot everything.  In the sweltering glare of that powerful spotlight, I experienced a hot-flash.  I could feel beads of sweat trickling down my forehead and I felt sick to my stomach.  For what seemed like an eternity, I stood there speechless. Thankfully, I was rescued about a minute into the ordeal by another staff member, Kimo Huddy, who put his arm around me and said, “I think what Tommy was trying to say is …”

What a nightmare!  I ran off stage as fast as I could, found the closest bathroom and vomited three times.  Later, I found an empty corner in the high school gymnasium, put my head between my legs and sobbed.  I vowed that I would never speak in public again.

The next day, we were preparing for our second Des Moines performance.  I tried my best to avoid anyone and everyone, fearing that the previous night’s fiasco would come up in conversation.  Then Terry Adams walked up to me and said, “Hey Spaulding, you ready to introduce the show tonight?”

“Are you kidding?” I said to him. “There is no way in hell I’m getting back on that stage.”

And then Terry Adams looked me in the eye and said something that I have repeated to other people at least one hundred times over the years. “Tommy,” he said.  “It is important that we make mistakes.  That’s how we learn.  Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”

That night, I walked on stage to another packed auditorium.  I had butterflies in my stomach, but I took a deep breath and, when that same searing spotlight hit my face, I started to speak. Three minutes later, I had completed the show introduction flawlessly.

I often wonder what twists and turns my life would have taken if Terry Adams had not convinced me to introduce that second show.  If he hadn’t shown confidence in me and challenged me to face my mistakes head on, would my life have somehow still led me to the career I have today, as a world-renowned leadership and inspirational speaker?  Or would I have stuck to my pledge to never speak in public again?

In September 2012, exactly 20 years after that horrific first public speaking nightmare in Iowa, Meetings & Conventions Magazine (the largest and most respected trade magazine for meeting planners and corporate event managers) named me one of the top 100 speakers in the United States.  And, humbly speaking, many people have said to me that I am one of the most gifted storytellers and keynote speakers they’ve ever heard.  Today, two decades after that “deer in headlights” moment, I am now on the speaking circuit full-time.

Last week, I had three keynote speeches in Las Vegas. I frequently travel to two, three or four cities in a single week, but for the first time in my three years on the speaking circuit, all of my speeches happened to be in the same city.  So I invited my old buddy Terry Adams (who is now the Executive Director of the Cherry Creek Arts Festival in Colorado) to join me in Las Vegas and to hang out with me between my speeches.  Since March Madness was in full bloom, I didn’t have to do a lot arm twisting to convince him.

One night Terry and I had dinner with a friend of his, Mike.  Because Terry is very humble, Mike knew very little about the things Terry had done in his life or about his many career successes. So Mike asked me to tell him a “Terry Adams” story.  I actually obliged him with several stories because I think I could write a book about all the leadership and life lessons I have learned from Terry.  One of the tales I told to Mike was the Up with People “deer in headlights” speaking story that I just shared with you.  Mike was hanging on every word.

But, here is the punch line.

Thirteen years after that horrible night in Des Moines, I became the CEO & President of Up with People, the youngest ever in the organization’s history.  And when it came time for me to hand pick our next Chairman of the Board, Terry Adams was the first person that I called.  The best manager I ever worked for was my first choice to help me lead Up with People.  And so the story came full circle – the man who was my first boss out of college then became my last boss.

Some years later, I asked Terry about that job interview back in 1992 at the pizza joint across the street from the Holiday Inn.  “Why didn’t you ask me any questions about my resume or talk with me about the position I was applying for at Up with People?” I asked him.  “And how did you know to hire me when all we did was to eat a pizza, drink a few beers and watch Monday Night Football?”

“Tommy, a lot of the time in job interviews we focus so much on the small things, like what is on a person’s resume, that we end up missing the big things, like what kind of a person we’re talking to,” Terry said to me.  “I didn’t need to ask you any of the usual interview questions because I could tell just hanging out with you over a few beers that you were special.”

If Terry Adams had only paid attention to the small things, he may have noticed my lack of real world business experience at the time or my less than stellar academic record and he may not even have hired me.  If he had focused on my first big mistake speaking in public, he may not have given me a second chance to succeed as a speaker.  Instead, he kept his focus on the bigger picture and he changed my career – and my life.

Think about the folks in your life that you can bless by giving them a second chance to succeed.

And focus on the big things in life.  You might even change someone’s career – or their life.

