Chapter 7 - Looking for Terry

My emotions were not the only part of me that I have publicly exposed. In 2005 I costarred in the movie Failure to Launch with Matthew McConaughey, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Kathy Bates. Typical of the way things happen in my life, Matthew recently had been named People’s Sexiest Man Alive, and Sarah had just finished starring in the series Sex and the City. So, naturally I was surprised when the director told me he wanted me to do the nude scene.

By this point I had acted in a considerable number of TV shows and movies, and I had made numerous commercials, but in almost all of them, I’d played some version of myself. This was different because this role required me to act. I played Oscar winner Kathy Bates’s husband. We’re the parents of thirty-five-year-old McConaughey, who is still living at home. We hire Parker to help him gain his independence and move out.

In my big scene, I am standing by the stove cooking breakfast. The scene was shot from the rear, so to speak. The only part of me the audience can see is my naked butt. The director gave me the option of wearing boxer shorts or going nude. I’ve spent a lot of my life in locker rooms, so being naked was no big deal. My response sort of defines me. I chose the option that had the biggest upside, the biggest downside, and the biggest backside. I knew where the laughs were.

It’s easy to get naked when you’ve got a body people want to see—that would be Matthew or Sarah. When people look at my body, they know I am not showing off. The fact that I’m willing to expose my body is what makes people laugh. I’ve got what might be loosely termed an entertaining body. I really was nude in the rear, but in front, by regulation, I had to wear a covering called a penis sock. That created a small problem. In the bedroom of my trailer, the wardrobe people had laid out three socks for me to choose from: small, medium, or large.

If I’m being honest, the correct size was small. The medium was really big. The large I could put my foot in. I knew the crew was waiting outside the door, wondering which one I would pick. For the sake of my reputation, I grabbed the medium and doubled it over. A couple of times. We shot the scene that way.

But then we had to reshoot it from Matthew’s point of view. The director wanted to see an expression of astonishment. I went back to my trailer, put on boxer shorts, and we shot it again. The director still wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t getting the facial reaction from Matthew he needed. He asked me to put my penis sock back on.

Now, there are many things I will do for my art, but putting on the penis sock again was not one of them. I refused, saying confidently, “Don’t you worry. Just tell Matthew that when he comes into the room, I’ll give him the motivation he needs.”

Roll the cameras! Action! Matthew walked into the room and looked at me. I smiled at him, then pulled down my shorts, grabbed hold, and shook it at him. That was the reaction the director wanted.

Honestly, when I saw my backside naked at the premiere, I understood why movies are called the big screen. I admit I did caution people it would be better not to see this film on IMAX.

The hard part came when the film was released. I had to tell my mother I was naked in it. “No,” she said, “you didn’t.” Mom, I did. “You wouldn’t do that to your mama.” I did. “You were not raised like that,” she said. Then she reminded me, “You’re a Baptist!”

It got worse when Tammy, her daughter, and I went to church right after the film was released. The pastor believed it was necessary to talk about it, accusing me of committing a sin for going naked in a movie. It’s never a sin to have fun, long as you aren’t hurting anyone. We never went back to that church.

I was hired for the movie role because of my reputation. The producers wanted someone people liked to laugh at. Like almost every opportunity I’ve had outside football, I have been lucky enough to make a living off my name. But I did have a real job once. My wife and I were living in Texas where she was attending law school. I didn’t have much to do. Every Tuesday afternoon during the off-season, I played golf with friends. Mostly they were firemen and police officers, and Tuesday was their day off. For me, six months a year every day was a day off. I got to feeling guilty about not having a real nine-to-five job. Most of the people I knew shared a working experience I didn’t know much about. Their lives revolved around things like promotions, vacations, watercooler conversations.

A friend of mine owned the Lady Love Cosmetics company. Somehow that seemed like a good fit for me. He was surprised when I asked him for a real job, but he agreed to teach me the cosmetics world. He hired me in his corporate development department; he paid me $5,000 a month and gave me my own office and secretary. Every morning I became Mister Bradshaw. I would put on a suit and tie and was in my office by nine a.m. Every single day at nine a.m., Terry Bradshaw, working man. Call me Terry.

At Lady Love Cosmetics, I was part of a different kind of team. I went to a convention and did some traveling to meet people. The problem turned out to be that my office was right across the road from the golf course. And on Tuesday afternoons, I would be sitting in my office in my tie and jacket, and I’d look out my big office window and watch my buddies out there on the fairway.

