Every couple of weeks, a new officer, like me, was assigned to a different partner. This evening, I felt like I’d been assigned to Thor. I was in awe. I knew I could learn a lot from a guy like this, a veteran, in more ways than one. Not only did he have twelve years of experience with Salt Lake City PD, but he also belonged to the United States Army Rangers, a Black Beret.

Currently, he worked on SWAT and the Gang Unit. Not only mentally tough, by all accounts, but physically. I’d stumbled across this guy at the gym, not just doing pull-ups, but pull-ups with a forty-five-pound plate hanging from a rope around his waist, rep after rep, like it was nothing. If we got in a tight spot, I doubted there was anyone better to have my back.

With my partner at the wheel, we drove around Salt Lake City, patrolling, listening for the next call, car radio scanning. Not long after dark, we picked up a vehicle pursuit in a neighboring city, but  heading towards Salt Lake. The suspect was wanted for aggravated assault on a police officer. He drove a blue Dodge Durango. My partner perked up, glanced sideways at me and grinned like a wolf who’d spotted a lame deer. Delicious, fresh meat, within reach. The pursuit was Northbound on I-15, not far from us, so we headed for the freeway.

My excitement deflated a bit when my partner turned onto the exit ramp for 1300 South. It wasn’t a big exit and, though possible, I believed it an unlikely choice for the suspect. My partner positioned our car behind a wall and turned off the lights. We leaned towards the car radio. Our eyes scanned the top of the off ramp.The pursuit neared our location. “A blue Dodge Durango,” my partner whispered. “Come on, baby. Come to papa.”

The pursuit passed the 21st South exit. I swallowed, thinking, What if he did exit here? An SUV, lights off, shot down the 1300 South off ramp. I snapped to rigid attention. “Dodge Durango.” The vehicle zipped past like a bobsled in the Winter Olympics. Our engine roared. Tires screeched. The acceleration and turn shoved me back against my seat. The Durango jerked right, fleeing east on 1300 South. We followed.

The Durango careened through a four-way stop. At the intersection, we screeched to a slower speed, checked left and right, then leapt forward. We hit speeds on a thirty-five-mph road that I would rather not admit to. I clung with both hands to the passenger-side roof handle and my heels dug into the floor mat, lifting my butt off the seat. Car chases on TV and in movies thrilled me. This did not thrill me. I had zero control.

I glanced at my partner. His left hand held the wheel; his right hand keyed the radio mic on his shoulder. He growled something, but his words didn’t register in my mind. I realized he was now talking to me, not the radio.“Moutsos, what are you doing?” I said, “Please don’t kill us.” He barked a laugh. I didn’t smile.

The faces of my wife and kids shuffled through my mind. Ahead, the Durango slowly shrunk. Four blocks. Five blocks. We were losing him. The lunatic didn’t slow for anything, not stop signs, not red lights. Safety–and sanity–required us to approach intersections with caution or risk a collision, or hit a pedestrian.

The Watch Commander’s voice came across the radio. “All officers, terminate the pursuit. There’s too much risk to public safety. End the pursuit.” We slowed and pulled over. I exhaled and slumped against my seat, limp as a wet rag. “You can pull your underwear out of your crack now,” my partner said. I laughed. He laughed.

After a minute to collect our thoughts and allow the adrenaline to fade, we started driving, leisurely. I felt like we’d gone from a monster roller coaster to a merry-go-round for toddlers.

My partner glanced at me and said, “So, the rumor is you were a country singer before becoming a cop.” “Yep,” I said. “Kinda seems like another life now.” “You had something to do with Evander Holyfield?” I nodded. “He has a record label. I performed under the name ‘Eric Ryan’.”My partner barked a laugh. “No kidding. The Champ has a record label?”“He does,” I said. “A good guy, Evander.” My partner eyed me a moment then said, “Well, let’s hear you.” I chuckled and shook my head. He flashed a predatory grin. “You’re serious?” I said. “I’m the senior officer here. I say you sing.” I grimaced out my window. “Well, I don’t have any music on hand.” My partner turned the car, heading north.

I thought about the chance I once had at a country music career. Sometimes I missed singing, but I’d decided it wasn’t the kind of life I wanted for my young family, so I walked away. I knew, deep in my gut, it had been the right choice. I belonged here. I’d be a good officer.

My partner pulled over to the curb alongside a busy downtown bar. He killed the engine. “What are we doing?” I asked. He grinned and the intense gleam in his eyes made me wary. He pointed at the window of the bar. “We’re going to hear you sing.” I rolled my eyes.

“No,” he said. “Really.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My gaze followed the line of his finger to the window. A single word blazed in neon lighting: Karaoke.“No,” I said. “Please, no.”

