Hillbilly Heart (33 page)

Here’s what we had in our favor. After the
Hannah
pilot had been shot and picked up, we had a week or so before we had to be in California to start making the series. Concerned about the abrupt
and drastic changes our lives were about to undergo, Tish gathered everyone together in the kitchen and said, “This family is going to get baptized because we’re going to be under attack in Hollywood.”

That next Sunday, our car pulled up in front of the People’s Church of Franklin in Spring Hill. We went inside and Trace, Miley, Braison, Noah, and Tish all took a dip proclaiming Jesus Christ the Son of God. Brandi had already been baptized. When my turn came, I asked the pastor, Rick White, a remarkable man, if I should do it since I’d also been baptized back when I was in high school.

“If you feel like you need to, go ahead,” he said.

I stepped forward.

“I feel like I need to,” I said. “A second dip surely couldn’t hurt.”

Tish’s premonition was right on. Soon after
Hannah
premiered, our little house with the red door became a tourist attraction. Our doorbell rang nonstop. We moved to a larger place up the hill where we had more protection from the constant traffic and intrusions. But things continued to get crazy. One day Tish took Miley to the mall to get some new clothes, and within a few minutes the store was overrun with fans. Mall security closed the doors until the crowd could be cleared.

At home, we tried to keep life as normal as possible—at least we thought we did. We gave the kids chores and made sure we went to church on Sundays, but I suspect, in reality, we were holding on for dear life.

There weren’t a lot of child-star or show-business families to serve as role models. The studios and agencies didn’t hand out instruction manuals for parents. We did our best, but deep down both Tish and I knew normal was over. Miley was a worldwide superstar.

It took Tish and I working together to keep Miley grounded, and I think we did a good job. I just worried it wouldn’t last. One Sunday, we were in church and Miley drew a little heart on my hand. It was so sweet, but I grew sad thinking how fleeting that bond we had might be as she grew up. “You know what?” I said.
“Today is your day to do whatever you want. This is going to be your day.”

Miley, who could be sweet or spiritual or wild as a buck, just like me, took my hand, pointed to the heart she’d drawn, and grinned with a mischievousness that made me worry.

“Let’s get that tattooed,” she said.

“All right,” I said. “You got a deal.”

A few hours later, we’d found a tattoo parlor in Pasadena and I had her little heart on my hand for life. When that was finished, she led me to a hair salon on Ventura Boulevard called Whackos and gave the lady there instructions on how to style my big old head of hair. I left there with the craziest rock-and-roll highlights and a lasting memory of the two of us giggling till we were gasping for breath.

Like I said, I’m far from being a perfect father. But we spent time together that day. We lived and we laughed, and that was my goal. You don’t forget those times, and I haven’t.

Other memories are bittersweet. For instance, Miley was invited to a dance at a friend’s school. After a long day of taping, Tish and I drove her there, hoping she’d have the sort of fun we remembered from school events. Tish had bought her a dress and done her hair, and she looked adorable, like a doll, as she followed other kids into the gym.

Tish and I held hands, watching in silence. I’m sure we shared the same thought. Miley had the same kind of double life as the character she played on TV. Well, almost.

“I think this is going to be as close to normal as she’ll ever know,” I said.

“At least she’ll have this,” Tish said.

And she did. Miley called that her “homecoming dance.”

As
Hannah Montana
began the second season, Disney asked if I would appear on
Dancing with the Stars,
the hit show on their TV network, ABC. It seemed like it could create some good synergy. Plus, I always loved a challenge and learning something new. At the
time, following the recent loss of my dad, I needed to push myself to do something I was afraid to do. So I said yes.

I wish I would have factored in that I didn’t have a lick of dancing ability. The show’s producers said that didn’t matter. I knew better, but I did it anyway.

For
Dancing
’s fourth season, I was partnered with Karina Smirnoff, a beautiful, Ukrainian-born dancer whose trophy case included five US National Championships. Our first dance was a cha-cha, and I wanted to dance to ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man.” But the producers insisted I dance to “I Want My Mullet Back.” As I think about it, they were setting my ass up from the word go; but I kind of knew that, and I didn’t need their help. I’m perfectly capable of making an ass out of myself, as I proved when Karina and I took the stage in front of 23 million people on live television.

She wore a mullet wig, which I was supposed to pull off her on the final beat of the dance. We practiced that fifteen hundred times in rehearsal, and it worked every single time. But that night, fate had a different plan.

We got to the end of the dance pretty much as we’d rehearsed. I was a little nervous. Bruno later compared me to a bear running through a swamp. But that’s beside the point. When it came time to remove Karina’s mullet, I pulled and pulled. And pulled. By the third time, her eyebrows were raised and I knew that wig wasn’t coming off. The mullet was dead-bolted to her skull. Or so it seemed.

You talk about experiencing a near-death moment of dread and panic; man, I saw the bright light flashing in front of me. I’d hoped
Dancing
would boost my career. In that instant, though, I realized I’d probably damaged it tenfold, or possibly ruined it forever.