Lemme see if I can figure this out. I got a job because my friends were all working. Now I’m working, and they’re playing golf? Wait a second. The logic of that escaped me. So one Tuesday, after doing my job for two months, I didn’t show up for work. Instead, I went and played golf. That job proved to be extremely important for me—I never felt guilty about not working a regular job again.

What has made the biggest difference in my life outside football is that I am willing to do things I’m not necessarily qualified to do. And I have always been willing to be the butt of the joke. One time, I remember, I was about to do something silly for our family TV reality show, The Bradshaw Bunch, that had Tammy shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you really gonna do that?” she asked, knowingly.

I admitted confidently, “If that’s what it takes.”

That has always worked for me. I am a proud graduate of the Burt Reynolds School of Acting. As we saw in Deliverance, Burt was a very talented actor, but his governing philosophy was simply: Have fun. Be yourself. I never took the possibility of doing a serious part seriously. Instead, I played versions of myself. It was sort of amazing how entrenched my good ol’ not-so-bright Southern boy image had become. But as time went on, the reality of who I was as a person and the image the media had created had sort of merged. What happened is that once I got the joke and accepted that it wasn’t meant to be nasty—it wasn’t me but a cultural cliché that I represented—I could play that role. I enjoyed playing that role.

In several films I actually played myself. In Smokey and the Bandit II, for example, Burt was being chased by Sheriff Jackie Gleason. Burt came driving onto the gridiron and asked me to slow down Sheriff Gleason. I did, turning to “Mean” Joe Greene and asking him to “tackle that car!”

When I wasn’t specifically me, I was typecast as me. The wonderful Mel Tillis and I played good-natured down-home Southern boys in The Cannonball Run, a tribute to the illegal cross-country race, in which I made a left turn in our race car and tried to take a shortcut through a country club swimming pool. As we surfaced, I pointed out to Mel, “Now we have to go retune it.”

I also was typecast in the animated film Robots. I did the voiceover for a character named Broken Arm Bot. He was a cute little bald green robot with brown stripes, and when the main character touched his arm, it fell off. Get it? That was a reference to my career-ending arm injury.

In the movie Father Figures, I played a fictionalized version of myself. I was me, but not me. It sometimes gets a little complicated. See, I was me, Hall of Fame quarterback Terry Bradshaw, but in this film, I supposedly had an affair with a woman who had given birth to twins who discover I might have been their father. I wasn’t, in either fact or fiction.

Same thing in the TV sitcom Married . . . With Children, in which I played me, again, but this Terry Bradshaw had played football at the same high school as Ed O’Neill’s Al Bundy, and they wanted to name the stadium after me rather than him.

I really liked doing all these sitcoms. They were silly, but I loved acting in this one particular episode because I knew Ed O’Neill. I actually had almost played football with him. He played college ball in Ohio, and the Steelers signed him as a free agent linebacker. We met in preseason camp, but he was cut. Out of desperation he was forced to become a hugely popular actor who would eventually get large residual checks from two enormously successful shows. I’m not jealous that he gets checks every single month. I also get residuals from my film career. In fact, the last check I received from Failure to Launch was for $1.48.

I played myself on Everybody Loves Raymond . . . except me as it turned out. The plot was basic sitcom. Ray wanted to collaborate with me on a book, maybe just like this one, and we were scheduled to meet to talk about it. Unfortunately, his wife got sick, and we had to meet in the children’s playroom at the hospital. He told me his concept: “The book should answer questions the public has always wanted to ask.”

And before I could respond, his young daughter interrupted to give an example: “Can I touch your head?” I can tell you now Ray Romano did not work with me on this book. And jokes like that may be one reason why.

I’ve also played some version of my character in countless TV commercials. I have no idea how many campaigns I’ve done because that Terry Bradshaw probably can’t count that high. But I do remember the thrill of being paid to model a suit, and I remember looking down at my feet one day and realizing I was being paid $1,500 to wear that brand of sneakers.

I’ve been the spokesperson for products including a walk-in tub, knee replacements, and even Tide detergent for people who are “sacked by stains.” During one episode of our family reality show, The Bradshaw Bunch, I surprised Tammy by putting on a curly blond toupée. Once again, she shook her head in disbelief, then asked, “Why are you wearing that?”

I gave her my best isn’t-it-obvious look, then responded, “Money.”