One day Coach Bob Veltidi, the varsity football coach, approached me in the hallway near the end of my junior year and asked me to come to his office. I didn’t know the football coach, had never played football, and didn’t know why he wanted to meet with me. When I arrived in his office he asked me if I liked playing soccer. I respectfully said no. He asked me if I ever tried kicking a football. No, I told him. Then he asked me, “Would you like a chance to be a part of my football team?” I thought it over for a few minutes and said, “Sure. Why not.”

Coach Veltidi gave me a bag of footballs and a kicking tee and told me to practice kicking field goals. He told me football tryouts were at the beginning of August, and he expected me to be there ready to play. He told me he believed in me. I had never heard those words from a coach before – certainly not the varsity football coach.

That summer, I went to the football field every day, seven days a week, rain or shine, and practiced kicking the football for hours. I kicked hundreds of footballs, and eventually I started kicking the ball through the goal posts – from fifteen yards out, twenty yards out, twenty-five yards out, even thirty yards.

My little sister, Michele, often came to the field to catch or fetch the balls. One time she sprained her thumb while trying to catch a ball, and, to my embarrassment, I made her wait until I was finished kicking all two-hundred field goals before we went home.

When I showed up at tryouts in August, I was ready. I put on a football uniform for the first time, and some of the other players teased me a bit. But they shut up when they saw me kick a field goal from thirty yards out. Coach Veltidi was impressed enough to give me jersey No. 1 and put me on the varsity team as Suffern High School’s starting field-goal kicker. It was the first time in my sporting career that I felt like I mattered.

Coach Veltidi always asked about my activities before and after practice. Because he treated me like a leader on the team, I eventually become one. He always told us that being a football player was more about leadership off the field than on the field. I believed him, and I believed in him. And he believed in me.

We played and won that first home football game of the season. In fact, we had a great team that year. Danny Munoz was one of the best quarterbacks in school history, and we won the first seven games. Although I kicked a lot of extra points, I never kicked a field goal because Danny Munoz’s arm always put Suffern High in the end zone.

Then came the Saturday afternoon showdown with the Clarkstown North Rams.

Fans packed the Clarkstown North stadium, and, as expected, the game was a close one. Clarkstown North had a 21-19 lead with just 22 seconds left to play in the game. We had the ball at the Rams’ 20-yard line, but it was fourth down. Coach Veltidi had to decide between a Hail Mary pass by all-star Danny Munoz and a thirty-seven-yard field-goal attempt by Tommy Spaulding.

I nearly had a heart attack when he called the kicking crew onto the field. I went to Coach Veltidi and told him he should put Danny Munoz back on the field. I had never kicked a winning field goal before and certainly had never kicked a thirty-seven-yarder. And I had missed an extra-point attempt earlier in the game. Then he whispered some of the most significant words I’ve ever heard in my life: “Spaulding, I asked you to be on this team because I believed in who you are as a person, not just as a player. I saw that you were a leader. I saw that you had character. I saw that you had tenacity. Now go out there and kick that field goal and win this game for us. I believe in you, son!”

As I walked onto the field to the roar of the mostly hostile home crowd, I could nearly taste the bile in my stomach. The Clarkstown North coach called time out to “ice” the kicker – me – and I stood in the middle of the field for a few more minutes waiting for my big moment in front of a thousand people. My legs were shaking. My heart was beating like the pistons in a racecar. But my mind was peacefully relaxed, back on the practice field with my little sister kicking field goals on a hot summer day.

When the whistle blew, the ball was snapped, and I kicked it.

“The kick is GOOD!” shouted the announcer. “The kick is GOOD!”

Suffern High won the game 22-21. I was carried off the field like a conquering hero and made the front page of the local newspaper: “Suffern wins on Spaulding’s kick.” The game and “The Kick” became a legend in our school and our town’s history.

All these years later, however, what has meant the most to me wasn’t the football game or “The Kick” or the accolades. What has meant the most to me was my relationship with Coach Veltidi. He gave me the opportunity to play football my senior year; he gave me an opportunity to be a part of something greater than myself. And, most of all, he gave me the opportunity to believe in myself and to respond to his belief in me (excerpt from It’s Not Just Who You Know; Random House, 2010).

I haven’t seen Coach Veltidi but once in the last two decades.  But I think of him often. And I credit much of my success and self-confidence, today, because of his mentorship and experience playing on his football team 27 years ago.  I’ve thanked Coach Veltidi dozens of times, but I never really honored him for the impact he has had on my life.  Until last week.

A few months ago one of my team members secured a speaking gig for me.  But this was not just any speaking gig.  It was called GameChangers and the event was to invite thousands of high school coaches throughout Texas to rally at the American Airlines Center in Dallas to hear from speakers such as Tim Tebow, Gabby Douglas and other world renowned leaders and sport legends.