My partner leaned towards me and waggled his eyebrows. He got out and walked around the car, watching me with a disconcerting grin. He opened my door and gestured for me to exit. I hesitated. He waited.

“Fine,” I said, and exited the car, thinking that he had to have some other reason for being here. I knew he was toying with the new guy, that was all. I followed him inside. The lighting was dim. Music and singing; the buzz of conversations. Beer and the aroma of burgers and fries. The average-sized bar was packed. Every seat was taken and many patrons were standing.

As usual, when people noticed us, they stopped talking and stared with a mix of wariness and curiosity. “What are they doing here?” “Hey, it’s the cops.” “Dude, check it out.” I turned back to my partner, but he was gone. I craned my neck, scanning the crowd, and finally spotted him near the small stage near the back of the bar. He leaned in, talking to the DJ. Oh, no, I thought. He really is serious. This isn’t a random bar check.

My partner strode my way, caught my eye, and grinned. He held up a small, black book and a white slip of paper. “This isn’t happening,” I said. “Oh,” my partner said, “it’s happening. Who do you like?” “What?” “Who do you like? What artist do you like?” “Uh,” I said. “Johnny Cash. I guess.”

My partner opened the book. He shoved it into my hands. “Write down a song from the book on the paper. C’mon. C’mon.” “Okay, okay,” I said and skimmed through the lists of artists and songs. “Folsom Prison Blues” leapt off the page. I wrote it down on the slip of paper. My partner snatched the book and paper, grinned, slapped my shoulder, and hurried back to the DJ, nearly knocking a young woman over in the process.

I watched my partner’s back, hoping he’d turn around and say, “Joke’s on you.You don’t have to sing.” Deep down, I knew he really was messing with me and wouldn’t force me to sing, but I decided to go ahead and do it. I wasn’t going to turn back at that point.

Laughter to my right tugged my attention that way. A group of men and women were conversing excitedly, a guy pointing at my partner, then all of them looking at me, then back at the stage. My heart pumped faster. I closed my eyes, breathed in, then exhaled a long breath. I told myself not to worry. A place packed like this, Karaoke Night, probably a wait of an hour before I had to sing. We’d probably get a call on the radio to respond somewhere before then and I’d be–

“Next up,” the DJ said, cooing into his microphone, “Officer Eric with Salt Lake PD.” The packed bar hushed, everyone still. Into the silence, two glasses clinked. I grimaced at my audience, then noticed my partner. I scowled and shook my head, but he just waved me over.

I dragged my feet forward, weaving my way between several groups. I mouthed a silent, brief prayer, “Please, God help me not to embarrass myself and the department.”From beneath his trim beard, the DJ flashed delighted white teeth. He offered me the mic with a bow and a flourish of his hands. I muttered, “I’m going to get fired for this.” “Light it up,” the DJ said, and raised his hands in the air.

I planted my feet on the stage and faced a hushed crowd swollen with excitement and ready to burst. Even the bartenders had stopped their furious drink-pouring to watch. I hoped the karaoke machine didn’t suck, and you never knew what you’d get with karaoke tracks. A crackle from the speakers. The twang of Johnny Cash’s guitar. The volume was good, just about right in the near silence. The first lyrics filled the room.  “I hear the train a comin’. It’s rollin’ round the bend.”

I realized it was me singing. “And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.” The crowd leaned forward. They were a shoreline of widening eyes and parting lips. “I’m stuck in Folsom Prison and time keeps draggin’ on. But that train keeps a rollin’ on down to San Anton.” The bar erupted. Whoops and cheers; claps and whistles. I grinned and sang on. “When I was just a baby, my momma told me, ‘Son. Always be a good boy. Don’t ever play with guns.’”

A man and woman climbed atop a table and started dancing. Others followed their lead. The crowd surged closer, crowding the small stage. I closed my eyes, feeling the twanging guitar, giving the song a bit of my heart and soul. “And I’d let that lonesome whistle, blow my blues away.” The song ended. The crowd roared with approval, shrill whistling and applause. I raised my hands and gestured for quiet. After a minute, the crowd stilled enough to hear my voice through the speakers.

Considering how this might somehow make it to my supervisor, I decided to turn all public service announcement, like this was some kind of community-oriented policing performance. I said, “There’s gonna be no drinking and driving tonight, right?” The crowd cheered and laughed. I handed the microphone back to the beaming DJ, who clapped me on the back, turned to the crowd, and said, “Wow! How about that. Give Officer Eric a hand.”

The crowd thundered approval. I found my partner, who stood at the end of a nearby table holding his stomach with one hand, pounding the top of the table with the other, and roaring with laughter. People approached me, waving their phones, smiling and asking for a picture with the country-singing cop.