That’s not exactly true. My rule has always been pretty simple: If I wouldn’t use it, I won’t endorse it. A rule, by the way, that did not apply to Lady Love Cosmetics. But this rule started way early when I was asked to endorse Red Man chewing tobacco. At that time, I chewed tobacco, like my daddy and my grandaddy, and we all loved it.

Tammy insists I tell you that I quit chewing a long time ago, which is true.

But while I was working for Red Man, I actually designed the foil packs for the company, making it the only plug tobacco ever made in a foil pack. I am proud of that. I designed the pouch, and in return, the Red Man people gave me a nice belt with a silver buckle. No money, but a nice buckle.

I’ve often played Clueless Terry. Ironically, one of the first commercials I made was for my off-season employer, Bill Hannah Ford, in which I urged viewers to “pack up that old clunker and push, pull, or tow it in, and we’re gonna take good care of you,” as I walked through the lot in my coveralls while people hiding in cars were throwing chickens out the windows at me. Decades later I reprised that role in what has been referred to as Terry Plays a Used Car Salesman II. This time, for the Fox promotional campaign A World with No Football, it was suggested that if football did not exist, I would have ended up selling clunkers held together by gum while wearing a toupee that looked like it had been shed by my pet goose. It could have been worse, I guess. Troy Aikman and Joe Buck apparently would have been starring in Spanish soap operas, both with the requisite mustache.

One of my favorite commercials was one I did for MSD Agvet’s TBZ, an agricultural product that we used on the ranch to deworm cattle. It featured my dad; my uncle; my first golden lab, Goldie; and me penning cattle on the ranch. Goldie always worked cattle with me. Filming this with my dad and uncle was so wonderful, until the part where I jumped off a railing and accidently landed on Goldie’s paw. She yelped and I ad-libbed something like, “Even dogs are cheering for TBZ.”

I’ll tell you about the most lucrative commercial I ever did. I had a bad right knee. This was not a football injury—it was just wear and tear, osteoarthritis. But it was painful. Just walking was excruciating. I couldn’t ride a tractor, couldn’t sleep comfortably. Stairs were whoa, gotta think about if I really need to go up there. It was a real challenge. The only positive aspect of it was that it gave me a valuable excuse on the golf course. But I didn’t like the thought of having a knee replacement. It’s scary to know when you wake up your original equipment was going to be gone.

Does that sound like I’m doing a commercial?

I had a total right knee replacement with the MicroPort Orthopedics Evolution Medial-Pivot Knee System. It worked. It worked almost better than the knee I had. I regained the ability to do whatever I wanted to do without pain. Loved those stairs!

See, I told you I was good at endorsements.

The company asked me to become its spokesperson—paying me in stock. I totally forgot about it for several years until my accountant called one day and said, “You’re not gonna believe this. Remember that stock you got for the knee replacement? That stock is now worth . . .”

He was right. I didn’t believe it. Thanks to my new knee, I could run to the bank to make that deposit.

That actually led to another memorable moment. One afternoon I got a very apologetic phone call from the hospital lawyer, who somberly informed me that after my old knee had been tossed out, someone had dug into the trash and stolen it. I immediately began wondering how much the knee that won four Super Bowls might bring on the memorabilia market. Unfortunately, he continued, the knee thief had tested the DNA in my used knee and discovered evidence of steroids! Oh no! Steroids in my DNA only forty years after I retired.

That was when I figured out I was being pranked by the grand prankmaster, Tom Mabe. “Tam-mee!” I yelled. “They got me!”

I remember the night I did not play me. Instead, I was Roger Staubach. This was in 1976, after Super Bowl X, in which we beat the Cowboys. My then-fiancée JoJo Starbuck and I had been invited to a reception at the White House honoring Egyptian President Anwar Sadat. I was standing at the bar while JoJo was dancing with a senator when Vice President Nelson Rockefeller came up and told me he was a huge fan of mine. Whoa, how cool was that? Standing at a bar in the White House while the vice president of the whole United States is telling me he is my fan. I was feeling pretty good about that.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Vice President,” I said.

Then he started talking about the game. “You guys got robbed,” he said. Robbed? We won that game. But being polite, I asked, “How’s that?”

“That was no pass interference,” he told me, referring to a controversial play. “No way the Steelers should have won that game.”

