Coached by the Captain

Usually, he sat across from me in his beige leather recliner, within 10 feet of his 50 inch flat screen HDTV that was connected to his satellite (for his football he told me). Or, other times, we sat across a table from each other—where we had put up the imaginary fence for his side and my side. Most often he had on his off-white long john underwear with his white sheet over his legs. Sometimes he wore his silk (he informed me that it was not satin) robe that his beloved Claudia gave him many years ago. He was sometimes unshaven and his skin had that roughness and color that I remembered from my grandfather many years ago. Just like my grandfather’s, his was soft to the touch. My companion stayed like this most of the time because of his neuralgia and the rash he sometimes had. He would rather not “get dressed” unless he had to go somewhere. Where to begin? I asked myself this every day that I met with him. However, I didn’t have to come up with a topic. He always had something on his mind and that, along with a multitude of other things, became the topic for the day. So, for the next three hours I sat, taking notes, listening, asking questions, and learning. He said that I have the same type of endless curiosity that he had all his life. How many things can a person learn from another? If the teacher is willing, the student is open, and the time frame seems endless, one can learn a lifetime’s worth of wisdom and truth. He was William T. Hogg, the founder and principal owner of the company for which I worked at the time. He wanted all of us to call him “Bill,” but I have never heard anyone at the company refer to him in that way—not even the Chairman of the Board who had worked with him for years in many capacities other than as a “board member.” I guessed it was out of respect or a familiarity that could not be changed. No matter how close this relationship would become, he will forever be “Mr. Hogg.” I volunteered for this honor. Many on the Executive Management Team thought that I had gone a little crazy—after all, didn’t I already work 50-60 hours a week? I considered it a pleasure. I wanted to learn from him and I wanted to know more of the history of the company that I had been a part of for nearly a decade. I wanted the opportunity to get to know Mr. Hogg better and to be a part of his life. I know that part of it was out of guilt—the fact that I had lived away from my grandparents in the waning years of their lives. I had missed that last chance to learn from them. Even more, I had missed that chance with my father, who had died pre-maturely before he got the opportunity to grow old and before I had the opportunity to tap into his brain for even a small part of what he could share. But more than that, it was for me. It was my dream; I must write. He, Mr. Hogg, gave me an opportunity to force that dream to come to life. If I could start with him, maybe I would realize that it was something that could be done—that I had it in me to do. But for him, it was just one more of those opportunities to be an entrepreneur. He told me countless stories of employees from his companies whom he had given the opportunity to do what they wanted to do or what he knew they had the potential for doing. Maybe, I was just the last of many. He also wanted to pass on the philosophies and principles that made him a success to other professionals or those who were striving to be professionals. He believed that those who use “creative adaptation” and apply his beliefs and practices to their own lives would have a greater chance at being successful and, to use his words, succeed at success. So, this is mostly about Mr. Hogg and a little bit about me. We started this process when he was 89 years old, in February of 2007. We were still working on it when he passed away in December 2008. I can only hope and pray that my mind, body, and heart will be half as strong as his was up until the time he died. In the short period of time I was a part of his companies, my admiration for this man increased. Yet, I didn’t really know him until the conversations began. So now, I wish I had paid more attention—not only to him, but to my grandparents, my father, and to any other person who lived during what was the 20th century. I learned from listening to him, just as he learned from listening to those who came before him share their stories of success and failure. No matter who it was, if they had a successful business, he made it his business to learn about them. Now it was time for him to pass along his wisdom to those people who follow him.