A Reluctant Roaster
. . . who had to re-learn a lesson
This past weekend was . . . different. But good. Very good. Because I got out of my comfort zone, and thankfully, it wasn’t a disaster.
A couple of months ago one of my best friends, Andy Burcham, called to say he was going to be “Roasted” at a fundraising dinner back in the town where I grew up. Andy is a great guy, and the beloved Voice of The Auburn Tigers. Would I come down from Nashville for the event?
Sure. Why not? There would be comedy and my buddy Ang would be the target of some good-natured barbs. I’d enjoy the show. Of course. I’m in.
But there was a catch. I would be one of three designated “Roasters” for the night. What I thought would be a relaxing evening was suddenly a full-blown pressure cooker.
Ironically, I make most of my living as a speaker (I make 0.5% of my income here—please subscribe). At fundraising dinners, I’ve spoken in front of small crowds, big crowds—all types. For 25 years, I’ve done this. Probably 500 or so events. This roast only asked for five minutes of humor. FIVE. A few one liners and I’d be done. No big deal, right?
Wrong.
What’s crazy is that while I’m not billed as a comedian, I toss in some humor when I speak. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it five or ten minutes in a comedy club without being booed off the stage. After that though, you don’t want to know.
Yet, I was scared to death over this Roast.
Because I’d never roasted anyone before, at least not in public.
What if nothing I said drew a laugh? What if I failed to deliver a punch line correctly, stumbling over my words? In short, what if I bombed? This was a distinct possibility, I knew.
On top of this, our family decided to join me on the trip. We would stay with Andy and his lovely bride Jan. Can you imagine if things went south? My family would be forced to disown me, and we would go back to the home of my “Roastee” where he would shake his head as silenced engulfed the living room and say, “Hey, thanks for trying.” Ugh.
Oh, and I’d be sharing the stage with Auburn’s baseball coach, Butch Thompson—one of the classiest guys in the game. And Kirk Sampson, head of communications for the entire Auburn athletic department. Two somebodies and a nobody.
I get a tummy ache just thinking back on it.
Training time . . .
To prepare, I jumped online, begging the web for inspiration. I searched for biographical stuff I didn’t know, bullet points on Andy’s career, anything to find a one-liner.
And I admit it, I asked Grok and ChatGPT for help. No luck.
Pro Tip: AI can write jokes. Just not any that would draw a laugh.
During those couple of weeks of off and on prep, finally I had a bunch of pages of notes. It was my original stuff—reminding me that if this thing went as I feared, it would be all on me.
Game night
Five of us—me, my wife Jenn and three of our five children—drove over to the fundraiser, benefitting a ministry which assists low- to moderate-income families. They build affordable homes (48 of them so far), provide scholarships, and so much more. Soon, they will open a K-6 school for boys. Great vision. This night we would celebrate 25 years of community building.
My seat was next to my fellow roasters, and both of these guys are among the best in their professions. Thompson has taken two teams to a College World Series and this year, his team was the #4 Seed in the NCAA Tournament.
And Sampson, goodness, the Auburn Sports Communication department is legendary among college programs. And he runs it all.
But a funny thing happened once we sat down. I got to asking questions of these guys, picking their brains for any nuggets of wisdom, and soon I was enthralled. They were both open, honest, and fun. No more nervousness—though with the notes I had in hand, I probably should have been petrified.
Sampson went first, and led off with a crack which had everyone rolling on the floor. Butch followed, and I was laughing again. I was so wrapped up in his “set” I didn’t even look at what I might say. Thankfully, the two of them were so good, for a moment I forgot I would wrap up the Roast.
My turn came, and I simply had a good time. Thankfully, there was laughter. And not the pity kind. Afterward one of my sons said, “Well, I was worried you were going to embarrass the family but you were actually good.” Whew.
The better news? I caught up with old friends, too. Having not lived in that area for 20 years, I wondered if anyone would remember me. Several did, thank goodness.
And that night, I learned an old, old lesson . . .
The “you” perspective
For weeks leading up to this event, I focused on what I would say—or not say. On how my words would be received. On what people would think of me. I’d love to say this wasn’t true. But it was.
Sure, I didn’t want my friend Andy to be humiliated for allowing me to play a role, but honestly, I didn’t want to be back in the town where I grew up have people say, “Ooof, I thought he was supposed to be a good speaker.”
But somehow, all of this changed once we walked in the door. This night was about the ministry. About (humorously) honoring Andy Burcham for 37 years of serving the community. Honestly, this had nothing to do with me, and for almost too long, I missed this simple truth.
Funny, both Kirk and Butch were nervous, too. Butch is a baseball coach, he grows young men and wins a lot of games. He’s done both. But nobody asked him to be a comic, until this night.
And Kirk? He admitted he does not like to speak in public. He’d rather be behind the scenes, telling the stories of Auburn Athletics.
Yet both were great, because they knew this evening wasn’t about them.
My lesson? Whenever I’m uncomfortable with a situation involving other people, it is most likely because I’m thinking about me instead of those around me.
Whether at a small social function or a large gathering, I should know by now that if I focus on making others comfortable, or on building up those around me, the anxiety and nervousness melts away. Because if my focus is on someone else, I no longer worry about what they think of me.
Like I said, I knew this. I just have to keep relearning it.
Jesus—to understate things—was fairly good at focusing on others. He found those desperate for healing, whether inside or out. He honed in on those needing forgiveness, or asking for a place at the social table. All around him, others sensed his concern for them and gathered around.
The point? Jesus was never about him, he was about others.
In today’s world that craves attention, clicks, likes and followers, it’s so easy to focus on the “me.” As a person who says he follows Jesus, one of the most important things I can do is follow this example.
Maybe you’re in the same boat, and we can learn this lesson together.
Oh, and if a joke or two lands, all the better.
Oh, this was good and timely! When you told us about this upcoming event while you were visiting TX I thought, they couldn't have picked a better person for the job. Your comedic timing is great for this. The moral of your story is really spot on here and hit me in the spiritual feels. Thank you for sharing your vulnerability!