The first person I thought of after I received this speaking invitation was my father (because he has watched “The Kick” video one-thousand times since I graduated high school).  The second person was my football coach, Bob Veltidi.

So I tracked down Coach Veltidi’s phone number, called him and invited him as my guest, to attend the GameChangers event on February 18^th.  He graciously accepted.

What Coach Veltidi didn’t know was that I had a grand plan.

During my keynote address to the thousands of coaches in the audience, I shared the same football story I just shared with you.  I expressed my gratefulness for the positive impact one coach has had on my life.  I challenge all the coaches that good coaches get “W’s, but great coaches not only win games but build a legacy of leaders around them: on and off the field.  Then I played “The Kick” video.  And then I asked Coach Veltidi to stand and be recognized. I thanked him publically for being THE game changer in my life. The place went crazy.  And from the stage, from corner of my eye, I could see my father and coach sitting side by side, wiping away their tears.

I’ve done some cool things in my short 43 years on this planet.  I’ve even achieved a few things along the way.  But, after getting married, adopting my little sister from Korea and watching my children being born; February 18, 2013 is now towards the top of the list.

What I’ve learned from this all is that our greatest legacy is not what we have achieved, but how we honor those who helped us along the way.

My challenge to you – reach out to someone, today, that made an impact on your life.  Honor them.  Love to hear all about it.

I was immediately introduced to Stream’s Chief Operating Officer, Brian Delaney.  Brian brought me in to facilitate a one-hour team building exercise with his senior management team.  I was not only impressed with Brian, but also his entire team.  These folks were different.  Hard charging, hard working and hard core passionate about their company culture.  Brian, a former Bronx, NY public school teacher turned executive, was as genuine and gentle as they come, but also fiercely smart and intense.  After my brief time with his senior team Brian walked me around the office introducing me around.  He asked me what it was like being on the speaking circuit full-time.  I told him the truth – it gets lonely on the road and I miss my wife and kids terribly.  He listened, intensely.

A month later, Stream wanted me to visit three of their call-centers in El Salvador and Phoenix.  A week before Christmas I headed down to Central America to spend a couple days at Stream’s San Salvador call center.  During my trip my assistant informed me that there was a major snow storm coming through the front range of Colorado and there were predictions of Denver’s International Airport shutting down.  This concerned me because I did not want to get stuck heading home and miss my family holiday festivities.

When I landed in Dallas on my brief layover home, I received this e-mail from Brian Delaney:

Tommy,

Just as a backup escape route for you…I had my admin, Suzanne, reserve you a seat on a United flight that leaves Dallas at 4:47pm today. We did not change anything on your original itinerary; I just wanted something in place for you if weather here in Denver causes your American connection to be canceled. Please call me or Suzanne if the American flight is canceled and we will ticket the United flight for you.

Take care,

Brian

Thanks to Brian, I made the last flight back to Denver before DIA canceled or postponed all flights because of the storm.  Brian, the COO of a nearly billion dollar company, who is responsible for 33,000 employees, was concerned about me, an outside consultant, getting home to my family.  And he found time in his busy schedule to do something about it.

I shared this story when I spoke to Stream’s worldwide team last week.  I told them that Brian’s gesture defines the culture of their organization:  the little things drive the big things.

I have spoken to hundreds of organizations and companies over the past three years.  Many have done “big things” to show their appreciation, but nobody tops Brian’s “little thing”.

What little things are your doing in your business, in your organization, in your life that drives the big things? How are you serving your clients, customers and employees?

Good leaders focus on the big things.  Great leaders know that the little things drive the big things.

Back in 1997 I lived in the Gold Coast of Australia while attending business school at Bond University.  I received my MBA as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar.  During a semester break I traveled over to New Zealand and backpacked throughout that beautiful country for three weeks.  One of my mentors told me that I needed to visit an old friend of his, Rod Dixon from Nelson, New Zealand.  My mentor told me about Rod Dixon’s accomplishments, that his friend was faster than fast and that I should ask to go for a run with him.

When I landed in New Zealand I found a pay phone and called Mr. Dixon.  When I told him I was a friend of his good friend, he invited me to stay at his home.  I accepted his invitation.  My one night stay at Rod Dixon’s home turned into my most important lesson on humility (as well as getting my butt creamed by a retired road runner).

The first afternoon together I asked Mr. Dixon if he wanted to go for a run.  I was 26 years old.  Rod was 47.  I was looking forward to showing this old man up.  And I did, for the first thirty minutes.  Then came the hill.  The very long hill where Mr. Dixon sprinted up and left me in the dust.  Actually, it was my first time that I actually vomited during a run.  I thought I was going to die on that hill.

