April 8 marked the anniversary of Henry Aaron hitting home run number 715, passing Babe Ruth and becoming baseball’s all-time home run leader in 1974.
Years later, I found myself sitting directly behind Mr. Aaron on a flight to Denver for the 2007 World Series. At the time, my first book, Quiet Strength, had come out just months before and was still sitting at #2 on the national bestseller list.
My dad was sitting with me, and I told him that I really wanted to meet the icon. He kept nodding that I should, so at one point, I stepped into the aisle and went to hand him a copy of Quiet Strength, Tony Dungy’s memoir that I’d signed to him, noting what an inspiration he was to me and so many others.
He smiled politely and said, “Sorry, I can’t sign anything.”
I said, “Actually… it’s a gift to you.”
He paused, took the book, smiled and said, “I like Tony a lot.”
Later, my friends didn’t let me off so easy:
“Only you would try to give your autograph to Henry Aaron…”
They weren’t wrong.
But I’ve thought about that moment over the years and, while I still laugh, I’ve come to see it a little differently.
In moments when we find ourselves around greatness, most people instinctively think about what they can get. A story. A photo. An autograph. I get it. I’ve done it, too.
But that day, without really thinking about it, I did the opposite. I tried to give something.
Not because I had anything he needed, but because of what he represented to me.
Leadership – and culture – isn’t built in the big moments when everyone is watching. It’s built in the small ones, when there’s nothing to gain and no one keeping score.
Titles change. Rankings fade. Records get broken.
But who you are in those moments—especially when you don’t have to be anything at all—that’s what lasts.
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