Cecelia was coming down the aisle for the third time, this time collecting trash from passengers. Her look was stern, yet disconnected. She was doing a job, and not much more.

When she got to Jon and Buddy's aisle and coldly said, “Trash,” as she held out the bag, Buddy again greeted her with a smile. As he dropped his coffee cup in the bag, he looked up at her and simply said, “Ma'am I apologize if I offended you earlier. Certainly didn't mean to do that. And thanks for all of your work today.”

Cecelia paused for a moment, seemingly surprised, and almost reflexively said, “Thank you.” Then she quickly turned to the folks across the aisle and kept on with her task.

Jon leaned toward Buddy. “Did you do that for my benefit?”

“Do what?”

“Apologize.”

“Son, again, no offense, but at that moment I wasn't thinking about you. I was concerned with her. So, no sir. I apologized because it was the right thing to do,” Buddy said, looking back over his shoulder just in time to notice a glance from Cecelia.

“But you stated earlier that she was low in self‐awareness and you were simply trying to be nice. If your motives were good and she's not going to understand what you're doing anyway, why apologize?” Jon challenged.

Buddy grinned.

“Jon,” Buddy paused. “Josiah, Dr. T, and my momma could sing three‐part harmony on a verse they each recite all of the time. Independent of each other, mind you, but these are folks who, when they speak, I listen.”

“And what was that? ‘Do the right thing, regardless'?” Jon guessed.

“That's a good 'un, and they would all say that, too. But that's not what I was thinking of here. They would say: ‘The only person you can control is you.’”

Buddy paused and looked upwards, thinking.

Jon did not want to interrupt. Though he remembered Grace saying that, too.

“People spend a lot of time trying to control other folks and even more time puffing up like a peacock because someone didn't do what they wanted them to. We judge people's backpacks. Get mad at their backpacks. Scream at them because their backpacks are in our way. But we rarely stop and ask ourselves, ‘I wonder how my backpack is shaping and influencing this situation?’ That's an important question, because it always is.

“Reminds me of a Wise Man who once asked, ‘Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own?’”

Jon kept listening. An hour ago, he would have stated, rather emphatically, that he was highly self‐aware and faster than most at reading people and understanding what to do. Now, barreling along at almost 600 miles per hour, Jon was beginning to realize that when it came to true people skills and full self‐awareness, he was barely taxiing on the runway.

“Jon, I don't apologize, or choose not to apologize, because of what the other person may or may not do. I can't control that. And because apologizing, in this situation and many situations, is the right thing to do, I do it. Regardless. My backpack had a negative impact on another person, which was certainly not intentional but was still the result, so I own it—and apologize.”

Jon continued to process, working to connect all of the dots of the backpack.

“Wait a minute on that, Buddy. Let's go back to the feedback conversation. Isn't giving critical feedback going to have negative impact on others? I mean, that's one reason people don't like to give feedback. They're afraid of hurting someone else's feelings. Or they water it down and over‐filter it so much that the feedback becomes almost meaningless.” Jon was starting to feel a little more confident in his people skills again. “That's why I think a lot of people aren't cut out for leading others. They're too nice. They'd rather be friends than give critical feedback.”

Jon was getting bolder.

“So, what is a leader supposed to do, Buddy? Give feedback and then apologize for it? Seems like a vicious cycle that no one will ultimately take seriously.”

Jon had been looking at the back of the seat in front of him while he was raising his point. It seemed to make him more confident to not look Buddy in the eye. When he turned back toward him, he was surprised to see that same big Texas grin.

“We're back watching that rodeo clown,” Buddy laughed. Jon's eyebrows furled, but he had learned that if he waited a minute, Buddy would get to his point.

“Speaking of a few minutes ago, I mentioned John Wooden, one of the greatest, if not the greatest, college basketball coaches ever to step on a court.”

“No argument from me,” Jon replied.

“I kind of sped past him, but my point at the time was that the feedback he gave his players was continuous, not only once a year.”

“I got that,” Jon replied.

“From everything I've read about him, his players knew that he truly cared for them and that he wanted the absolute best for them. They would even say he loved them. One of Wooden's lessons of leadership was, ‘Use the most powerful four‐letter word.’¹ Do you know what that word was, Jon?”

Jon shook his head.

“Love.”

Jon thought about that. Then it hit him. “But he also pushed them to get better. Is that the point?”

“Like before, it's more of an and. He loved his players and he pushed them to get better. It may be even more accurate to say that he pushed his players to get better because he loved them.”

Jon thought about that, too.

“Have you heard about his pyramid of success?”

“I have,” Jon replied.

“Coach Wooden had a box on that pyramid he called alertness,² which, now that I think about it, is a perfect fit for our backpack idea.”

Jon noticed how Buddy had said our. His new friend wasn't too focused on me.

“If my old mind remembers correctly, he described alertness as always being aware, always observing, and always seeking to make you and the team better. Something like that.”

“Are you saying that if people feel cared for, then they're never going to have their feelings hurt by critical feedback and it will just be one big party?” Jon asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

“No, sir. That's unicorns and rainbows. Even people you care for may rattle their six‐shooter when you give them feedback they don't like. But if they know you don't care about them, then they are almost guaranteed to get honking mad, even if they don't show it, and completely discount whatever feedback you provided.

“Caring for folks well—encouraging, complimenting, and supporting them, knowing their stories—builds emotional equity and relational capacity to handle conflict. That earns you the right to give feedback. I don't give you feedback selfishly. I give it because I care for you. That's why I give it directly but supportively. And I take it the same way. And,” Buddy grinned again, “as a reminder, when I receive feedback on my backpack, I should say…?”

“Thank you,” Jon remembered from before.

Jon thought about that, too.

“People hear the term critical feedback, and they think it's like a movie critic whose job it is to point out everything that's wrong. That's not what I'm talking about. Not at all. The goal is always to be more coach than critic. And I can't go too far the other way and become a cheerleader whose job is to never give feedback. They believe ‘We can do it, yes we can,’ when you're down by 40 points with a minute left on the clock.

“We want to be the coach. A coach like Wooden.”

They sat in silence before Buddy decided he needed to put a bow on this part of the conversation.

“Bottom line, my friend, is this: If I care about you, I want to know how my backpack is making your life better or worse, so I can do more or less as the situation warrants. And if I care about you, I want you to be the best, so I need to let you know everything I can about how I am being impacted by your backpack.”