Which was when I realized he thought I was Roger Staubach. I certainly did not want to embarrass the vice president of the United States, so I looked at him—and agreed! “You’re right. We got screwed on that one.”

For the rest of that conversation I was Roger Staubach, complaining about that officiating. “I couldn’t believe those calls, myself,” I said—although I did compliment Terry Bradshaw on playing a fine game. I do have to admit that I kind of enjoyed being Staubach for fifteen minutes, knowing that I was a graduate of the Naval Academy and a Heisman Trophy winner.

As what might mercifully be termed my “acting career” Terry-ed out, I had several opportunities to do reality shows. I am now going to reveal the truth, so if you’re a fan of reality programs, skip this part: Reality TV is not real! Most of it is set up to provide maximum entertainment. It probably should be called Funny TV. Producers of these shows generally are looking for people willing to make a fool of themselves in front of a camera.

Which is why I was in such demand.

I will do anything in front of a camera to make a situation work. If the joke’s on me, that’s fine, as long as the audience is entertained and “no animals are harmed during the making of this show.” People? Sometimes you have got to sacrifice a comedian or two.

Maybe the most fun I’ve ever had on TV was doing the show Better Late Than Never. It was a version of a South Korean program called Grandpas Over Flowers. Henry Winkler put the American version together. It was a simple premise: William Shatner, George Foreman, the comedian Jeff Dye, the Fonz, and I traveled through Asia and Europe, diving into local culture. We took Ninja training in Japan, fought blow-up bulls in Spain, raced BMWs in Germany, an elephant picked me up by its trunk in Thailand, I milked goats in Lithuania, and we put on horned hats and steered a Viking boat in Sweden.

You know what was the most fun about it? Watching people other than me making fools of themselves.

The producers just put us in situations and turned on the cameras. In Tokyo we appeared on a morning quiz show on a panel with a pair of absolutely identical twins. The twins got up, put their arms around each other, spun wildly, then separated and asked, “Which one is the real Yoki?” So Jeff Dye and I got up, hugged, spun around, separated, and Jeff asked, “Which one is the real Bradshaw?”

Shatner shook his head. “This is the kind of show Bradshaw loves,” he said. “This and cartoons.”

In Munich we all went to a nudist park. Okay, I can see you smiling. Now really, what do you think I was going to do? The producers asked if anyone wanted to go . . . Me! Me! There were a lot of naked people strolling in the park. Shatner was not one of them. Let’s be honest here. Who would want to look at his naked body when Bradshaw was around? Jeff Dye was supposed to get naked, too, but when the time came, he wouldn’t do it.

In this situation wardrobe did not provide penis socks.

We didn’t have a script. I improvised. Oh, did I. Two men were sitting at a table enjoying lunch. I approached them, wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a smile. I also had a hot dog. Don’t ask. I don’t know why either. I approached them and held out my wiener. And then I said to them . . . (This is the do-it-yourself paragraph in this book. Please fill in your own line here. But do me a favor, think big. If your response makes you laugh, or even just smile, I will have played my . . . roll. Role! If it does not, you did not do your part.)

What I actually said to them didn’t make it into the broadcast.

During the two seasons we did the show, we all became friends. We laughed in seven languages. Shatner and I share a deep love of horses, although his passion is buggy horses. I remember riding up a steep mountain in a cable car with him when he made the terrible mistake of telling me heights made him uncomfortable.

Naturally, I started shaking the car. One of us thought it was really funny. Just imagine what I could have done if I had traveled into space with him.

After two seasons, network executives came up with a great idea. Let’s replace that show with a program that costs twice as much to produce and gets half the ratings! And they were successful at doing that. Tammy and I stayed friends with everyone on the show, but especially Henry and Stacey Winkler. We even went on a fishing trip with them once. We had a great time, although, admittedly, I pulled a couple of little pranks and . . . wait a second. You know what? Now that I think about it, we have not been invited back.

Among those people I remained friends with was the producer of the show, Jason Ehrlich. For my seventieth birthday Tammy invited several hundred of my closest friends to a surprise party, and he was among them. During the evening, our three girls—Rachel, Lacey, and Erin—gave speeches, and we all ended up crying. And laughing. It is something very special when you see your kids getting all emotional about you. Afterward, Jason asked if we would be interested in doing a Bradshaw family reality show. I knew what he meant by that: Terry does silly stuff.

