It was the room at the very end of the hall. The double doors gave away that this was a suite.
We’d found it.
And, for some reason, the door was ajar, resting on the latch as if the people inside were waiting for someone to come.
That someone certainly wasn’t us, but I approached anyway. I extended my neck and peered through the crack.
“I can see in there,” I think I said. I scanned the limited field of vision and could make out one or two people. One was a woman with dark hair. I didn’t recognize her.
The other was Will Ferrell. Ron Burgundy himself.
My friend Chad and I looked at one another. There was no question about what had to happen next. We’d come this far. All that was left to decide was who.
Let’s get one thing straight: Every good story needs a lead. I have come to appreciate the quiet dignity of a supporting performance.
From an early age, my peers and I were urged to lead. The best students in our class were shepherded into young leadership programs as early as middle school. By senior year of high school, the administration introduced a new capstone program on leadership for a select group of students. I thought I had potential that was going unseen, so I applied.
This was a small school, so most people who applied got in. That summer, a letter arrived telling me I hadn’t. I was disappointed. This felt like the nail in the coffin of Eli exceptionalism. But being explicitly left out of that set put me on an important path.
Whether consciously or not, I internalized my role. I’m a team player. Versatile and curious. Collegial to a fault. Not a singular leader, but many things at once.
If I hadn’t accepted that, I never would have met Will Ferrell.
That evening started innocently enough. Will was reigning as king of Bacchus, a Mardi Gras parade with an annual celebrity monarch, and we’d been invited to the ball by Chad’s girlfriend’s family.
About halfway through, word got to us that Will was staying on the same floor of the Hilton where we’d be sleeping that night. Information like this is usually inaccurate. Who would know that? Why would they tell two 19-year-old guys who were already several drinks in?
It seemed unlikely, but what else were we supposed to do after the ball? Not look?
So we wandered the hallway, reassuring one another that “no one would just make that up.”
Of course they hadn’t. I had Will in my sights through the crack in the door.
But I wasn’t about to walk in there. That was Chad’s role.
Chad’s a natural lead because he has very little fear, a lot of confidence, and a heart of gold that manifests most often in a puppy-like charm.
And so, wordlessly, he slipped into the room.
I held my breath outside, staring at the door, expecting to hear some commotion from within. But there was no noise, not even voices. Most of me was hoping Chad would work his magic and somehow get us invited in. Part of me entertained the idea of a dramatic spectacle unfolding in the hall. The quiet was the worst outcome. Had they found him? Had they detained him? Or worse, were they getting along? Toasting his bravado? Had he forgotten I was out here?
The door flew open, but Chad was not the first person I saw. It was Will.
The actor cuts an imposing figure. He was taller and burlier than I’d expected, and suddenly I was face-to-face with him in a hotel hallway.
“Okay,” he said. “One picture, one picture.”
Chad emerged behind him, along with a few others from the suite. Will stretched his broad arms around both of our shoulders. An annoyed friend snapped the photo. Will said goodbye and retreated inside. But before he disappeared, he uttered the best line of his career:
“Y’all broke into my hotel room? You guys are the shit.”
We laughed, basked in the praise, and went back down the hall, unable to fall asleep for hours. That was 14 years ago, and every time I’ve thought of those moments since, I’ve wondered whether the “y’all” was deserved.
*We had not done it. Chad played the lead role, the hero. Had we both gone, I know we would have ended up in the hands of security, or the cops. Had I gone alone, I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off the way he had.
In his telling, he slinks into the room unnoticed. He doesn’t know what to do, so he finds a couch in the sitting area and waits to be seen. Will finally notices him and asks who he is, to which my friend says, “I’m Chad.”
That was the best line of the night.
On reappraisal, I feel like I served my role. Instigator. Reconnaissance. The one who gave my friend the confidence to go in there. And I’m fine with it.
The story wouldn’t have happened otherwise.
A year before, I’d been told in writing that I wasn’t leadership material. Now I see that letter as a kind of freedom. Freedom from the idea that I had to play one specific role. I could lead. I could blend in. I could know when to step forward, and when to hand it off to Chad.
No matter who you are, you’ll only get a handful of nights in your life that feel like pure cinema, and in this movie, I was happy to receive second billing.
Right above Will Ferrell.