I shook hands, fist-bumped, and high-fived my way to the exit.My partner appeared at my side, threw an arm across my shoulders, squeezed and laughed. “Ah, man. Eric, bro, you exceeded my expectations. That was great. We made some great bridges with the community.” He couldn’t stop grinning. Frankly, neither could I.

Not long after leaving the bar, we returned to our substation to eat and relax for a few minutes. As soon as we entered the break room, my partner clapped once, whooped, laughed, then proceeded to tell the other four officers present all about my community outreach singing program.

“Seriously?” one of the officers said. “You were a singer before becoming a cop?” I smiled and shrugged. “Yeah, I was a country western singer.” Officer Levan said, “Like a no kidding singer? With a cowboy hat and a guitar?” “Yep,” I said, “the whole shebang.”

Another officer in the back of the room stood, holding his hand over his radio mic to muffle the chatter. “Eric Moutsos, country superstar.”“No,” I said, “I wasn’t that big, but I did work for the Real Deal.”“What’s the Real Deal?” someone said. I opened my mouth to reply, but my partner spoke first. “Not what. Who.” “Huh?” the officer in the back said. My partner shook his head in disgust. “You don’t know who the Real Deal is?”

A couple officers exchanged confused looks. “Evander Holyfield,” my partner said. “You know, the boxer. Heavyweight champion of the world.” Comprehension filled the room, then everyone stared at me, expecting an explanation.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I entered a regional country western contest called ‘Nashville Star.’ I did pretty good.” “How good?” somebody asked. “Regional finalist,” I said. “Holy crap, that ain’t bad,” an officer said. “How was it working with the Champ?” another officer asked.

I brightened at the memory. “Oh, he is the one of the greatest people I have ever, ever met.” I sat on a table, resting my duty belt against a whiteboard. “How I met him was kind of a fluke, a chance meeting. Get this, my dad is at a training for his work and hears about how well I did on Nashville Star. In the middle of the class, my dad pipes up about the text he got, about how I did. Well, one of the other guys in the class just happens to be Evander Holyfield’s friend. They start talking. The guy sets up a meeting between me and Evander. I had no idea the Champ had a record label, let alone an ear for country music. Next thing I know,I’m flying to Atlanta to meet the Real Deal.”

My brother grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. We stood in our parents’ living room. He raised his voice, almost a scream. “You have got to take me. No way you are going without me. No way.” My brother had just learned that I was about to fly to Atlanta to meet Evander Holyfield. I considered teasing him, but his expression was so earnest I could only smile and nod.

A part of me still couldn’t believe this was happening. I’d never been a serious performer. Only a year ago I was bored out of my mind, living in my parent’s basement, when I’d done a search for country songs. I discovered a chatroom for aspiring country musicians. People would take turns singing, strumming their five-and-dime guitars, and bellowing into cheap microphones. I was intrigued.And entertained.

A woman sang, “Stand by your man…” Another woman sang a song I’d never heard, something about tractors. A man sang, “How do you like me now,” by Toby Keith. More singing, one a little better, one a little worse. I always passed whenever my turn came around. There were about thirty of us, all from different cities, different backgrounds, different beliefs, but loving the same music. We sat in front of our computers, performing on our virtual stage.

I began to look forward to that part of my day, when I would go down to the basement and open up this country western chatroom. I didn’t even own a guitar at the time. I couldn’t afford lessons. But for some bizarre reason, I just knew something important was happening, that this was somehow important for me to be a part of.

One day, I didn’t pass. I pressed the spacebar and activated the microphone.A long pause. I felt a sudden panic. I could hear my rapid breathing coming back to my ears through the internet. Then someone started singing.

Who was singing? I was singing. I struggled to keep my throat from swelling shut with anxiety.

Cheering. My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t sound like Garth Brooks, but I wasn’t half bad. I was as surprised as they were.

The cheering continued. I grinned and continued to sing.

The disembodied female voice filled the airport corridors, clearly heard over the chatter and movement of hundreds of people. “Passengers for Delta 1737 nonstop to Atlanta at Gate D8.”

 My brother grabbed my guitar and I grabbed our two bags. We were going. I still could hardly believe it. I grinned from ear-to-ear. We boarded, stowed our bags, and buckled in. The flight was smooth. A female flight attendant glanced down at my lap where I gripped a faded cowboy hat, then back up at me. She winked, then turned up the aisle to continue with the drink service.

“No ear jokes,” I said to my brother, referring to Evander’s mangled ear, a souvenir from his fight with Mike Tyson, when Tyson had infamously bit him.“I’m not making any promises,” my brother said. “I’m serious.” I said. “So am I,” he said, grinning.

