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The Little Things.

By Rob Lambert - Email Editor

Date : Sep 07, 2006

I know that I must be getting old when some sappy fable (The Cab Ride) from an old friend hits my desk, and I actually read it and enjoy it MORE than the dirty jokes and plentiful porn we are inundated with. For men, this happens when we start realizing that we aren't immortal. This happens normally with the first motorcycle accident; and if none, sometime between 40 and 50.

I thought I would take a break and tell a true-life story about something that did matter to a nice little old man.

My father died when I was 12 years old. This left quite a void, and I found myself, as a dumb kid, the only man in a family of crazy women. This was alright, but, fortunately, I had some friends whose dads seemed to take me under their wings.

One of my best friends was a fellow 12-year-old named Art Wood. We would ride our bikes everywhere, and did things all red-blooded American boys do, like buy Playboys and try and spy on his several-year-older-sister's friends. (His Mom was onto this and bought drapes).

One night Art's Dad invited "us boys" to go to a Lakers game with him. I had never been to a professional sporting event before and was excited. It seemed like a big deal, until I found myself sitting on some fold-out seats at the center court line where, if I just stretched a bit, I could actually touch the court. Then I knew it was a big deal. I saw (and also felt, smelled and heard) people do things that I did not think were possible.

After the game, we were invited upstairs to have some hotdogs (really bratwurst, but what's a 12-year-old to know) with the players. On the way into the room where the players were, I had to be polite and shake hands with some little old bald man who was my host. I dutifully shook his hand, introduced myself, and then made a mad dash to talk with the players.

When it was over I was walking out of the room and the same little old bald man came over to me and said, "Robert, it was great meeting you. I hope you will come again." That was a major event in my life. Some MAN (albeit short and bald) actually remembered my name, the name of some slightly overweight, semi-worthless 12-year-old without a dad. It was as if the world stood still. I stumbled to the car in shock, numbed that this MAN remembered my name.

On the way home, I asked Mr. Wood who he was. Mr. Wood replied, "Jack Kent Cooke, he owns the Lakers." Wow, I hadn't bothered to remember his name and he remembered mine? This stuck with me for years.

When I started my business in New York City, I heard that Mr. Cooke was now the owner of the Washington Redskins. I wrote Mr. Cooke a short note telling him how much that event in my life, over 25 years ago, had impacted me. I told him that I now had a rule: If somebody is important enough to speak with, they are important enough to remember their name. That is one of the most effective and easiest ways to show respect. Everybody appreciates that. A week later the phone rang, and it was Mr. Cooke.

He thanked me for the note and told me how much it meant to him. This guy of fabulous wealth and power was touched that he had been able to really help some fat kid who just lost his Dad.

Every year until he died Mr. Cooke called me, always near the end of the football season. We would always speak a bit and catch up. On one of the last times we spoke he told me that my short note was still on his wall. That made me feel good that I could somehow give some joy back to this short bald guy who helped me so much.

Have a healthy and protected week.

Rob Lambert

P.S. I recommend that you consider attending a conference in Thailand later this month on Asset Protection. (Click here for conference registration form; click here for Oriental Hotel reservation form.) It is organized by one of my good friends, Jack Flader, and is at one of the very best hotels in the world, the Oriental. This hotel is so good that the butler (yes, everybody has one) actually cares what you want as an afternoon snack and whether or not your clothes are pressed. For years the Oriental guests were the only folks in Bangkok allowed to drive around in cars painted an orange-yellow, a color reserved for the King and his family. Needless to say, the treatments were always special, and the cops didn't give you any trouble! The best part is that John Dietz will be there, and you will have the chance to get to know a bit about us on a personal basis.

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