I showered up, met his family and got a tour of his beautiful home.  We went to a local pub for dinner.  I could barely eat my fish-n-chips.  My stomach was still laying somewhere on that steep hill.

During dinner that night, Rod talked about his family, growing up in New Zealand and his biggest passion – his ranch.  He talked about anything and everything, except his legendary running career.  Not one mention. Not a word. Not during our run, not during the tour of his home and not during dinner.

The following morning before I headed out Rod took me for a drive in his beat up old Ford pick-up truck (his favorite toy).  We chatted and engaged in small talk and then I asked him a direct and personal question.

“Why don’t you have any of your pictures, awards and Olympic medals showcased throughout your home?  I didn’t see anything on your walls that told me about your achievements.  And why don’t you talk about it?”

“I keep all that stuff in a box up in the attic”, Rod shared in a soft voice.

“If I won the New York City Marathon or an Olympic medal, those puppies would be hanging above my fireplace mantle or on the wall in my office”, I shared back.

And then Rod Dixon shared something with me that I still remember fifteen years later.

“I am not defined by my medals and my accomplishments.  I am defined by the people that love me and those I love and serve in return.”

I travel to over a hundred cities a year.  During my tenure as CEO of Up with People and now full-time on the speaking circuit I have visited hundreds of private homes, corporate headquarters and personal work offices.  I have had the honor to dine with CEO’s and world leaders.  I have met managers, school principals and countless employees.  But I have never met anyone more humble than Rod Dixon.

It is amazing to see all the egos that are hung on walls.  Framed graduation certificates.  Pictures with famous politicians.  Awards, plaques and trophies showcased proudly.

Before I met Rod Dixon my walls were full of everything and anything that could tell the world that I was successful.  I’m embarrassed to even admit what I had framed and put on my walls.  The local frame shop even knew me by my first name. My motto was, “If I won it, I hung it!”

Thank God I met Rod Dixon. Today, my office is filled with pictures of my wife and children.  There is nothing in my home or in my office that showcases my ego.  All that stuff is in a box in the attic, where it belongs.

What is hanging in your office?  What is hanging on the walls throughout your home?

You can tell a lot about a person by what they have hanging on their walls.  But, you can tell even more about a person by what they don’t have hanging on their walls.

This wasn’t the first time I ever voted for a Democrat, but I can probably count on one hand the number of times it’s happened in the past.  I’m certainly not a fanatic – I enjoy a spirited conversation with my Democratic friends who are passionate about their beliefs and I’m open to politicians of either party who can best represent me.  It’s just that the Republican philosophy of limited government is a better fit for my beliefs, which is one of the reasons that I worked for the Bob Dole presidential campaign in 1996.

But what is different about my vote for a Democrat for Congress this year is that I didn’t make the choice based simply on ideology.  The Democrat that I voted for is a moderate, so I do share some of his views, but I’m still aligned more closely with Republican values.  In the end, it simply came down to the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to vote for someone who, to me, is not genuine.

The Republican that I didn’t vote for has been in office for several terms and I’ve met him at various events and fundraisers around town.  But I’ve never had a single conversation with him that went beyond a handshake.  This man has a routine at public events of going from table to table, shaking everyone’s hand, monotonously repeating his name and the office he’s running for, and then moving on. It’s almost become a joke among some of his constituents.  Everything appears to be transactional, as though he’s merely playing a role.  Nothing seems to be based on relationships.  It’s not that I personally need to have a conversation with the man, but I’ve never seen him make an effort to establish a connection with a single one of his constituents.

Let me tell you a brief story that gets to the point of why this bothers me.  In my student days, I supported myself by working at a few restaurant jobs.  And I’ll never forget what one of my managers told me one day.

“Tommy,” he said, “we need to clean the bathroom every 30 minutes.  Keeping a clean bathroom is maybe the most important thing we can do for customers and for our reputation.  Do you know why? Because when people see a clean bathroom they believe the restaurant also has a clean kitchen. When they see a dirty bathroom, they assume that the kitchen is also dirty.  So we have to keep the bathrooms clean.”

That lesson has always stuck with me.

Now, I realize that it may seem strange to equate clean bathrooms with a vote for my Representative.  But a restaurant customer sees a dirty bathroom and equates it with a dirty restaurant.  I see someone who makes no effort to build relationships with his constituents and I equate it with someone who goes back to his office and treats his colleagues the same way.  If my Congressman only sees me as a handshake and not as a constituent, then how does he see his colleagues in Washington?  Does he treat the people in his office the same way?  What about other Representatives in Congress?  Does he make an effort to work with other people to find solutions to our challenges?  Does he go across the aisle and try to develop relationships with politicians of the opposing party when compromise is necessary?  I find it hard to believe that he does.

