Larry Foster walked into my life, when he brought his guest check to the counter at Todd Pharmacy. It was 1975. I was eighteen.
Larry had recently come to the White Lake area, having been called to serve as pastor at Lebanon Lutheran Church in Whitehall. At the time, I was a Catholic kid, with no knowledge of Lutherans. In time, I would follow Larry’s path, also becoming a second-career Lutheran minister. But, wow, that’s getting way ahead of my story.
I have no recollection of the order of things as I got to know Larry. Indeed, that I was able to call him by his first name was, at the time, amazing. Learning that he was a minister, I attempted to call him Pastor Foster. He would have none of it. I allowed myself to use his first name, then got used to it.
Then, I learned this: Larry Foster had pitched for the Detroit Tigers. Young Greg’s reaction—“You did?!”—was followed by the baseball-gaga teen peppering him with questions every time he waited on him after Larry had chatted up the coffee-drinking gang at Todd’s soda fountain.
Greg: “How long did you play for the Tigers?” Larry: “Only one game, in 1963. I got sent back down to the minors, then had a knee injury, so I retired.”
Greg: “You must have come up with Mickey Lolich, and Denny McClain, and a lot of the guys on the 1968 World Series champs. Did you know them?” Larry: “I did.” After learning this, Larry was peppered with questions about these men, and this team, that was the team young Greg wanted to play for.
Larry somehow put up with idolizing me. I found him an unassuming guy. Far from the goofy, gregarious lad I was. Despite our different personalities, we nurtured a nifty friendship. To my surprise, it served to benefit me a decade later.
When I was 25, I went to work at MasterTag. My friend, Rick Hughes, who’d recently taken over the business from his grandfather, knew I was laid off from the foundry in Montague. He phoned, that there was a job opening, but he couldn’t promise more than several weeks work. At the time, I was painting the inside of Montague’s post office and was inclined to thank him, but tell him I needed to complete the job at the post office.
Changing my mind changed my life.
When the work dried up for which I was hired, there was need in another department. The general manager, John Hollenbeck, noticed me. Then, when I was due to be laid off for the summer, he didn’t want to lose me. He brought me into the office, to file invoices. That led to my taking orders on the phone, which led to the three women in the office funneling customer service calls to me, which led to my becoming MasterTag’s first Customer Service Manager, which led to much more.
This piece is supposed to be about Larry Foster, but I need to mention more about Rick Hughes, and sheepishly admit I’ve never written a piece on him—and he’s only been one of the most important people in my life. It was Rick I asked to tag along with him to St. James Lutheran Church, when my fiancée and I were exploring where to make a church home. If you know my story, you’re aware that twelve years later I headed to seminary.
Being a small company—and it not hurting that Rick and I had been neighbors as kids, and friends since high school—Rick could interact with employees outside the chain of command. He regularly suggested seminars for me to attend. He saw something in me, and was determined to nurture it.
What he did was to nurture that something right into my leaving his company!
Re-enter Larry Foster. Rick had left St. James, moving across White Lake to Lebanon Lutheran. Larry was his pastor.
Larry was leading a seminar on listening. Rick provided the venue: his cottage on White Lake. Rick suggested the seminar to me. But, this wouldn’t be the typical one-workday affair. It would be four days of twelve hours each day, held over a Saturday and Sunday, then, a couple weeks later, another Saturday and Sunday. Since I was married, with young kids, I needed my wife onboard.
Having secured her support, I anxiously entered the cottage, only able to imagine that the rest of the dozen or so others were my superiors in every way.
Indeed, I learned everyone else was a member of Larry’s congregation, all in positions of leadership. And everyone was way older than me.
Larry made us comfortable. He was an excellent speaker. He presented the information so that even I grasped it.
We did a lot of small group exercises. I found myself flourishing, and a natural leader of my groups. Wait, more than that: those who made up my groups saw me that way. They continually appointed me spokesperson for the group.
Larry interacted with us. He did what he was teaching: he listened. And watched. And provided feedback.
That’s when he said it to me. In the middle of speaking toward whatever the topic was, he said, “Your magnanimous personality.” While I had an idea what he meant, I needed it fleshed out. Larry went on to describe why he used magnanimous.
In this, Larry informed me of two things. First, I was enlightened as to my personality. Sure, I recognized most of it, but Larry explained it in such a way that I could see the benefits and what I could do with it.
Second, I was informed how others saw me. This was the more important recognition. While I had matured a lot, I was growing up from an insecure boy—the kid so afraid behind the wheel of a car that he was told to drive for three months on his permit, instead of the usual thirty days; the high-school senior too scared to ask the pretty girl to prom, when he was assured she’d say yes.
In the maturing department, I had a long way to go, to fulfill my potential.
At the time of the seminar, I had no idea I would leave MasterTag to pursue the ministry, so I couldn’t have guessed the high value I would have for Larry’s seminar, where I learned how to shut up and let others talk, the value of open-ended questions over those answered with yes or no, how to pay attention to what people are saying and not saying.
I’ve repeated the following innumerable times: people cannot not tell their story. I learned that from Larry. I use it to this day, as I listen. I’ve heard it in myself, when I talk.
Shoot, it’s what this blog is all about, and what my books are about: me telling my story. I cannot not tell it.
I saw Larry after I’d become a minister. I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me. Pish! He remembered everything about me! And, through Rick, he knew I’d become a pastor.
I delighted in telling him how much value I’d received from the seminar on listening. As I spoke, he smiled. It was the smile I recalled from the days I peppered him with questions about the Tigers—the smile that made the outsides of his eyes crinkle, so it looked as though he was squinting.
Thank you, Larry, for being one of the people who were integral in forming me. I look forward to seeing you in eternity. Oh! We’ll get to answer the question: can a heavenly pitcher strike out a batter every time, or will the eternal batter be able to hit his curveball?
Let’s hear it, St. Peter: “Play ball!”
Larry’s Wikipedia page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larry_Foster_(baseball)
Larry’s obituary:
Eilers Pizza 