Tag: legacy

  • The Night I Vanished a World Series Ring

    The Night I Vanished a World Series Ring

    Back in the early ’90s, I was still just a teenager figuring out how to take the magic I loved and share it with real people. Not just family members on the couch—but real audiences. One of the places that gave me that chance was a Florida treasure called Chalet Suzanne.

    If you know, you know.

    Perched just outside Lake Wales, the Chalet was a cross between a European fairytale and a culinary time machine. The décor was eclectic, the soup was legendary, and on New Year’s Eve—every year for 25 years—I got to be part of the magic there in more ways than one.

    It was 1993. I was working the room, doing my usual strolling tableside magic—some card tricks here, a disappearing coin there. And that’s when I arrived at a quiet little table where a couple was enjoying their meal. He had a strong presence—friendly, but grounded. She had that sparkle-in-her-eye look that said they were used to attention, but not demanding it.

    I launched into a few routines, and then I noticed the ring.

    Big. Gold. Heavy Looking.

    It glinted just enough in the dim light that I leaned in. That’s when I saw the engraving.

    Wait… what?

    I looked up at him. “Is that a World Series ring?”

    “Yes,” he said with a grin.

    “You played baseball?”

    “I did.”

    There was a beat. A slow realization began to dawn on me: This is someone important.

    But I didn’t know who.

    I wasn’t a big baseball guy at the time. While my friends were swapping stats and trading cards, I was practicing sleight of hand and rewinding old VHS tapes of Doug Henning specials. So I asked with complete sincerity—and probably a little too much curiosity—“What team did you play for?”

    “Expos… and the Mets.”

    And then his wife smiled—really smiled. That kind of smile that said, This is refreshing. He finally met someone who doesn’t recognize him right off the bat.

    Then, something magical happened—literally. With a grin, he slipped the ring off and handed it to me.

    I couldn’t help myself.

    I held it for a moment quickly and made it vanish from my closed fist.

    His eyes widened.

    “Where’s the ring?” he laughed.

    I held the suspense for just a moment longer, then revealed it with a flourish—intact, shimmering, and safely back open the finger of my other hand. He chuckled, clearly impressed. “Now that’s a trick,” he said.

    It was Gary Carter. Hall of Famer. 11-time All-Star. A key part of the Mets’ iconic 1986 World Series win. He had just wrapped his final season the year before, finishing his career in 1992 back where it all began—in Montreal. In his final at-bat, he hit a game-winning RBI double over the head of former teammate Andre Dawson, and the stadium gave him a standing ovation. Even at the end, his teammates still called him “The Kid.”

    When I met him, Carter had transitioned into a new chapter—serving as a television analyst for the Florida Marlins from 1993 to 1996. That night at the Chalet, he wasn’t wearing a microphone or stepping up to the plate. He was just a gracious man enjoying New Year’s Eve dinner with his wife… and a little unexpected magic.

    I asked him to sign a card for a routine I was about to perform. It was the Ace of Diamonds. His pen scrawled across it: “To Scott, All my best. God bless. Always, Gary Carter. 1993.”

    I did the trick. His signed card vanished from the deck and reappeared in my wallet.

    Normally, I’d give the card back. But when I tried to hand it to him, he shook his head. “No,” he said with a smile. “You keep it.”

    And I did. I still have it today—his name across the face of the card, a memento of one of those quiet, sacred intersections between everyday life and something just a little more magical.

    It wasn’t just that I met a sports legend.

    It was that I met a man who didn’t need to be known to feel valued. Who shared kindness and grace with a young magician who didn’t recognize his face but honored the moment.

    It reminds me that sometimes the best magic happens offstage—in small, unrepeatable moments when the mask of celebrity falls away, and what’s left is just two people… sharing surprise, laughter, and a little bit of wonder.

    And yes, I did vanish a World Series ring. 

    But what stayed was even better.

    Sharing His Wonder,
    Scott Humston
  • What My Granny Taught Me About Integrity

    What My Granny Taught Me About Integrity

     

    Leda Mabry Flatt

    When my maternal grandmother—Leda Mabry Flatt– passed away in May of 2006, and since I inherited the Flatt family gift of gab, my mother asked me to speak at the service. I was struck with, “What can I say at my granny’s funeral?” Each of my family members would have different memories that we could share of “Granny Flatt.” (She was “Granny,” not “Grandmother,” or “Nana” or any other term to us four grandchildren and the ten great-grandchildren; it was just “Granny.” You do know, that the Latin root of the word “granny” means, “one that can belch with the best of ‘em.” She emboldened the term, and she was worthy of being called a “granny.” )

    So, after a recent conversation with a close friend, I thought, “ I need to share in a written form those words I spoke at my grandmother’s funeral.” Perhaps it will encourage you, and remind us all of the legacies we create with every decision we make.