It’s like that in every facet of our lives.  If a restaurant doesn’t keep one room clean, then why should we believe they keep any room clean?  If a politician isn’t genuine when he needs my vote, then why should I believe that he’s genuine in any other phase of his life?  Genuineness and authenticity are extremely important to me.  A lack of genuineness is a deal breaker. Simple as that.

So I voted for the Democrat.

I grew up in Suffern, New York.  And even though my father currently has a for-sale sign hanging in the front yard of the home I grew up in, Suffern will always be considered my hometown.  There are three people from Suffern High School who have died way too young and one man, who passed away at age 84 that was my greatest mentor growing up.  I’ve always wanted to find a way to honor these four very special people.

After touring nearly the entire country over the past two years promoting my first book, It’s Not Just Who You Know, I finally found a service organization in Suffern willing to step up and organize a fundraiser to help raise significant funds towards scholarships in the names of these four individuals.  I agreed to be the keynote speaker at the fundraising event.

During this process I was introduced to a woman within this service organization who stepped up immediately to chair this event.  We could not have found a better event chair.  This woman was beyond talented.  She had more drive, energy and passion than a door to door salesperson.  And to complete the trifecta, she had read my book and not only thought my message of servant leadership and genuine relationships was spot on, but she actually lived its message.

The event chairwoman and I worked closely together with the initial planning of the event.  Shortly after we started working together she sent me a heartfelt e-mail asking for my help.  She explained in her e-mail that her very close friend, who was dying of cancer, was a big New York Yankee fan.  She asked if I could get some signed personal Yankee swag to give to her dying friend.

Of course when I first read her e-mail my natural instincts were to find a way to help.  But when I started to think more about this request, I realized that I was not the right person to make it happen.  In all honesty, I have some contacts and relationships within the New York Yankee organization, but not strong enough to influence Derek Jeter to reach out to a person in need.  And even if I did have such a relationship within the Yankee organization that could grant this wish, I would be very protective of that relationship (not wanting to abuse the relationship by favor asking).

I decided I would find time to respond to the event chairwoman and politely share with her why I was not the right person to help with her request. However, in the midst of a twenty city month tour, days turned into weeks and I never did respond.

Shortly thereafter, I received another e-mail from the event chairwoman telling me that she had decided to step down as chairwoman of the fundraising event.  My first reaction was that I was not surprised.  The fundraising event was a huge undertaking and it was clear to me that she was taking on too much responsibility and needed more local volunteers to help.  I immediately responded to her e-mail and told her that I supported her decision.  Her being a wife, mother, full-time employee and part-time community volunteer it must be hard to juggle it all.  I suggested, without her leadership, that we cancel the event.

Her next e-mail is what killed me.  She responded that she is not resigning because she is overwhelmed from the volunteer work load, but she is stepping down as event chair because she lost her faith in me.  She felt that I was not living the message of my book – genuinely helping and serving others.  Bottom line – she shared how disappointed she was in me that after she sent me a heartfelt e-mail request to help her dying friend, I did not respond.

I can’t even remember the last time I had been that upset.  Her words crushed me (and later helped me become better at saying the word “no”).

My first reaction was different than how I feel today.  My first reaction was that she was incredibly wrong to judge me as a person because I did not respond to her e-mail request.  I also felt that she had no idea how hard it was traveling to two, sometimes, three or four cities a week on the speaking tour and manage all the follow-up e-mail from hundreds of folks.

Months later, I see her side a lot more clearly.  Although I still think it is unfair for someone to write a person off because they don’t hit reply on an e-mail request, however, I do think I was in the wrong.  Lesson learned – if someone sends you a personal and heartfelt request, it should be responded with a personal and heartfelt answer – even if the answer is “no”.