I was ambivalent about it. Tammy was reluctant. Tammy had spent her professional life working in radiology. She ran hospital departments and never spent too much time fussing over herself. Initially, she told me, this might be fun, but she was concerned producers might try to create a Kardashian situation in which family members get competitive. She was not going to allow that to happen. That was her one rule right from the beginning. Together we created a wonderfully blended family, and neither one of us was willing to disrupt that. She also was a little insecure. “I don’t have the clothes for this. I don’t know how to do my hair and makeup. I don’t want to be on that screen . . .”

Like I have often proven, I wasn’t concerned about what I was wearing. Or, obviously, how to do my scalp. Tammy and I agreed to do the show so our girls could see what it was like to be in front of a camera. And, honestly, it was a good way to promote several projects we were working on. The question that popped into my mind was: Does anybody actually care about our family life? Other than my family? Then someone pointed out that the cast of the show would be four beautiful women, adorable grandchildren, and one Terry. One man surrounded by four really good-looking women? That part made sense to me.

There was also the fact that my struggles with ADHD, depression, and my mental health had become very public. There were a lot of people who could relate to that. This was an opportunity to show people what is possible if you’re willing to do the work.

The basic premise of the show was, put us in situations that were set up mostly to embarrass me. I didn’t mind that at all. I was going to be a good-natured, loving, well-meaning—sometimes dense—husband, dad, grandpappy, and friend who didn’t have a clue. By this point, people knew I shared the joke with them.

The Bradshaw Bunch went on the air in 2020, unfortunately right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. Pretty much my whole family was staying together on our ranch in Thackerville, Oklahoma. But even under those conditions the producers never ran out of situations. Plots included me making a Viagra commercial, me falling down trying hot yoga, me waxing my back hair and having it ripped off, my daughter’s attempt to keep her boob enlargement from me—leading me to ask the Lord, “Give me the strength to talk to Erin about her boob job”—a monster-truck race, and the whole family visiting my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In one episode I wore a hairpiece, a plush white rug. “I know what you’re thinking,” I told Tammy when I modeled it for her, “Elvis is back!”

I sang with my daughter Rachel at the Grand Ole Opry, performing a song she wrote titled “Everything a Daddy Won’t Say,” which obviously couldn’t have been about me because I’ll pretty much say anything—as I proved when I gave my daughter Erin and her husband, Scott, advice on camera about how to get pregnant, telling them, “Oysters do something to your body that stimulate your reproductive . . .” Erin was obviously embarrassed and interrupted me, exclaiming, “Dad!” Which, naturally, is why I am repeating that conversation here. I am not the only one to be embarrassed on that show. (Love you all!)

To the surprise of everyone not in my family, the breakout star of the show was the fifth young woman: my precocious, utterly adorable, then-seven-year-old granddaughter, Zurie. She gets me: One day I was trying to impress her by mentioning I was the most-watched football broadcaster on television. She frowned, then decided, “Doesn’t move the needle.” She does like me, though, telling me, “I like spending time with you, Pappy, but I think cake is better . . . and ice cream is a whole different story.”

Gets me? She nailed me one day. She was trying to get my attention, and I refused to stop talking, talking, talking. I’m good at talking. She got really frustrated, came over to me, put her hands on both my cheeks, looked me directly in the eyes, and said slowly and clearly, “Pappy, look at me. Concentrate. Focus. Focus.”

Now, you just know how desperately Howie Long has been wanting to say that same thing to me for the last thirty years.

The Bradshaw Bunch was successful. We were the highest-rated new show on the E! channel in the previous four years. But after our second season, the pandemic was easing, and we were all ready to resume our own lives. E! made us a nice offer to shoot a third season. We debated it, but I think everyone except me had had about enough of being silly. Then I got a little bit sick, or maybe a lot bit sick, and the decision was made for us.

It’s funny, but one of the hardest things for me to do at different times is convince people I’m not being funny. When people see me performing, they expect to laugh. That made it especially hard for me to establish my singing career. When I made movies, no one expected me to be able to act. I was hired because of my name recognition. I was never cast in a lead role. I was the bonus appearance in the background. But for me, singing has always been different.

