The President’s “Speech Writer”
Over the years, I've given presentations in front of thousands of people, jumping into the spotlight right before some of the world’s most famous stars and politicians hit the stage. Folks like Tony Robbins (amazing and energetic), Gen. Colin Powell (authentic and brilliant), and Donald Trump (self-absorbed and off-topic), Just to namedrop a bit :-)
Before each of these talks, I'd pace backstage, thinking about my speech roadmap and key lines, all while trying to avoid getting too amped up and cocky. Why? I've found that I do my worst when I’m too confident before hitting the stage. In fact, I often advise nervous colleagues to relish their angst and use nervousness as an edge.
Of course, too much of anything is never good, especially nerves, and on one particular occasion, presenting before another U.S. president, they nearly got the best of me.
President Bill Clinton stood 10 feet behind me in a dimly lit, dusty backstage room. The Secret Service circled him like dolphins protecting their young. Earlier, I had watched as officials with automatic rifles took positions near the ceiling. Others perched like ravens on scaffolding in the cavernous auditorium. Thousands of business professionals had filed into the room, and an audible buzz began to build. Suddenly, rapid-fire noises, like a machine gun, rang out. I turned around almost instantly; the President had vanished into thin air.
As it turns out, electronic feedback caused the speakers to "backfire," and an all-clear eventually sounded. A very high-alert team escorted President Clinton back to the pre-stage floor, and apparently, I now needed further investigation.
The team dispatched a tough-looking human fire hydrant to chat with me. At maybe 5'2", a full foot shorter than my neatly groomed head, the man still probably carried 30lbs more on his frame. He cooly introduced himself as one of President Clinton's (ahem) "speech writers." Then, with a nasal Jerry Lee Lewis voice, he asked me a series of questions - each with something just a bit 'wrong.'
"You work for the Advertising Speciality Insurance company?" he asked.
"Do you mean the Advertising Specialty Institute?" I replied.
"You know Timothy Anderson?" he continued.
"You mean, Tim Andrews?" I asked ...
He continued to hard-core, non-stop grill me with slightly incorrect questions and awkward conversation for the next 5 minutes. All the while adjusting his earpiece, patting a hidden gun, and waiting for me to screw up. The dude made me extremely uncomfortable, mentally exhausted, and very nervous.
I knew I had to end the barrage, get the speech note cards out of my suit jacket, and start practicing, or I'd tank my presentation.
Ah yes, my suit jacket. More specifically, my buttoned suit jacket. To be exact, the left pocket of my buttoned suit jacket. A location that would look exactly like I was going for a gun if I unbuttoned and reached in.
Crap.
I spoke to the fire hydrant.
"I need to practice for my speech. Is that okay?"
"Sure," it replied.
"It's here, in my suit pocket," I motioned toward my left chest.
The fire hydrant didn't say a word.
I very slowly unbuttoned my jacket, using my left hand to open the coat. I showed him my right hand and slowly reached into the pocket, gently withdrawing the index cards using just my thumb and forefinger. His eyes didn't leave me for a second.
Once I had the cards, he returned to President Clinton, and I felt sweat pouring down the inside of my shirt.
I went on stage about 10 minutes later; believe it or not, that's when things truly fell apart!
The Philadelphia Boys Choir sang the national anthem, and the last kid off the stage tripped on a wire that held a ~30-foot video screen.
The screen fell toward the audience, stopping just a few meters over their heads. People screamed in unison, praying that the security wires held (they did).
As soon as the screams erupted from the audience, Clinton, his 'speech writer,' and the Secret Service vanished again. Like in milliseconds, they were gone!
I walked onto a spotlit stage of AV chaos, sweating a river, and realized my presentation required the screen that hung over the crowd.
I thanked everyone for their patience and began my presentation, counting on the stage-left screen for my video. That should have been fine, except the AV crew forgot to press play while they directed raising the stage-right screen.
I vaguely remember the first few minutes of my presentation. I shared the concepts of my theoretical video and integrated them with the key talking points from my now useless note cards. Maybe 3 to 4 minutes into that problem-solving, someone in the AV booth remembered to hit play and started the video from scratch. I then had to pivot back to my original roadmap.
TBH, I don't recall finishing my speech, introducing the next presenter, or leaving the stage. I did hear from people in the company afterward that I had done a great job despite everything that had gone wrong. It certainly didn’t feel good at the time, and I would have marked several categories ‘red’ if I’d been running my weekly Life Force Analysis.
Today, though, it makes for a pretty cool story!
The moral of the story? Not every bad day or bad week will stay red in your memories forever. Life happens. Speed bumps arise. Give yourself a break, and remember you’re only human. Green dot days are ahead!
