Calling My Mentors

Calling My Mentors

Five years ago, while out on a run, I started thinking about the mentors I’ve had in my life. I’m not sure what sparked it — probably a podcast. But somewhere around mile three, I found myself reflecting on the men who shaped me at different stages: high school, college, that first job, and the different careers that followed.

After the run, I sat down and made a list of the ones who had the biggest impact. These are people who never signed up to mentor me — they simply showed up in my life at the right time and left a mark. Many came to mind, but when I narrowed it down, I came up with five names, and each one filled me with gratitude. The thread that connected them all: they invested in me without asking for anything in return. They were men of high character who lived by a higher standard. That’s stuck with me.

•        John K.- Grade school teacher, family man who invested in his students

•        John H.- PE Teacher and coach, trusted teenagers with responsibility

•        Glenn E.- General Contractor, modeled hard work and community respect

•        Tony Ventrella- Sportscaster, showed selfless commitment to seeing others thrive

•        Rob A.- Brokerage Manager, displayed the value of relationships

I wanted to do something about it — something more than just carrying their names around in my head. Because if I didn’t act, I could already picture the alternative: standing at their funerals, pulling their spouse or children aside to tell them what their husband, their dad, had meant to me. That felt like a failure. So I called them. Each one, out of the blue.

I didn’t anticipate how much those calls would mean — for both of us. John H. was my former PE teacher and basketball coach, and I hadn’t spoken to him in more than twenty years. He was the kind of guy who was always enthusiastic, who treated us like we were more grown up than we actually were. When he picked up and I told him who was calling, he didn’t miss a beat: “Hey Greg, buddy — great to hear from you!” Same voice. Same energy. Like no time had passed at all.

I told him I’d been thinking about him and wanted to make sure he knew the impact he’d had on my life. We talked about our families and his battle with cancer. And then he mentioned, almost in passing, that I happened to be calling him on his 70th birthday. He was so grateful. As we hung up, I could feel it on both ends of the line.

The call I made to Tony Ventrella had the most impact for reasons I didn’t even know at the time. For anyone in the Pacific Northwest, that name needs no introduction — Tony was a fixture in Seattle sports media for decades. I first met him when he came to speak at my college. He opened the door to anyone interested in sportscasting, and I walked through it. I remember the nerves as I drove into Seattle for the first time to walk into KING 5. He gave me more than an hour: a tour of the station, straight talk about the business, and a clear-eyed read on how to break in.

I stayed in touch while I was in school and then as I worked my way through small TV markets early in my career. From El Paso, I sent him a tape of my work and asked for his honest feedback. He wrote me back — on a typewriter, before email existed. A real letter, with real thought in it. I still have it. It’s a reminder that effort, even a small investment of time in someone else, can last a lifetime.

A few years later, Tony was at KIRO 7 when a sports anchor position came open. I was lucky enough to land it. Tony hired me, and the mentoring continued — not just in how to do the job, but in how to carry yourself while doing it. I watched how he treated people. How he always had time for someone who needed guidance. He set a standard I’ve tried to follow.

My call to Tony probably didn’t surprise him — we had lunch once or twice a year and kept in touch long after we’d both moved on from KIRO. But this call was different. I wanted him to hear, not just sense, how much his guidance had meant to me. Not only in the craft of reporting, but in the bigger conversations we’d had about life and how we wanted to treat people. He was gracious about it. I think he knew. But I’m glad I said it out loud.

Tony died about eighteen months ago. He was 80, and it came as a surprise to many who knew him. We’d had lunch about six months before he passed, and he’d shared some of what he was facing health-wise. I didn’t know that would be our last conversation. But I’m glad I didn’t wait to say what his support meant to me.

I’ve thought about these men often as I’ve tried to show up for others who’ve come to me for advice. The investment doesn’t have to be grand. It just has to be genuine. And the same goes for telling the people who invested in you what that meant. I’ve had plenty of good intentions I never followed through on. I’m glad this wasn’t one of them. Who are you thinking of right now? Make the call. You’ll both be glad you did.