Touching Greatness
by Joshua I Kaplan, 12-09-2025
I have always wanted to be great. At stuff, in general, at anything, just be the best at something. At everything, if I'm being real with my own self. But at the root of it all is ignorance in regard to what great really was, what it really meant, and especially, what it required. What I once thought was great, is now merely above average, and to my credit, it didn't take me a very long time to recognize greatness, and how it differed from being very good. I also noted the difference between doing the best you can do, and being the best.
The very first component to understanding and being great is somebody digesting what you do and saying, "Dang, that guy is great!" I'll call it audience, though an audience of one is certainly not enough to stake any claim to greatness. Therefore, to be truly great, one's audience must be great as well, in size and/or quality. If your audience is great themselves, then any claim one has to this elusive state is potently enhanced.
Greatness requires hard work, first and foremost. Focus, repetition, endurance, and making the right choice as to what to be great at. If one sucks at a thing, even though they may enjoy doing it, there's a diminshed probablity of attaining greatness. example: I have been playing the guitar for almost 50 years, and at one point I really wanted to be great at it. I had checked the repetition and endurance checkboxes, but focus has always been an issue for me, and my hands don't seem to want to do the stuff that I want them to. the missing components have resulted in me being just okay musically, and though i surely could have been better, could BE better, I wasn't ever coming close to great.
Though I myself have never attained greatness at anything, I do believe that I am a very good judge of greatness, and I have been blessed by having experienced this in close proximity.
Evel Knievel
I was in St. Petersburgh at a sushi restaurant, waiting in line to pay the bait bill, when an older, very dapper gentleman hobbled in through the entrance sporting a cane in each hand. He moved as man that had seen better days, and on his arm was an absolutely marvelous young woman, dressed in sequins and shine.
The hostess informed them that all the tables were taken and asked if they might enjoy sitting at the bar for a moment or two until one opened up.
The dapper gentleman gave his assent quietly.
I couldn't take my eyes off him. I didn't recognize him at first, he was just a handsome, broken old man with a gorgeous starlet on his arm, and I couldn't stop staring.
"What name for the table, sir?" asked the overworked and running behind hostess.
The handsome older man in tinted aviator glasses looked around left to right, saw me staring, and said loud enough for everyone close by to hear, looking right at me.
"Knievel."
My jaw dropped, and I continued to stare as the compelling couple slowly made their way around the queue toward the bar.
As they got close, Evel looked at me, saw me still staring, but now with a huge grin on my face.
"How you doing?" Evel Knievel said, to me.
To me.
"I'm great, Sir!" Is all I could muster.
Harlem Globetrotters
My father, rest his soul, took me as a child to see the Harlem Globetrotters on several occasions. As a high level educator, he had access to all the group promotions that the education dept used to run, and though we were never VIPs or anything resembling that, it was always a grand time.
Saw the great Meadowlark Lemon, Curley Neal, and the rest, do what they did better than anyone ever. Barnstorming Basketball.
As a grown man with children of his own, I knew that when seeing an ad for a resurrected Harlem Globetrotters, though the players were all different now and did not share the same celebrity as the older version, it would be remiss of me to not give my own kids a chance to experience the 'Trotters for themselves.
Got tickets, endured the crowd, found our seats, and got to watch my kids (much older than I was when first seeing the 'Trotters) grin with glee at the on-court shenanigans. I noted that their rival, always and still the hated Washington Generals, the losingest team in the history of sports, was still terrible, and fell for every gag, some of them the same gags I saw as kid. My children didn't care, it was all new to them, so more power to the Globetrotters for sticking with what works and maybe paying some homage to the greats that preceeded them.
Seeing their enjoyment, I decided to make the journey to the floor courtside, not for autographs or pictures, but because that's where the promoter decided to set up the merchandising tables, and that is where I would procure some memorabilia for my kids to remember this evening by.
Once there, I stood in line courtside, as the game continued, and waited patiently, watching dozens of little kids dribbling their tiny commemoratitve basketballs pretty much everywhere.
Then the game ball, apparently mishandled, went out of bounds and hit me in the back of the head.
Kareem Abdul Jabbar
When I was a budding pain in the ass at the age of 14, I used to go autograph hunting with my buddy Mark Z. He had some kind of connection, or to be more accurate, his father did, to finding out which hotel the visiting professional sports teams were staying at when they came to town.
One day he calls me and says, "Hey, the Lakers are in town at the Cherry Hill Hilton. Wanna go?"
"How will we get there?" I asked, puzzled
"Take the train, goes right to it." There might have been a bus involved too, but the memory is fuzzy after 50 years.
We took the train, then maybe something else, and ended up at the aforementioned hotal, and entering, saw many very large people signing autographs for very many smaller people. We joined the fray.
After collecting autographs from a bunch of guys I didn't know, I got Cazzie Russell to sign, and even the NBA logo himself, who was at that time the Lakers' Head Coach, Jerry West! Notorious for being all business, he was kind enough to sign twice for me.
"Thank you, sir." I said, as always. Always please, always thank you, always respect. That's important in this story to note.
Surveying the surrounding area I saw an unmistakable form at the front desk. It was Kareem. The Captain. The man who would surpass Wilt Chamberlain and become the greatest scorer in the history of the NBA.
"Excuse me, Mr. Jabbar, could I get an autograph, please? I said meekly to the towering figure who seemed twice my size, if not more.
Nothing.
"Excuse me, Mr. Jabbar, could I get an autograph please." I repeated, thinking he was so far above me he didn't hear me the first time.
Nothing.
"Excuse me, Mr. Jabbar..." then something.
Kareem Abdul Jabbar turned to me, bent over so he could be close to my face, and screamed, "LEAVE ME ALONE!" square in my mush. A moment later, some guy came over and escorted me away. Seemed like the guy enjoyed the show.
I saw an interview recently which reminded me of this event, as the panel of ex-pro NBA ballers, including Magic Johnson, talked about what a disagreeable individual Kareem Abdul Jabbar had been in his playing days, and people having received the Kareem treatment. Just like me.
In all three of these instances, I didn't touch greatness, greatness touched me.
~End
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