I love to sing. Been singing my whole life. Growing up I sang in church. At home when I washed dishes, I’d set my RCA record player on the counter and sing along to Hovie Lister and The Statesmen Quartet. I always thought of myself as a singer, although probably my biggest singing skill was loud. After winning two Super Bowls, I made an album for Mercury Records titled I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. I spent five long hours one day making that album. I was petrified. I’d never even been inside a recording studio. It was meant to be fun. It was pretty obvious that I wasn’t as good singing in public as I was in my bathtub. Look, I knew it was a novelty, but it made it to number 91 on Billboard’s Hot 100 and the title single got to number 17 on the country music charts. Reviews defined my singing ability as “courageous.” It was, without any doubt, though, by far the best album made by a two-time Super Bowl–winning quarterback released that year.

I don’t kid myself. I leave that for other people. I have far too much respect for people who work at their craft not to accept my limitations. I respect people who spend years learning how to act or sing or fight bulls or any effort that requires talent, skill, and experience. I admire people who step into an unknown environment, but when they do, they know the outcome might be bad. At least at first. It’s exciting, even if the result isn’t great. I was proud that I made that album, even if its quality was questionable. I would have hated myself if I had said no to that opportunity. That has never been the way I lived my life.

I know how fortunate I was to have the ability to succeed in my passion, but I pursued it long and hard before my football talent became obvious. I sat on the bench in high school and college, convinced that someday I was going to be a star. I tell that to people because I believe in chasing dreams, even if you never catch one. I’ve always told my kids and grandkids, “Go for it. Don’t hold back. Go for the end zone.”

When I was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, I told them my philosophy: “My nature is to attack. He’s open. What are you supposed to do with the ball? If he’s covered, what do you do? Throw that sucker, get rid of it.” Go for it. I make that point in my stage act, telling the audience, “One of the things I hated doing when I played football was throwing short passes. You see so much of that now, dink . . . dink . . . dink. Fifteen for sixteen for a total of forty-seven yards, that boy is acc-u-rate. Drives me nuts. Nine for nine for one hundred yards, now you’re talking. I like taking a gamble.”

I knew my name opened opportunities for me. But I also knew from struggling through those first seasons in the NFL that if I was serious about singing, I needed to find and develop whatever talent I might have. I worked at it. I sang every day. I learned about phrasing and breathing. I did it over and over and over, and slowly I did get better. I focused on country-western music because that was what I loved. Honestly, I don’t love the new country music as much as I do the classic songs about hardship, love, and despair. Give me crying songs, sad songs, and I’m a happy guy.

At first, when I performed I was nervous. I lacked confidence, but with experience that changed. I knew that the majority of the people in the audience had come out to see me because they knew me from football, first from playing and then from the Sunday shows. They liked me and they were curious. Most of the time they were pleasantly entertained.

The rest of the people probably had wandered into the wrong room.

In 2013 I performed my act in Las Vegas at the Mirage hotel. That was a big deal for me. A gamble. The title of my show was proof how far I’d come: America’s Favorite Dumb Blonde—A Life in Four Quarters. I knew that wasn’t accurate; whatever hair I still have definitely is not blond. I was backed up by a full band and a small group of singers and dancers we called the I-Qties. In addition to singing, I told some stories about my life and showed humorous video highlights. I opened with my rendition—now, whoever could have predicted I would have my own rendition?—of the Brooks & Dunn song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” I like to sing ballads. I’m a big Roy Orbison fan, and I love Toby Keith.

I pick songs that I hope will make an impression, ones that might make people smile or remember or just feel. I can tell you the most difficult song I’ve ever sung. That’s easy to remember because it was so incredibly difficult. By 2021 my friend and manager for thirty-four years, David Gershenson, had been fighting lung cancer for several years. David had guided my career ever since I met him when I was working with Burt Reynolds, leading my transition from football into everything else that came afterward. David was a brilliant man. His whole philosophy was that we don’t do things for money. We build. We build a foundation. “We’re going to showcase your personality,” he insisted. “We do things that are good for your long-term career. More television. More speaking engagements. Interviews that enhance your business portfolio.”

Um, not for money?

It worked out fine. Much better than fine, and along the way, David became a close friend and confidant. As Tammy would say, his number was in my phone. In fact, he was on speed dial. In 2021, his condition got bad. He was suffering something awful; he decided he was going to end his life on his own terms and choose physician-assisted death. I had a difficult time accepting that decision. I understood that was selfish, but Tammy, who spent much of her life working in a hospital and watching people suffer, was more supportive. David told us he was going to go through this process on a certain Monday. He was taking time to say goodbye to his family and friends. I suspect we needed that as much as—maybe more than—he did. I went to see him in his apartment on that Saturday. It was incredibly difficult for me to accept the fact that he had chosen to end his life. I will never forget sitting with him, talking with him, loving on him, thanking him for everything he had done for me, remembering the wonderful times we had spent together—and the whole time thinking, I can’t believe he isn’t going to be here on Monday.