A few years ago I placed a call into Jim Collins.  Jim, in my opinion, is one of the most talented leadership and business thought leaders in our century. His books, Good to Great and Built to Last, should be required reading and part of every leader’s personal library. I called Jim to follow up with a personal request that I submitted in writing to his office; that he would consider being the keynote speaker at my annual Book-n-Benefit Business Breakfast fundraiser, benefiting the non-profit high school leadership program I founded back in 2000. The catch, in the ten years we have held this fundraising breakfast, we had never paid for a keynote speaker. Pat Lencioni, Steve Farber, Mark Sanborn, Lee Cockerell, Jason Jennings and Chester Elton have all generously donated their time over the past decade to help raise scholarships for high school students to attend the National Leadership Academy (www.nationalleadershipacdemy.org)

The following Monday after I placed that call, I got not one, but two voice messages from Jim Collins (his first message ran out of time so he called back a second time to finish his long message).  Mr. Collins praised me for my commitment to leadership development and sincerely told me he was a fan of my work.  He then began to explain how many dozens of speaking requests he gets each month, let alone pro-bono speeches. “There is no humanly way possible to fulfill them all,” said Collins.  “My team and I choose three charities each year to speak to for free.  As much as I value the great work you do, Tommy, I’m going to have to decline.”

It was one of the most beautiful and genuine “no’s” that I had ever received.  I played the message three times – in awe that Jim Collins took the time to thoughtfully explain his “no”.

I have been on the other side of not getting a response.

I know a public school teacher, who is a very successful varsity high school football head coach.  He was one of my childhood hero’s.  Four years older than me, I remember following him around his newspaper route, just to hear his stories of sports (and girls).  Years later and early in his coaching career he marched his entire team off the football field (in the middle of the game) after his players were being disrespectful to the referees and opposing team.  The coach got major flak from parents and fans for forfeiting the game – but he did the right thing.  At least the Governor of New York thought so, because the Governor personally called the coach to praise his leadership and strength in character.

Years later, I wanted to write about this amazing story in my next leadership book, called The Real Deal.  I called the coach three times at his home, each time leaving a detailed message with my intentions.  One of the messages I even talked to his wife to please have him return my call.  I never heard back from him. How do I feel about this coach?  Probably the same way the event chairwoman felt about me after I did not respond to her request.

We are all guilty of not returning phone calls, e-mails and invitations.  We are all guilty of not responding to personal and work related communication.  What I have learned over the years is that the quickest way to lose respect is not following through with communication.  Even if the communication is a “no”.   Follow up.  Follow through.  “No” is an acceptable answer.  No answer is unacceptable.

Jason Gay’s article in the August 12^th The Wall Street Journal inspired me to write about what I feel is one of the most important characteristics of sportsmanship (and in life): Humility.

Gay writes, “The Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt is not to be missed at these 2012 Summer Olympics in London.  He has won gold medals in the 100 and 200 meters, breaking his own Olympic record.  Still, the most satisfying part of Bolt – even more than his brilliant runs – is how much he demolishes the myth that the world wants humble athletes.  This is the belief that superstars are supposed to always carry themselves as paragons of modesty, never calling the spotlight to themselves, never crossing some bright, imaginary line that exists dividing the attention-deserving from the attention-seeking.  What’s great about Bolt is that he crashes over this line and nobody cares.  He’s just too good.  The finger pointing, the shhhhh, the push-ups, the bow and arrow, the underappreciated somersault he did after the 100 last Sunday – he does all the things you’re allegedly not supposed to do.  Doesn’t matter.  Earth loves Bolt.”

I couldn’t disagree more.

True, Usain Bolt is the fastest sprinter on earth, but that does not mean that “Earth loves Bolt”.  Humility trumps lightening.  NBC’s Bob Costas said it best on live television after Jamaica won the men’s 400 relay when he said, “It’s hard to think higher of Usian Bolt than he already thinks of himself.”  Enough said.

Let me share with you one story that summarizes what I believe defines the “Olympic Spirit”.

South Africa’s Oscar Pistorius made history by becoming the first amputee sprinter to compete in the Olympics.  When Pistorius finished last in his 400 meter semifinal heat, a teenager from Grenada asked him to swap running bibs, the ultimate sign of respect.  Kirsani James, 19, went on to win the gold, the first medal for Grenada in Olympic history (USA Today).

“He’s been a huge inspiration for everybody, whether you’re a track athlete or just a normal person, James said of Pistorous.  You can be somebody no matter what disability you have.  Just being out there and competing against Oscar is a huge honor for me.”

Honor – the most beautiful word in the sportsmanship dictionary.  That word must not exist in Usain Bolt’s dictionary.

What makes the Olympics more than a 14-day competition is the “Olympic Spirit”. A spirit of country above one’s self.  A spirit of honor.  A spirit of humility.  This spirit lives within Olympians such as Missy Franklin, Gabby Douglas, Lolo Jones, Michael Phelps, Kerri Walsh, Kirsani James and many other world class athletes.  There’s no myth about that.

Who would have thought it?

Kansas City, with its reputation for Midwestern values and frontier work ethic, turns out to be a bastion of the rude and unruly.

