It’s October 23, 1960.
My dad is in the process of dropping out of high school. My mom is in her first marriage—to Raymond Luksin, an abusive motherfucker who likely suffers from PTSD after his time as an Army medic in Korea.
I, of course, am on nobody’s radar. I won’t be born for another four years. Which means, for obvious reasons, I’m not watching This Is Your Life live on black-and-white television.
This show, hosted by Ralph Edwards, brings out celebrities and tells their life stories, complete with pictures and surprise guests. The guest of honor is clueless until each chapter of their life is revealed—and then, one by one, people from their past walk out on stage.
Tonight’s guest is former heavyweight boxing champion Joe Louis. At 46, he’s overweight and aging. Poor choices in managers have left him broke. He’ll eventually end up working as a doorman at a casino in Las Vegas in the final years of his life—just to make ends meet.
But tonight, he’s being honored. Edwards tells his story and brings in guests from Louis’s past. One by one, they come out to greet the champ.
And then, the moment the audience has been waiting for:
From Hamburg, Germany—the first man to knock Louis out—Max Schmeling.
Louis and Schmeling fought two epic battles. The first, in 1936, was supposed to be an easy win for Louis. He didn’t train as hard and had put on weight. Schmeling, on the other hand, studied what little film was available at the time. He noticed a glaring weakness in Louis’s defense.
Schmeling went on to knock Louis out in the 12th round. The African American community was devastated. Louis was their hero. The black press shames Louis. Schmeling returned to Germany a national hero. Though he never joined or supported the Nazi Party, Hitler and his propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, turned him into a convenient PR tool. Goebbels even manufactured quotes where Schmeling supposedly declared himself a member of a superior race.
The rematch happened two years later.
This time, Yankee Stadium was packed. By 1938, Nazi aggression had the world on edge. This was no longer just a boxing match. It was a battle of ideologies: a so-called “Master Race” vs. a so-called inferior one.
Louis knocked out Schmeling in the first round.
Schmeling returned to Germany in shame. He was drafted into the army and served as a paratrooper. He survived the war, eventually became an executive at Coca-Cola, and passed away in 2005 at the age of 99.
But on this night in 1960, Louis and Schmeling are all smiles and hugs. They would remain friends until Louis passed away in 1981 at the age of 66.
This Is Your Life was a beautiful night of memories.
When I “retired” from the Navy in 1999, I didn’t have a ceremony. Traditionally, Navy retirements happen after 20 years, but I was fortunate enough to qualify for an early retirement program. Because I had 15 years in, I could retire and receive 33% of my base pay—$800 per month for life. (COLA would increase that amount over time.) Plus, I’d get all the usual retirement benefits.
Which meant I could have had a retirement ceremony. I just didn’t want one. Barb had already transferred to Millington, TN with our son, and I didn’t see the point.
I made myself a little shadow box with my meager military awards. The Command presented it to me, along with a second Navy Commendation Medal. I gave a short speech, and Barb sent a letter that was read aloud. Then it was over. I tossed my uniforms in the trash and returned to being a civilian.
When Barb retired in 2012, it was a big production.
First, she was an officer. Second, she had 30 years in.
I put together a slideshow of her career set to instrumental country music. It played before the ceremony started. There were speeches, tributes. I read a poem about the flag during a moving moment where people representing all of Barb’s ranks passed the flag along to each other with a slow, deliberate salute. It was all played to the tune of Proud to Be an American (standard before it was hijacked by the MAGA movement) Finally, the flag was handed to Barb, and she presented it to her father.
It was powerful. It gave closure to her career.
When I made the decision last year to retire from Boss Builders, it felt more practical and pragmatic than emotional. Even though those years were the best and most rewarding of my professional life, the slowdown in business really drained me. The passion just wasn’t there anymore. I was ready to be done.
Last week was my final gig. I flew to Gonzales, LA to do two one-day workshops. They were satisfying. Not particularly emotional—until the final night.
That evening, I walked past the hotel training room one last time. On one of the tables was a lone box of crayons. For some reason, that hit hard.
The next morning, I got up early to fly home. I didn’t feel much different—but I knew my world had changed.
I didn’t have a professional identity anymore.
And yet, at 61, I’m not old enough to spend my days at the Dickson County Senior Center playing bingo and doing chair aerobics with a bunch of 80-year-olds.
Sitting in Louis Armstrong Airport, updating my LinkedIn profile—that’s when it hit me.
There really isn’t a placeholder on LinkedIn that fits me. So, I just typed:
Retired at Retired.
But that felt almost disrespectful.
I’ve toyed with the idea of doing public speaking and storytelling coaching, so I reworked my LinkedIn profile for that. You can check it out HERE.
But I’m still not sure. I don’t want to make any rash decisions. People tell me to take a few months off, and they’re probably right. But I don’t want complacency to creep in. I also don’t think I’ve fully processed the decision yet.
I know that because on Saturday night—after a wonderful day with our daughter Allison and her partner Austin—Barb handed me a wrapped package.
When I opened it, I immediately became emotional. It was a scrapbook that Lisa Young had put together. The title was:
Mack Munro. The Boss.
Essentially, it was my This Is Your Life.
I didn’t make it past the first page without breaking down. It was a letter from my son, Dustin.
I read the ones from Krystal, my oldest—and of course, from Allison.
But Barb’s was the most special. She drew a parallel between her retirement and mine.
Navy retirements are solemn occasions. Lots of ceremony and tradition. Here’s what she wrote:
“As we say in the Navy, ‘You have stood the watch.’ In essence, it is a powerful and symbolic way to express gratitude and recognition for a service member’s commitment and service to their country. This also recognizes you for your service and commitment to all the existing, new, and upcoming leaders.
The statement that follows—‘The watch stands relieved’—signifies that the remaining service members, or leaders, will continue to carry out the duties and responsibilities of the watch.
Trust that you have bestowed the knowledge and tools to all the managers you have trained to carry on and be successful.”
Now I understand why she was so emotional at her own ceremony.
She was leaving something good and walking into the unknown.
When I left the Navy, I knew exactly what I wanted—and I hated what I was leaving. No closure needed. I just wanted to get the FUCK OUT OF THE NAVY AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.
But not this time. Not this career.
This one meant something.
And as I still try—three days later—to get through that scrapbook without breaking down in uncontrollable tears, I realize: I do need closure.
This Is Your Life.
This was my life.
And it was a damned good one.
As I read through each testimonial, I realize that much of what people are thanking me for—remembering me for—are things I honestly don’t even recall doing. And the ones I do remember didn’t seem all that special at the time.
But for the person who experienced them? They meant the world.
Just like Joe Louis’s eyes lit up when Max Schmeling walked out from behind the curtain—mine are doing the same.
If this is what you remember about me, I’m so grateful you told me. I’m honored to have been part of your life.
This part of my life has been amazing. I’m happy you wanted to be part of it with me.
I hope you’ll continue to follow me and stay in touch. I am deeply grateful for you.
And now, like I tell my spiritual advisors Lauren Smith and Sherile Turner—I’m doing the equivalent of being Bluetooth discoverable.
Just waiting for the Universe to send a signal.
Waiting.
Patiently.
Sort of.