Yesterday I turned 46. Not a traditional milestone, not one of those birthdays you circle years in advance. Yet it became one of the most meaningful days I can remember—not because of anything I planned, but because of what unfolded.

From early morning on, messages started coming in. People I speak with regularly. People I hadn’t heard from in years. Simple texts. Thoughtful notes. Calls. In the middle of busy schedules and responsibilities, people stopped and took time. That stays with you.

One message particularly stood out. A college friend I hadn’t connected with in years reached out. We caught up the way men do—talking about kids, work, hunting, fishing, and life. A simple exchange, but a meaningful reminder of shared history and how quickly time passes.

The day was full of emotions. I felt humility, gratitude, and a quiet sense of pride—not in accomplishments, but in relationships built through consistency, integrity, and effort over time.

I’m keenly aware of how blessed I am. Birthdays have become less about celebration and more about gratitude. I’m thankful for Jesus Christ guiding my life, including the clarity and strength that have come with choosing not to drink. That support shapes how I show up for my family, my team, and myself.

The lasting takeaway? Responsibility. Effort matters. Recognition matters. I intend to be more deliberate about reaching out and acknowledging others. Moments like this happen when people choose to show up—and that’s where the real happy begins.

“I’d rather burn out than rust out.”

It’s a bold statement, and I understand why it resonates—especially with driven people. It pushes against complacency and calls for effort. But the line also got me thinking about what lasting impact really looks like. Intensity alone isn’t the goal. Neither is simply enduring. What matters is direction and purpose.

Most of us don’t wake up aiming to burn out or fade away. We’re just trying to balance responsibilities, expectations, and the pace of everyday life. Somewhere in that mix, it’s easy to focus on doing more instead of being better—busier instead of more intentional.

What I’ve learned is that the things that endure aren’t loud or rushed. They’re steady. Character shows up in how we treat people, how patient we are when things don’t go our way, and how we act when no one is keeping score. Kindness, honesty, forgiveness, and decency aren’t flashy, but they’re effective. And they’re recognized across all beliefs and backgrounds.

For me, faith helps anchor those choices. It’s not something you can measure or market—it simply shapes how I try to show up each day. I also deeply respect anyone, regardless of belief, who is committed to doing the right thing and living with integrity.

That’s what keeping it real looks like to me. Purpose over noise. Substance over speed.

And for all who share faith in Jesus Christ as my family and I do, a meaningful Good Friday and a Blessed Easter.

Occasionally, a company meeting becomes something more than a kickoff or a checklist. This morning was one of those moments — a chance to pause, reflect, and recognize the people who make progress possible every single day.

Today we celebrated two extraordinary professionals: Casey Boltz, marking 10 years with the company, and Casey Quattlebaum, celebrating an impressive 20-year career. In an industry as demanding and fast-changing as automotive, that kind of tenure isn’t measured by time alone — it’s earned through trust, adaptability, and consistent excellence.

Casey Boltz was our first team member dedicated entirely to Dealer Co-op, a role born from both necessity and accountability. What followed was pure Casey B: ownership, humility, and an unwavering commitment to mastering every detail of the job. She never sought the spotlight, yet earned it daily through precision, reliability, and genuine appreciation for her teammates. Her impact has been steady, meaningful, and lasting.

Casey Quattlebaum joined us as a 20-something who readily admitted she didn’t know what a media buyer was — and said it with her trademark humor. In reflecting on the early days, she described a company (and a boss) that was a little weird, fiercely creative, and relentlessly driven to succeed. What others might have found unconventional, Casey recognized as an opportunity. Over two decades, she has worn many hats, helped shape roles that didn’t previously exist, and grown right alongside the organization. Her influence reaches far beyond performance metrics; it lives in our culture.

Both Caseys echoed a theme that resonated throughout the morning: “Yesterday’s home runs don’t win today’s games.” Success requires readiness, growth, and showing up prepared — season after season.

In Strongville this morning, there was joy. Our mighty Caseys didn’t strike out — and they’re still stepping up to the plate.

Spring Break 2026 has come with an unexpected way of holding up a mirror.

