Even though it happened twenty-two years ago today, it still feels like yesterday. I was standing alone in my upstairs bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
I was thirty-four years old.
Hands shaking.
Stomach in knots.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and in less than an hour I’d have to climb into my 2001 Ford Focus and drive to South Bethlehem for sound check.
I had waited twenty years for this day.
August 6, 2004, is a day I’ll never forget.
But before I tell you why, I need to back up a little.
From the moment I picked up my grandmother’s hand-held tomato slicer as a seven-year-old and pretended it was a guitar while doing my best Ace Frehley impression, I knew exactly what I wanted to be.
Not a baseball player.
Not an astronaut.
A rock star.
That childhood dream led to callused fingers, long walks downtown for weekly guitar lessons, countless hours practicing Mel Bay scales, and Metal Method tapes that were practically worn out.
It also brought plenty of ridicule.
My siblings—and more than a few of their friends—made it abundantly clear that all that practicing wasn’t going to amount to anything.
If anything, their words had the opposite effect.
While other kids were outside throwing footballs or playing Atari, I was locked in my room trying to figure out how Eddie Van Halen got that impossible guitar sound. I was so convinced I’d make it someday that I even filled journal pages describing the cars I’d own, the places I’d live, and all the incredible things that would happen after becoming a famous musician.
One prediction, however, still hasn’t come true. I’m apparently still waiting for the hordes of beautiful women to chase me through the streets of New York City.
Come on, ladies… you’re running behind schedule.
Then, after two decades of dreaming… It happened.
Our band, Led Foot, had been asked to open for Clay Aiken on the main stage at Musikfest.
Yes… That Clay Aiken.
Before you chuckle, remember where the world was in 2004. Clay had just finished as the runner-up on the second season of American Idol. He was one of the biggest names in music, and people were absolutely obsessed with him. The concert sold out faster than any show in Musikfest history, packing more than 6,000 people into the venue.
And somehow…
We were opening.
It felt surreal.
Which brings us back to the bathroom.
There I stood, trying not to throw up.
For all those years I’d imagined what this moment would feel like, turns out… It felt terrifying.
Eventually I grabbed my Les Paul, tied on my blue flame doo-rag, climbed into my car, and headed for Bethlehem.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur.
Setting up gear.
Sound check.
Watching thousands of people line up outside the gates.
Trying not to think about what was coming next.
Until suddenly…
It was time.
Before that night, the biggest crowd I’d ever played for was maybe fifty people in a smoky bar at two o’clock in the morning.
Now I was walking onto the biggest stage at Musikfest.
Six thousand people.
I knew they weren’t there to see us.
I didn’t care.
For thirty unforgettable minutes, I got to experience what seven-year-old Jimmy had dreamed about while pretending a tomato slicer was a Les Paul.
Instead of looking out from the audience…
I was the one standing under the lights.
And I loved every second of it.
I’ve never played in front of a crowd that large again.
I probably never will.
But that’s okay.
Sometimes dreams don’t last forever.
Sometimes they only last thirty minutes.
And somehow…
That’s enough.
That night taught me something I’ve carried with me ever since.
Every once in a great while, the universe tilts in your direction. You better be ready.
Dreams rarely arrive on your schedule. They certainly didn’t arrive on mine.
Mine took twenty years.
But when the opportunity finally came, all those hours of practice, all the doubt, all the rejection, and all those childhood dreams suddenly made perfect sense. I was ready.
As a seven-year-old boy pretending a tomato slicer was a guitar, the dream seemed impossibly far away. Then on August 6, 2004… it became real.
And that’s the funny thing about dreams.
The applause eventually fades.
The lights go dark.
The stage is packed away.
But the magic never leaves you.
go.Jimmy.go 
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