I discovered this during a visit there this week for Major League Baseball’s All-Star game.  Mark Urich, one of my best friends, joined me for the trip, and we took his son and my stepson.  The otherwise pleasant and hospitable experience turned rotten on Monday evening during the Home Run Derby. The only positive:  it provided a learning opportunity on leadership, followership and sportsmanship.

The Home Run Derby is an exhibition in which four players from the American League and four players from the National League battle to see who can hit the most home runs.  Each player gets 10 “outs” per round and an out is any swing that doesn’t produce a home run.

Last year’s winner, Robinson Cano of the New York Yankees, got to pick the American League team for 2012, and he picked Jose Bautista, Mark Trumbo and Prince Fielder.  He didn’t pick Billy Butler, the top home-run hitter for the hometown Kansas City Royals.

This, of course, didn’t sit well with the fans in Kansas City.  So when Cano took his turn in the competition, the fans booed.  That’s not unusual.  Last year, the fans in Arizona booed Fielder (the 2010 winner) because he didn’t pick the Diamondbacks’ Justin Upton.

Now, I’m from the New York area, so I’m no stranger to rowdy crowds.  I’ve heard my share of “Bronx cheers.”  And I’ve been to hundreds of live sporting events all around the country and the world.  And as a lifelong fan of the Yankees, I understand that I love a team that much of the world loves to hate.  So I wasn’t bothered or surprised by the booing of Robinson Cano.  Not at first.

The fans in Kansas City, however, never let up.  In fact, they booed more.  And more.  And more.  Louder.  And louder.  And louder.  And when Cano had nine outs without a home run, the fans cheered wildly for him to make one more out and go homerless in the competition.  His father, who was pitching, fought back tears as he stood on the mound while his son took the crowd’s verbal abuse.

Unfortunately, the fans in Kansas City ruined the exhibition by taking friendly booing way too far, almost to the point of harassment.  So my friend and I got the chance to talk with our sons about sportsmanship, about leadership, and about following leaders when you disagree with their choices.

On the one hand, Cano provided a prime example of a leader’s challenge:  Making and living with tough decisions.  If he had it to do over, he might have picked Butler.  But he didn’t second-guess himself.  He pointed out that it was a tough decision and there were several deserving players who didn’t get picked.  It was nothing against Butler.

Cano also didn’t blame the fans for booing.  Cano has a great reputation (which made the booing more ironic) and he maintained his class in the face of the fans’ displeasure.  When asked by the media if he considered the relentless booing “low class,” Cano said no.  ”This is for the fans and that’s what they feel like,” he said.  “There’s nothing else I can do.”

Great leaders own their decisions, make the tough decisions even when they are unpopular, and don’t blame others.

And what about great followers?

Let’s face it, we don’t always agree with the leaders around us.  If the decision isn’t immoral or illegal, our disagreement typically leaves us with two options:  We can respect the leader’s positional authority and support the decision as best we can, or we can play the role of the critic and become a cancer within the organization.

The thing about cancer, of course, is that it spreads and turns what was healthy into something that’s sick.  I suspect most of the fans booing Cano are generally nice folks, but they got caught up in the moment and allowed themselves to become ugly.  It will forever shape my impression of the people here in a negative way.

Great followers express their objections and then let it go.  They respect authority and don’t undermine it.  And they don’t get swept up in the ugliness around them; instead, they become leaders by helping turn the tide.

Kansas City now needs those followers to emerge and retake their city.

Just about every high school in America has a line item in its budget for vending machines. Those machines might offer Coke, they might offer Pepsi, or they might offer vitamin water. But whatever they offer, they dispense only when students, faculty or staff deposit the required amount of change.  And that change adds up.

I’ve founded two non-profit high school leadership development organizations (Leader’s Challenge and the National Leadership Academy), so I’ve visited with hundreds of principals, and I’ve asked them all about their vending machines. The answer tells me something about the school’s values and culture.

When I was in high school, the money from our vending machines helped fund the senior prom. Other schools use it as a “principal’s discretionary fund,” so the principal can pay for unexpected challenges during the year. Some pour it into textbooks or athletic uniforms or the band or clubs or community philanthropy.

One of the most interesting answers to that question came from the principal of an urban public high school in Denver.

“We use that money to hire a janitorial service that cleans the school at night,” he said.

This struck me as odd. I’ve never walked through a school that didn’t have janitors on staff.

“Don’t you have janitors who clean the school during the day?” I asked.

“Yes we do,” the principal told me. “But I often find them asleep in the janitors’ room. They do about 25 percent of the work we need done. But I can’t fire them. They’re union.”