Driving through beach towns recently, I noticed electronic signs flashing curfews—7 p.m., 8 p.m., everywhere. Fox News, CNN, the same story on repeat. And I couldn’t help but laugh. Because when you’ve got kids—especially my youngest one—you start hearing an old phrase with fresh clarity: you’re paying for your raising.

All those late nights, wild ideas, and ‘what could possibly go wrong’ moments from my own Spring Break days? They didn’t disappear. They multiplied. They turned into security officers, barricades, and rules designed to protect the next generation from what mine normalized.

That idea doesn’t stop at parenting; it shows up clearly in business. The automotive industry is no different. The last six years—COVID disruptions, supply shortages, inflated pricing, high interest rates, massive pushes into electric before the market was ready—weren’t accidents. They were choices. And today’s negative equity, pressure on consumers, and manufacturers’ EV losses are part of the bill coming due.

Here’s the good news: everything will be okay. But only if we dig in. Markets, like families, are reflections of what we’ve built. Messaging matters. Ownership matters.

Because whether it’s raising kids or running a business, the truth remains the same: what you sow, you reap. And eventually, everyone pays for their raising.

I came across a simple phrase the other day: More blessings than lessons. Simple words, but the timing was right—and it gave me reason to pause and reflect.

If you’ve been at this long enough, you know the lessons come first. Hard ones. Lessons about people. About clients. About decisions you replay in your head on long trips home. This business will teach you—sometimes gently, often not.

But there comes a season when you look up and realize something has shifted.

These days, I’m surrounded by blessings. The people I get to work with. The clients who trust us with their challenges. The relationships built over time, not transactions. Even the quiet moments—sharing a meal with a client, exchanging ideas, learning from one another—feel like gifts.

In the office, it’s a blessing to lead a team that doesn’t need constant supervision. You stay engaged, you step in when needed, but things work because good people are doing good work.

That didn’t happen by accident.

I’m grateful for the lessons—every tough one—because they shaped the judgment, patience, and perspective that make today feel different. I thank God for those lessons, because they paved the way for this season of blessings.

The reminder for all of us is simple: don’t just count your blessings. Be the blessing someone else is counting on.

It’s a great day to start.

For those who remember ABC’s classic Wide World of Sports, Jim McKay opened every broadcast the same way: “The thrill of victory… and the agony of defeat.” Not exactly spanning the globe here—but on a Little League field this week, we lived out that line perfectly.

My son Ford’s team was down five runs heading into the final inning. Then came the rally. Two runs scored. Energy everywhere. You could feel the comeback building. Until a close play at second ended it all. A call that didn’t go our way.

Emotions boiled over. Words were said. Respect slipped. I pulled Ford aside to the outfield, through tears and frustration, and did what every parent dreads but must do—correct in the moment. I told him something that’s hard to hear at any age: sometimes the call is wrong, and sometimes it still stands. Authority isn’t perfect. Life isn’t fair. But respect is not optional.

Even now, I still think the runner was safe. And I’m glad the call was made anyway.  Because competition isn’t just about winning. As famed GE CEO Jack Welch once said, it’s about learning and growing. That message matters in business, in life, and yes, on a Little League diamond.

The next night at practice, I saw something different from Ford. Focus. Determination. A ball hit harder than I’d ever seen.

The game goes on. The next pitch is coming. Be ready to play.

At our monthly kick-off meeting, I shared a message that matters just as much to our clients as it does to our team.  It was from baseball Hall of Famer Babe Ruth who said, ‘Yesterday’s home runs don’t win today’s game.’ In our world—especially with March marking the start of the automotive Selling Season—that truth hits even harder. Yesterday’s results don’t move today’s needle.

Baseball makes it simple: every at‑bat stands on its own. Some swings connect; some don’t. Babe hit 714 home runs, yet he struck out 1330 times. What matters is stepping back in with intention and clarity.

Nick Saban puts it in the terms I believe in: ‘Be where your feet are.’ As we get busier, as traffic grows, and opportunities pick up this month, being fully present is how you create momentum that lasts. Focus on what’s in front of you, not the pitch you missed yesterday or the one you’re hoping for tomorrow.

