Loss of a Mentor

“Don’t you ever feel the call to help the needy?” I asked. 

He replied, with a smile: “That’s why I’m at lunch with you.”

In 2010, Mr. Jim Perzik was the General Counsel of the most prolific sports franchise in the world, the LA Lakers. He had been by Dr. Buss’s side for decades and negotiated contracts for the likes of Magic, Shaq, and Kobe.

And then me: 23 years old, first-year law student from rural Wisconsin. No car, living in Los Angeles. Several pairs of plaid cargo shorts. Did not know anyone west of the Mississippi, let alone in LA.

Meeting My Mentor

Within hours of sending a carefully crafted email to Jim, my phone rang. It was him. He asked if we could get lunch.

As I drove my roommate’s car to the Lakers practice facility a few months later (it took a while, since his calendar was likely full of other mentee lunches), I called my Dad in excitement like a teenager going to his first concert. I arrived and walked with swagger to the gate. I told the security guard I was there to see, “Mr. Perzik.” He led me through the gate to the front desk, where I proudly wrote my name and who I was seeing.

That experience became a common occurrence for me, as Jim — what he insisted I call him during our first lunch, saying that "Mr. Perzik" made him feel old — and I would get lunch every few months.

One time, while waiting for him to meet me in the lobby, Kobe walked out of the training room as Jim was approaching to greet me. Kobe gave Jim a fist bump, saying, "What's up, Mr. Perzik?!" and walked out the door. Another time, Jim came to USC for an alumni lunch. I’m sure my pride swelled from my ears after he found me, told me he had saved me a seat at his table, and we walked to sit at one of the head tables at the event. 

How My Mentor Saved My Career

A few years later, with dozens of spanakopita orders behind us, I was having my first career crisis. I was working at the NFL Network and struck my first bout of asking myself, “Am I making the world a better place?” I was considering jumping corporate ship to find a non-profit to join full time.

I asked Jim his thoughts. Between bites of Greek food, he casually and confidently explained his approach to giving back: mentoring people like me.

“You see,” he said, “having an impact on people can come in a variety of ways. You can work for a non-profit, feeding the homeless or working for another worthy cause, and certainly have an impact. But, if you're lucky enough to get a job that other people want, you'll have lots of people reaching out to you for help in their careers."

He went on, "That's how I give back. I treat everyone who reaches out to me with decency and respect. I give them my time with no expectation of anything in return. Just because they might not be as bad off as some, those people — especially young ones like you — still could use some help. And sometimes you end up finding friendship… a bonus!”

I am surely paraphrasing a bit, but it went something like that.

There is not a week that goes by in which I don't think about what Jim said that day. Those days when I'm tired of talking and want nothing more than to cancel the 6pm call with a law student because, well, what am I going to get from that? I then recall that Jim had no reason to invite me to lunch. And he certainly had nothing to gain from me. Yet, there he was, always willing to meet, give me advice, and pick up the tab.

How My Mentor Saved My Career — Again

Jim and I did not talk every day or every week. I checked in every month or two. Or when I needed him.

My wife Emilie and I are both from Wisconsin. Living in LA was great, but it felt like a vacation — in the good and not-as-good ways, like missing our family. Our eyes were always open for an opportunity that would get us closer to home. So when an opportunity in Chicago presented itself, it was hard not to be a little short-sighted on the opportunity itself, and instead focus on the fact that it would mean moving home. I was offered the job and planned to accept it on my next call with the HR person. 

No more than 3 hours before that call, Jim called my cell. I had told him about the opportunity a few weeks prior, and he had not said much (other than that he thought I was crazy for choosing to leave Southern California for the windy city).

“Have you accepted that offer in Chicago yet?” He asked. “No, but I’m going to in a couple hours!” I replied, having no idea what was coming next.

“If you were my son, I would tell you this. So I’m going to be honest with you.” He went on to describe a conversation he had on my behalf with someone who knew the company well, as well as his overall thoughts about my career trajectory. He told me point blank that, after careful consideration on my behalf, he didn't think I should take it.

The details about what he said do not matter. The point is that he cared enough to not only make calls on my behalf, but to deliver news that I did not want to hear.

I turned down the job. Turns out, he could not have been more right. Not because of anything negative about the company, but because of my career trajectory in the ensuing years. He told me later how difficult that call was for him, as he knew it would put me a difficult spot with telling my family that I had turned down a chance to get closer to home.

But he had to call me, he said, because it was what was best for me.

The Last Time I Saw My Mentor

Jim died last month from COVID at the age of 91. The last time I saw him was just over a year ago at our go-to restaurant, Aliki's, with my wife, Emilie.

Emilie and I were in LA for one of my work trips. I remember feeling a little uncomfortable asking Jim if he was open to having lunch with both of us. It just felt a little weird... crossing “business” with “family." But I wanted her to meet the man who had shaped my career so much.

He was thrilled to meet her, he said a couple weeks in advance, and then texted me saying how excited he was the morning of our lunch. Like many in his generation, he used way too many exclamation points in texts and always wrote "LOL" using all caps. 

I don't remember specifically what we talked about that day at lunch, the three of us. I just remember him smiling at Emilie the entire time, asking her — and genuinely caring about her answers — about her family, her job, and what it’s like to have the tall task of being married to me.

I barely said a word the entire lunch, which was perfectly alright with me.

Moving Forward, Not On

For those of you who know me well, you know I’ve experienced my share of loss in the past year or so. One of the best things I’ve heard about losing someone: “Never move on, but always move forward.”

Moving forward, I hope I can pass along some of the mentorship Jim gave to me.