Eventually it was time to say goodbye. Whoa, tough. Very, very tough. We hugged and I kissed him on his cheek. When I got to the door I paused and did one of those movie takes, where you take a last look over your shoulder. David had his head cupped in his hands and he was crying.

Broke my heart. Just broke my heart. I didn’t let him see my own tears. That night I went out and did my show. That was David. The show must always go on.

At some point Tammy convinced me to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” in the act. I wasn’t in favor of it. It was a challenging song for me. But I did it because it is one of her favorites. When it came time to sing it, I told the audience about David, about what he meant to me, and that I was dedicating this song to him. Then I started singing about not being afraid of the dark and a golden sky being at the end of the storm . . . No lyric has ever made as much of an impression on me as this song did that night.

I started crying. Tammy was crying. She recorded it on her phone and sent it to him. He was able to respond, writing back how much he appreciated it and enjoyed it. By Monday morning he was gone. Tough. Tough. Tough.

David was always urging me to do more speaking engagements. Have I mentioned that talking is what I do best? Here’s what I’ve learned about making speeches: The audience is not getting tested at the end. I’m pretty sure if people were asked after listening to me speak what I had said, the response would be something like, “I’m not exactly sure, but he sure was funny saying it.”

The title of my speech is “Why Not Your Best?” I don’t know why it is called that. I never once have spoken about that. But I needed a title for the Washington Speaker’s Bureau (1-833-972-8255, just in case) brochure, and they came up with that. Sounds good though, right? And maybe that is the foundation of every speech I give. I’m a motivational speaker, and my real objective is for the attendees to leave the room feeling good about themselves and the company that they are working for, to make them reflect just a bit on how they might do better. The audience knows I am not a doctor, a psychologist, an economics expert, or a financial advisor. I’m a footballer. In many situations, my audience has already heard from all those intelligent people, so I’m the fun guy.

I love speaking. I love being on stage. I love motivating people. I love making people laugh. That’s where I thrive. I could give a speech every day of my life. I don’t write my speeches. They are done on the fly. I just stand on stage, start talking, and let the words flow out. That doesn’t mean I don’t prepare. My speech is built from experience.

When I get a good response, I will remember it and maybe incorporate it into my next speech. There are similarities between calling my own plays and giving a speech. After playing enough games, making enough speeches, I am confident that I know how to do it. I’ve prepared, and I’ve done my game plan. I know what plays to call, what subjects to talk about.

I have never run out of words. That’s another gift I was given. When I speak, I am rolling in a bowl of honey. Generally, people are very kind to me. When I’m introduced, I often receive a big round of applause, or what I refer to as a sitting ovation. I generally open with self-deprecating humor: “I haven’t had a round of applause like that since my honeymoon night!” Da-dum! Or “I haven’t heard a round of applause like that since I ran my ABCs past my ninth-grade teacher!” Da-dum! Then I’ll tell them, “I’m here because I spent fourteen years putting my hands on a man’s butt!” Da-dum! I try to mention the organization as quickly as possible, telling the audience how honored I am to have been selected to be their speaker when they might have gotten a whole lot more impressive people for that two-hundred-dollar fee.

When I set out on my speaking career I spoke to any group that would invite me, “invite” being the polite way of saying “pay me.” One time—and this is absolutely true—I spoke at a supermarket. They put me up on a ladder and piped my speech through the store’s speaker system. I gave them what they wanted: “I’ll never forget that game against the 49ers. I got hit so hard, but I got up. And you can too. Don’t let life keep you down. We all have our struggles, but get up. Just get up. And while you’re up don’t forget that toilet paper is on sale today. Two for a dollar.”

When I finished, a woman came up to me with a big smile on her face. I was ready for the compliment I expected was coming. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, “do you know where the frozen peas are?”

Another time I spoke during a break in a cattle auction. Now, do you really think people there to buy cattle wanted to listen to a motivational speech? The auctioneer introduced me, “Who’sgonnabidfourthousandforthisbeautifulanimalwegotfivethousanddoIhearsixthousandIhavesixthousandsoldforsixthousandsandnowletmeintroducefourtimeSuperBowlchampionTerryBradshawtoofferafewwordsofencouragement.”