What encourages me most is when people—inside our agency and across the dealerships we serve—keep showing up ready. Prepared, committed, engaged. Our clients see it. Your customers feel it. Those are real wins, and they build trust.

Wherever you work, whatever role you play, one truth applies: you own your at-bat. See what’s important, take your swing, and crush it. Every day gives you another shot to touch ’em all…and nothing says job well done like ‘It’s a Home Run!’

Do you believe in miracles? Forty years after the 1980 ‘Miracle on Ice,’ we watched another golden moment unfold as Team USA topped Canada 2–1 in overtime. But the real story wasn’t just the medal—it was the power of encouragement, passed from one generation to the next.

Former players sent messages, families shared memories, and even a jacket from the 1960 gold‑medal team hung in the locker room, reminding every player: people who walked this path before you are still cheering you on. Mike Eruzione, the captain of that 1980 team, offered these words the night before the final—‘This isn’t a miracle. We want these guys to achieve something,’—giving this team a lift you can’t measure on a scoreboard.

And the winning golden goal? Scored with a smile—despite two teeth missing that were knocked out minutes earlier —proof that joy shines brightest when people feel supported.

That same dynamic plays out in business. Talent matters, but belief—shared openly and consistently—matters more. Support from across the roster, from veterans to new hires, strengthens teams, builds confidence, and turns ordinary work into exceptional performance.

As I wrote earlier this year, the right message takes us from zero to understood. Encouragement may not create miracles every day, but it creates momentum. And momentum can make any team—on the ice or in the office—positively golden.

The Most Interesting Man in the World is a well‑known TV commercial character—but in my world, we just lost a real one. George Barber passed away Monday, and with him, Birmingham lost a visionary whose life proved what can happen when you stay true to your own message.

Mr. Barber never chased trends or tried to be anything other than himself. He raced Porsches to 63 first‑place wins. He restored classic cars. He eventually amassed the world’s largest motorcycle collection. And when his passion outgrew the walls around it, he didn’t wait—he built.

In 2003, he opened the 880‑acre Barber Motorsports Park with its 2.38‑mile track, investing $52 million of his own money into a dream that now draws nearly 400,000 visitors a year. His 1,800‑plus motorcycles weren’t possessions to him; they were stories—machines he believed would “talk to you” if you listened.

I grew up hearing stories about Mr. Barber. My Uncle Jerry and George raced together in high school. To our family, and many others, Mr. Barber wasn’t just a businessman—he was a quiet force of nature, driven not by applause but by vision.

Birmingham is better because George Barber decided to build what only he could see. I enjoyed the excitement of the Barber Motorsports Park, racing Porsches there in the early 2000s.  And in a week when I was already reflecting on staying focused on your own strengths instead of comparing yourself to others, his passing brought that message home.

And my closing thought for this most interesting man, George Barber…

From the green flag to the checkered flag, his was a race well run.

Last night after dinner, my daughter Anne Charlotte sat beside me and read the peer helper application she had written. At her middle school, Peer Helpers are a small group of seventh graders chosen to tutor classmates, guide new students, and support kids with special needs—students who lead by example. She began with her strengths: kind to others, a strong leader, a compassionate friend. All the qualities any parent hopes to hear.

Then she moved to her weaknesses, and one line stopped me. She wrote that she struggles with comparing herself to others, explaining, “It’s easy to look at people on social media with a longing eye.” That hit harder than I expected—not because it was surprising, but because it was familiar. She’s 11, and she put words to something adults wrestle with every day.

In business and in life, it’s just as easy to measure ourselves against competitors, leaders, or success stories and feel that same subtle pull—the quiet comparison, the quiet doubt. Listening to her, I was reminded of a truth we all forget from time to time: the only person any of us can truly be…is ourselves. Everyone else is already taken.

Charlotte reminded me that every person and every business have their own path. The only story I can write is mine. The only story she can write is hers.

Her honesty made me realize how often we slip into comparison without noticing. And it reminded me why listening matters. Sometimes the most meaningful message doesn’t come from a book or a keynote—it comes from someone sitting next to you, willing to be honest.

I’m proud of her awareness, and grateful for the reminder she gave me.

Thanks for sharing, Anne Charlotte. I heard it.