    Some of my favorite memories of Granny also include my granddaddy Allen Flatt, who passed away when I just 15. I remember the sweet smell of a Tennessee evening; it smelled so different from the Florida one I was used to as a child.
    I remember eating snow cream… playing with keys from a key-making rack that was on the porch of one of their homes… catching fireflies and putting them in a mason jar… hitting my head on the hitch of Granddaddy’s truck… and eating Granny’s pumpkin pies which I loved. I remember her making biscuits; I don’t remember if they tasted good, I just remember her making them. And, of course, the most important memory of all which, I pray, has been preserved for other generations to witness via video, is Granny’s unnatural ability to touch her nose with her tongue!

    As I grew older, and Granddaddy got sick, they came to live in Florida, and I saw her often. She stayed with me a few times when Mom and Dad went out of town for a night or two. One vivid memory is that of my returning home from Daytona Beach with the worst sunburn of my life. Mom and Dad were gone, but she was staying with me. She cared for me that night and until they returned the next day. I was a grouch, but she still loved me.
    Another vivid memory is of my visiting her in her apartment. I hurt her feelings (which was not all that hard to do), not sure what I did…more likely it was something I said…but I knew I had done it, and I felt bad. And I remember her “letting me have it,” verbally. And, since I had been a jerk, I knew I deserved it.

    Even in the midst of dementia, there were moments, most of which my mom experienced when she suddenly and momentarily was herself again. I got to witness a couple of those moments, too. One was with my girls and her calling them “sweet” and “Sugarfoot.” That simple word “Sugarfoot” brings tears to my eyes, even as I write this. We grandchildren, all no doubt, have the same reaction when hearing that granny-ism. To have her call my children “Sugarfoot”—even when she wasn’t “herself” was a proud moment for me as a grandson and father.
    An illustration often given at the time of someone’s passing is the example of the dates on the tombstone, the birth date, and the death date… that between those numbers is a “dash” –the most important part. That dash, and what was created during that time, really is the most important. It is true, of course, with my grandmother—my Granny– too. That dash on her tombstone represents a full life. But the other day I heard an even better example to describe life:
    Many of us have seen old men sitting around talking, whittling, …a perfect portrait of a southern town, old men in front of a store, or better yet, barber-shop, whittling. For hours, sitting there whittling, creating piles of shavings in the process. And after all the whittling, most times nothing has been created. It’s just that whittling gives them something to do while they talk. I think that’s why we have the phrase “whittling your life away.” They have taken something and created nothing. Then there are those who carve. Carving. Those who take nothing, and create something. Something beautiful, remarkable, many times—just plain amazing. Whittling versus carving.

     

    My Grandaddy & Granny, with their children. (My Uncle Harold & Mom-Winona)

    From the back roads of rural Tennessee, Leda Mabry Flatt created something from her life. Even though I’m sure there were many moments in her life when she felt as if she was just whittling; she wasn’t. Through sorrow and heartache, through joy and love, she was carving. Shaping. Creating. She was carving a legacy.
    She did not leave a fortune for our family to fight over. No possessions to covet. But, also, thank the Lord, she did not leave a life full of addictions or abuse or shame or regret or hurt or alcoholism, or hate or pain or broken-heartedness, or generational sin—to fight from. No, she didn’t leave anything to fight over. Nor, thank goodness, did she leave anything to fight from. But she left a whole lot to fight for. She left love.

    Love carved from a deep belief in a risen Savior. Love that sustained a marriage, two children, four grandchildren, ten great-grandchildren; and one great-great-grandchild.
    Love worth fighting for.
    She could have given up, or given in. She lost her mom when she was just 17. Many years later, her father was killed by a speeding drunk driver who never was convicted of his crime. I’m sure she wasn’t the perfect wife, nor perfect mother, either. She and Granddaddy often moved because of his work. In the last years, they didn’t even own a home. She never learned to drive a car. (Actually, I think there’s something classy about not being able to, nor want to drive.) She didn’t give up. She didn’t give in. She kept carving.
    I sit right here, at this moment, because of her. And her willingness to keep going.
    So, what I am reminded of today, and perhaps you, too, should think about, is, are you carving something incredible out of your life? Something that will have meaning when people look at that dash on your tombstone? Or are you just whittling your life into a legacy of nothingness?

    We all will leave a legacy. What kind is up to us. Will we create nothing out of something, or keep the faith and create something out of nothing?

    [bctt tweet=”Will we create nothing out of something, or keep the faith and create something out of nothing.” username=”scotthumston”]

    Proverbs chapter 20, verse 7, tells us that “The righteous lead blameless lives; blessed are their children after them.” As a mom, dad, grandad, grandmother, or even granny, I pray that you allow Christ to guide you in a life filled with righteousness and integrity!

    Sharing His Wonder,

     

     

    Scott