And then he delivered the real punch line: “I can’t hold my staff accountable for quality.”

A commitment to quality is the driving force in business success, and a lack of commitment to it is the driving force to our destruction – in education, in non-profits, in government, in business … everywhere. No matter the sector or industry, it will rise or fall on its emphasis on quality.

The principal at that inner-city school succeeded because of his commitment to quality. But it came at a cost, because he had to divert resources from one area to fix another. How often do you have a breakdown in quality that requires you to bring in night janitors to fix? How often does your business spend extra resources to fix something that wasn’t done right the first time?

Or maybe your quality issue comes from something more basic: A lack of focus on quality. For instance, how often do you give in to the temptation to sacrifice quality for quick growth and profits?

There’s nothing wrong with profits or growth, but the best businesses know that they flow from a commitment to quality.

Andy Stanley told a story at a leadership conference recently that illustrates this point. Andy lives in Atlanta, which also is the home of Chick-fil-A. He told a story about how Boston Market (formerly Boston Chicken) took off in the 1990s. It began opening new stores all across the country and became a major competitor for Chick-fil-A, especially in the southeastern United States.

During a Chick-fil-A board meeting, in fact, the directors spent a good bit of time discussing how they should respond to Boston Market’s quick expansion. The members were passionately discussing ways Chick-fil-A could outgrow Boston Market. The central question: How could Chick-fil-A get bigger, faster?

Then Truett Cathy, the normally mild-mannered founder and CEO, interrupted the discussion by pounding the table and saying, “I’m sick and tired of this discussion about bigger. We need to make it better. If we get better, our customers will demand we get bigger.”

And that’s what happened. Boston Market eventually filed for bankruptcy, was purchased by McDonald’s and eventually sold to Sun Capital Partners. It now has only 480 locations. Chick-fil-A now has more than 1,600 locations and 44 consecutive years of positive sales growth. Chick-fil-A focused on quality – quality food, quality service, quality people. And the growth followed.

You might be tempted to cut corners on quality, but if you don’t put something good to drink in your vending machine, it won’t make you any change.

The answers that came back included things like the “offensive line for the Denver Broncos” and “partners at a law firm.”

Nope and nope.

Well, all five were, at some point, lawyers, but certainly not in the same firm.

Here’s a hint: They all have something in common with these five men – George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, and Ronald Reagan.

The second five, of course, were U.S. presidents – just like the first five.

If you didn’t recognize the first five, don’t feel bad. If it weren’t for the “U.S. Presidents” place mats that sit under my kids’ plates at our kitchen table, I wouldn’t have known that Chester Arthur was the 21st president of the United States (1881-1885).

Tyler, Fillmore, Arthur, Harrison and Pierce all were one-term presidents, and Tyler, Fillmore and Arthur reached that office only because they were vice presidents when the incumbents died. Their accomplishments as presidents were minimal at best. They weren’t necessarily bad men, although Pierce often ranks “No. 1″ on lists that rank the worst presidents in U.S. history.

Now think about the other five men I mentioned: Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt and Reagan. These leaders faced extraordinary challenges and produced extraordinary results. You don’t even need their first names to recognize them. We name streets, schools, towns and airports in their honor. All were elected to multiple terms. All left significant legacies that impacted the course of human history, not just U.S. history.

Most of us aren’t the president of the United States and never will be. But it’s not about the title. If we’ve learned anything from the likes of John Tyler, Millard Fillmore, Chester Arthur, Benjamin Harrison and Franklin Pierce, it’s that it takes more than a title to create a legacy. It takes big ideas that make a difference in the lives of people.

In fact, can I be a little bold and suggest that a child named Alex Scott left a legacy that outshines that of many former presidents?

Alex was recovering from a stem-cell transplant when, at the age of 4, she told her mom she wanted to have a lemonade stand so she could raise money to help find a cure for children like her who had cancer. By the end of that summer in 2000, Alex had raised $2,000. By the time she died in 2004, Alex’s lemonade stands had raised nearly $1 million and launched a foundation that now has raised – get this – more than $50 million. Check it out at www.alexslemonade.org.

All of us, not just presidents, are remembered by the legacies we leave, and the legacies we leave are shaped by the outcomes of our decisions. We face challenges and opportunities every day, and how we respond shapes our legacies as mothers, fathers, community leaders, business leaders, husbands, wives, friends, co-workers, employees, supervisors, business owners …

Are you recognizing your opportunities to change the world and acting with passion, boldness and insight? Some presidents did, some didn’t. Alex did. Are you? Are you making your legacy come alive?