Chapter 10

Friday, June 18

I pushed through my morning exercises and a hard bike ride, but my mind kept circling the same worry: thirty sketches. Simple ones, yes—but thirty was still thirty.

At breakfast I finally asked, “Dad ... how big do these sketches have to be? I don’t want to draw them wrong.”

Dad set down his coffee. “Let’s call Jim.”

Jim answered immediately. After hearing Jack’s concern, he said, “Let me check with the print shop.” A minute later he was back.

“They can reduce anything to the right size. But remember — when they shrink a drawing, you lose detail. So, keep the sketches simple. As few lines as possible.”

Relief loosened my shoulders—until Jim added:

“Oh, and we’ll need them by Monday. Tuesday morning at the latest.”

I froze. “Jim ... there are over thirty sketches.”

“I know,” Jim said gently. “Just do as many as you can. Send whatever you finish with your mom each morning.”

I hung up with pressure tightening in my chest. Thirty sketches in three days.

I worked straight through the morning, but doubt kept creeping in. Were they too simple? Too rough? Too detailed?

Finally, I said, “Dad, can we go to Jim’s office? I need to know if I’m doing this right.”

Dad didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

At Rubbermaid, Mom walked me to the art department. The designers pulled out their own renderings—clean, professional lines. I braced myself.

But one designer tapped Jack’s sketch and said, “These are better. Cleaner. More direct. Perfect for reduction.”

The knot in my stomach loosened.

I went home and worked steadily through the afternoon and evening, sketching one product after another. The panic faded into focus. I could do this.

Meanwhile, dad returned to the lawyer’s office — the revised contracts were ready to sign and mail.

Saturday, June 19

Saturday morning, I double‑checked everything: the prototype, my script, Mrs. Orland’s devotional record. I packed them into a cardboard box and took a breath.

This wasn’t just another errand. This was a moment.

Dad warned the boys in the car, “Best behavior today. This is important for your brother.”

They nodded solemnly.

At WAKN‑TV, Chad Dawson was waiting with his producer’s badge and an excited grin.

“Morning, Bigg family. Ready to make some television?”

We followed him into a small studio — tight, warm, humming with equipment. To me, it felt like stepping onto a real stage.

Chad positioned me behind a table, adjusted the lights, and gently moved my shoulders.

“Relax your hands. When you gesture, keep it small. The camera magnifies everything.”

I nodded, heart thumping.

We ran through the script once. Then again. Then again.

Chad coached him on timing, eye contact, how to tilt the clock for close‑ups. Dad watched from the corner, arms folded, pride written all over him. Mom whispered encouragement to the younger boys, who were mesmerized by the slides and switches in the control room.

Take after take, I grew more confident. My voice steadied. My gestures sharpened. My smile became natural.

Two hours later, Chad lowered the lights.

“That’s it. We’ve got it. Jack — you’re going to knock Ron Propeil flat.”

I exhaled, grinning. I hadn’t realized how much I would love this — the lights, the focus, the invisible audience. It felt right.

Dad clapped my shoulder. “You did good, son.”

I looked at the camera one more time, feeling a spark I couldn’t quite name.

Tomorrow, I’d meet Ron Propeil.

And I believed I was ready.

Dad decided on lunch at Luigi’s. It was packed, the air thick with garlic and baked cheese. A hostess led us to an oversized booth near the back.

I slid in beside my brothers, still buzzing from the studio.

Luigi was known for authentic Italian cooking. He didn’t serve pizza—calzones, yes, but no pizza. What caught dad’s eye was the “Family Dinner” on the menu: four generous platters for the whole table—an antipasto of cured meats, provolone, olives, and roasted peppers; baked rigatoni layered with tomato sauce, ricotta, and mozzarella; chicken cacciatore braised with peppers, onions, mushrooms, and tomatoes; and eggplant Parmigiana, crisp at the edges beneath bubbling sauce and cheese.

When the waitress arrived and took drink orders that was what dad ordered.

“That control room was crazy,” Frank said. “All those buttons. How do they know what to push?”

“And those big reels spinning “, David asked, “what do those do?”

I grinned. “That’s the tape system. They record everything from the camera on those reels. And the control room can switch between cameras if two are used, add sound, control lights ... everything.”

“It looked like a spaceship,” Frank whispered.

Mom laughed. “It did feel a little like NASA.”

The waitress dropped off bread. The boys tore into it.

“But Jack,” David asked, “why did it take so long?”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t a real commercial. Just a demo.”

His dad nodded. “A practice run.”

I continued, “A real commercial takes way longer. Editing alone can take four to nine hours. They cut mistakes, fix sound, add close‑ups. What we did today was raw footage.”