“Thankyouverymuchit’sgreattobeherewithyoutoday . . .”

I can tell you one of my all-time favorite speaking engagements was a welders’ union picnic in Chicago. What was I going to tell them? Get out there and weld better? The host handed me the mic and helped me get up on the bed of a pickup. People had been eating and drinking beer all afternoon. As I started speaking someone yelled to me, “We’re happy you’re here, Terry. Hell with your speech. Let’s party!” Which we did.

The worst speech? That’s easy. I was booked to speak at the World Physicist Council. One hundred and thirty of the greatest Oppenheimers in the world—and me. No man in his right mind would have accepted that speech—so just go ahead and insert the punch line.

It was an awful event. When I know an audience does not like me, I work harder to connect with them. I take it as a challenge. In this situation I shifted into overspeech. I gave them my most impassioned speech. I told my best jokes. I worked and I worked and I worked. I raised my voice. I moved around the stage. I got down on the floor. I was sweating profusely. I lost twenty-seven pounds—and they just sat there staring at me. If I had been a man on the moon this group . . . well, actually, if I had been a man on the moon this group would have loved me.

When I finished I got a standing ovation—from one person, although admittedly he also might have been rushing to the men’s room. A few minutes later I was outside the ballroom, leaning against a wall. I couldn’t even loosen my tie because it was soaking wet. The meeting planner who had hired me came and told me, “They absolutely loved you. They couldn’t get over your message. I’ve never had this happen before, but they want you back next year and . . .”

“No.” But . . . but . . . but . . . “Just no.”

There have been only two times when I intended to write my speech. I made my first corporate speech to the Frito-Lay people. The company offered me $5,000. Five thousand dollars? That was twice as much as I had ever been paid. I flew in to Destin, Florida, the day before the event. They gave me a corporate T-shirt and put me up in a private suite with an ocean view. I had cheese, crackers, grapes, a bottle of wine. It was first class in every way. Much better than the cold chicken at the high school banquets I was used to.

Every aspect of my appearance was perfectly organized. The corporate planner told me what they wanted me to include in this speech. I was going to give them what they wanted. That night I sat down in my suite with an ocean view and started writing my speech. Well, thinking about writing my speech. Did I tell you they were paying me $5,000? I intended to give them every dollar’s worth.

I thought, I’ll go here, then here. I won’t go there. I’ll mention this. I gotta make sure I thank Bill, who is presenting me. The more I worked on the speech, the more stressed I got, and the less I got accomplished. I got so anxious that I never got to sleep.

The next day when I was introduced to the audience, the auditorium erupted in cheers. I had learned that Frito-Lay’s corporate headquarters was in Dallas, so I opened by taking a few shots at the Cowboys. Oh, they loved that. Then I basically forgot my prepared speech and started talking about struggling as a player and overcoming adversity. I talked about giving credit to my teammates because without Mike Webster’s big butt and John Stallworth telling me to throw him the damn ball, I would not have been successful. I just kept talking. We were all just having a good time together. The speech I didn’t write got a huge ovation.

My office sent a tape of the speech to the Washington Speaker’s Bureau, which at that time primarily dealt with politicians. Two of the founders, Harry Rhoads Jr. and Bernie Swain, watched it and signed me to a lifetime speaker’s contract. We signed on the label of an expensive bottle of wine. Best autograph I ever gave. Those two men changed my life. So much of what I have I owe to them.

With the exception of the speech to the World Physicist Council.

But I still love me some Fritos.

The second time I tried to write a speech was when I was being inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. That was an incredibly meaningful honor to me, so I spent a whole month working on a speech. I mean, I worked on that sucker till it was perfect. Then I called a friend of mine, a wonderful writer named Buddy Martin, and read the whole thing to him. When I finished, there was total silence on his end of the line.

Then he finally said, “TB, that is beautiful. That is perfect. It is so good, but it doesn’t sound anything like you.” Then he gave me advice I have never forgotten. “You got to be you. That’s who people love.”

“Okay,” I replied, “tell you what. Give me five big words that I can scatter through my speech to impress these people with my intellect.” That’s what he did. I wrote down all five of them and used every one of them. When people complimented me on my speech, I told them my words came right from the heart.

I did not mention it was Buddy Martin’s heart.