It’s hard to quantify the power of someone else’s belief in your potential.
With all due respect for Simon & Garfunkel, I am not a rock. Nor an island.
I have, at times, needed another human to cast a white spell over me.
Some people seem to get a lot of this belief-building from their family. In my case, I had to look elsewhere.
Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have a number of people I looked up to take an interest in me.
A few months ago, one of these mentors passed away.
Rodney Scott Hudson was one of my professors at Syracuse University.
When I first got to school as an 18-year-old, I found this man impressive and scary as hell.
what a f*cking bad-ass
I took his classes.
I eagerly adapted to his criticisms.
I devoured his recommended readings.
I did my best to absorb every damn thing he had to teach.
When I was a junior, he assigned me a ridiculously challenging and obscure 15-plus-minute song from Leonard Bernstein’s Mass. For context, the piece follows a priest-like character having a complete f*cking breakdown. It’s physically, vocally, and emotionally taxing.
And he (somewhat randomly) assigned me to perform it for all 200+ drama students in our weekly all-hands department meeting.
I worked on it all summer. Nearly every day. I’d sing the whole thing driving back and forth to and from my summer job as a waiter on the Jersey Shore.
Rodney – and this assignment – helped instill in me “the practice of practice.” The work and reps you do every day, over and over, when no one is watching. Praying to the Gods of Mastery.
This was a defining moment of my college career. In our little college theater bubble, it was a big deal.
It was the first time in my life I got this kind of overwhelming and enthusiastic reaction.
And I think this moment planted the seed of what became my speaking career.
Before I left university, on my final day as an undergrad, he said something I’ll never forget:
“The world does not believe it needs another artist, Mr. Fisher.”
It was classic Rodney.
Another gauntlet thrown.
Rodney pushed me to become someone new.
He challenged this sensitive kid from NJ to become tougher and stronger and ready for a city that would not pull its punches.
At this stage in my life, I play a formal and informal mentorship role for a lot of people.
Maybe even for some of you reading.
I’m very aware that I am STILL growing and learning.
But it’s also true I’m entering the “pay it back” part of my career.
Besides Rodney and a host of other names you wouldn’t know from the Broadway community, I have no shortage of fitness industry mentors.
People like Mike Boyle, Dan John, John Berardi, Chris Poirier and others have lit a path in front of me. They’ve reached back to help me step up.
Much of the learning I’ve done from them has come via watching talks (and DVDs!), listening to podcasts, and reading books, emails, and articles. It’s pretty amazing how big of an impact they’ve had on my life without spending much time with me.
I feel a debt to these people.
Not as a burden.
But as a pull to pass on what they gave me.
To do my part in the lineage of the fitness industry.
Whether you and I ever work together, my sincere hope is I can positively impact your career as a gym owner. And more than that, how you move in the world as a human. And in turn, my hope is that you too will pass it on.
And as I write this, I’m lighting a candle specifically for Rodney Scott Hudson.
Who never dreamed he’d be indirectly impacting a bunch of gym owners, and by extension, the lives of their teams and clients.
The last time I saw Rodney was a few years ago. The Syracuse Drama Department had me up to speak to the students about entrepreneurship, fitness, and life in NYC.
I remember sitting in his windowless office and catching up.
I feel lucky that I got to share with him how great life turned out. How much I loved MFF’s role in supporting the health and fitness of artists and the Broadway community. How much my nascent speaking career success was a direct line from what I learned from him.
As I left his office to prep for the weekly all-hands meeting, I turned back to him for my final comment in our conversation:
“I know where I came from.”
I can still see his Cheshire Cat smile.
RIP RSO.
Love love love,
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