I dozed in and out of sleep until the jet touched down on the wet runway. After a quick taxi to the gate, we grabbed our bags and the guitar. I put on my cowboy hat and became Eric Ryan. Eric Ryan was my stage name, Ryan being easier than Moutsos to pronounce and to remember.

We walked off of the jet bridge. I grabbed my cell phone and thumbed for the number I’d been given.  “Hello,” Evander Holyfield said. I blinked in surprise, mouth open, then remembered to speak. “Hi, it’s Eric Moutsos. My brother and I have arrived.” “Just come out front and I’ll get you,” Evander said. He hung up and I stood there staring at my phone. This experience was becoming less of a dream and more of a reality. I was about to meet the Champ. I felt giddy.

As we approached the curb, a black Escalade pulled up and parked. A stout man, muscled, as if he just stepped out of a ring, or could step into one at any moment, strode around the front of the Cadillac. Evander Holyfield stuck out his hand. I grinned and we shook. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Holyfield.” “All right, all right,” he said. “Welcome to Atlanta.”

Evander grabbed the guitar and walked it to the back of his car. I gawked, surprised that he didn’t have “people” helping him. But that was Evander, hands on, a personal touch, something I came to admire about him.

On the freeway, riding shotgun, I found myself staring at his right ear. I sensed my brother watching and I looked over my shoulder. His eyes were bright, his lips pressed in a tight smile. Evander must have sensed what we were thinking. He said, “For thirty-five million, you can bite the other one.”

My brother and I shared a look, hesitated for a moment, then laughed. I glanced up just in time to see a street sign that said, “Evander Holyfield Highway.” We took a right, then arrived at a mansion so big it indeed needed its own street. “That’s my highway,” the Champ said.

I looked back at my brother again, both of our mouths hanging open.“How much land does this property sit on?” I asked. “Let’s go see,” the Champ said, and pulled off the road to park on the immaculately manicured grass. He pointed. “It goes all the way to those trees over there, and back up that way to the pond. Two hundred and fifty acres.” My brother and I exchanged amazed looks.

We exited his vehicle, grabbed our stuff, and followed Evander inside. I felt like I was entering a palace for royalty. “Right this way,” the Champ said. The mansion was eerily quiet, no one else around.

Evander led us to a room off one of the wings of the mansion. This area looked lived in: clothes folded on a chair, a desk with a computer. “Okay,” Evander said, “let’s hear it.”

I looked up and blinked. “What? You mean, sing? Now?” Evander smiled and nodded. He sat on a big, plush chair. I gulped. I placed the guitar case on the sofa, unhinged the clasps, and held my guitar. Only a year ago, I had picked up a guitar for the very first time. Nowhere I was, about to perform for THE Evander Holyfield. At his house! My future became this one moment. I strummed the guitar and breathed in and out, slow, steady.My voice filled the silent room. I sang an original.

Evander’s eyebrows lifted. He perked up for a moment, then relaxed back against his chair.

Evander stood. He walked into the adjoining room without saying a word, nodding his head as he went. I tossed a quizzical look in my brother’s direction, then hurried after Evander. I followed the Champ through part of his maze-like, 28,000-square-foot mansion. I felt dazed. I’d flown 2,400 miles and had sung only four lines. What was happening?

I managed to stammer a few words. “What did you think?” Evander glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going to have some people get some papers to you.” I stumbled, but caught myself before I fell. “Wait. So I got a record deal?”“Yep,” Evander said. “I want to help you.” My brother slapped my back and we grinned like idiots.

A crazy idea tumbled into my thoughts: This would be a perfect time to show him our backyard boxing matches. I rummaged in the duffel bag that hung from my brother’s shoulder.“What?” my brother said. “The video,” I said. “What? Oh, right.” From a side pocket, my brother yanked out a copy of the fights. “Mr. Holyfield,” I said. “Yes.” “I have an idea on how we can celebrate.”

A brief explanation later, then a detour to a room with a giant television, and we were on a couch, sitting next to the man who beat Mike Tyson twice, watching my boxing match with Michael the Polynesian. I felt pathetic next to the Champ, but proud, too, like a kid who’d drawn a picture for his famous painter father.

Evander actually watched with genuine interest. Near the end of my fight, he raised his arms, like a boxer, his fists to either side of his head. “You’ve gotta keep your head up when you’re fighting, Eric, and pick your punches. How you gonna know what you’re swinging at if your head is down?”

In the years to come, those simple words of advice would have an enormous impact on me. Keep your head up. Pick your punches. How you gonna know what you’re swinging at if your head is down?