On my way home, I was gripped by a crippling anxiety and had to pull over a couple times because I couldn’t breathe. I puked twice between Beverly Hills and La Cañada. I was beyond embarrassed that I was sick.

At home, Tish and the kids looked at me as I walked through the
door. No one said a word. They all just stared at me. So I knew it was as bad as I thought.

Somehow Karina and I made it through the elimination show. I was stunned. My fans were more forgiving than me, I suppose. We were supposed to meet early the next morning at the Y down the hill from my home. We rehearsed there to help me conserve time between the two shows. But I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to face the world—or my Ukrainian taskmaster.

Then I heard my dad’s voice for the first time since he’d died.

“Bo, you’ve been knocked down before,” he said. “Take it one step at a time. Swing your right leg out from under the covers, then bring the other one behind it, and stand up. Then put one foot in front of the other, walk to your sink and brush your teeth, then get dressed, get in your car, and drive to the YMCA.”

“I don’t want to,” I said to myself. “I can’t.”

“Trust me,” he replied. “One foot in front of the other. You’ve been here before.”

Karina was waiting for me at the Y. I felt sorry for her. What a stroke of bad luck for a world champion to be partnered with me. But there was no sorry in her when she saw me lumber into the room. Her eyes narrowed. If she’d had a whip, she would’ve cracked it, I’m sure.

“You’re seven minutes late,” she scolded.

“Well, I—”

“Well nothing,” she said. “You’re late. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I don’t know if you noticed, but our first dance didn’t go so well.”

She played our next song, Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” and informed me that we were going to do the quick step. I couldn’t even do a slow step, I thought. Now we were going to do a quick one? Oh… crap.

“I’m so depressed,” I said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I suck.”

Karina shook her head. “No more negativity from you,” she snapped, and then began the painful process of teaching me the dance. She invited my children to watch a rehearsal, knowing I wouldn’t complain as much if they were around. And she was right.

On the next show, Len Goodman praised my moves. “You calmed down,” he said. Bruno Tonioli said I was “going the right way” and “the difference in a week is beyond belief.” Carrie Ann Inaba added, “I vote you the most improved dancer from last week.”

Over the next few weeks, Karina yelled at me, hit me, and tied my hands while I danced. She had me jump through hoops. She also switched my legs a few times with a stick. I knew her arsenal included a whip. It also included one other thing: the heart of a champion. It reminded me that winners want to win, and they get back up when they get knocked down.

Ironically, at one of my last dances, the Greatest was there, Muhammad Ali. (His daughter, Laila, was a fellow contestant.) He was sitting in the corner of the floor. Everyone has heroes, and Ali was one of mine. When I finished my dance, I went over and shook hands with him. “You’re the greatest,” I said. He made a fist and winked at me. I felt the heart of a champ,
the
champ. That was worth it all. And you know what? If I hadn’t gotten back up after that first night I got knocked down, I never would’ve had that moment.

Each week, my entire family sat in front of the TV set. If they weren’t at the show, they made sure to watch it—and for one reason. They loved seeing me make an ass of myself. I could only imagine their text messages:
Make sure you’re home in time to watch Dad make a fool out of his fat ass in front of the entire country.

Amazingly, I made it through the foxtrot, the paso doble, and the jive, and all the way through the quarterfinals, before getting eliminated. It was the eighth week, and I didn’t have to be told that I’d stayed way longer than I should have. Nor did I have to be told why I’d lasted. It was the fans. I had the greatest fans in the world. They wanted to see me do well on the show. I loved ’em for that.

There was a payoff to my tenacity. On the night I left, Laila Ali’s father, boxing icon Muhammad Ali, was in the audience. He was my hero. She graciously introduced me. I turned into a fan myself, not something that happened to me very often, and I explained that one of my earliest and fondest memories was listening to his fight against Joe Frazier on the radio with my dad and my papaw.

“Thank you,” he said.

My dad would’ve loved hearing me tell him about Ali. Life never ceased to surprise me.

CHAPTER 30

“Ready, Set, Don’t Go”

O
NE ON ONE, I’M
reserved and fumble for words, unsure how much to reveal and uncertain how to do it. But get one of my CDs, push
PLAY
, and you get a clear view straight into my heart. Take the song “Ready, Set, Don’t Go.” It’s about a father letting go of his daughter, and it takes you straight into where I was in that precarious time during
Hannah Montana
’s second season.

The show’s writers incorporated it into the thirteenth episode, in a show titled “I Want You to Want Me… to Go to Florida.” In it, Robbie Ray injures his back and can’t accompany his daughter to a show in Florida, forcing her to cancel the appearance. When she sneaks off anyway, he tracks her down and, in an emotional moment on the plane, sings her the words he’s not able to say.

The story behind the song was even better. The day Tish and the kids were moving to California, I stayed behind in Tennessee to take care of all the business, secure the farm, and make sure we were ready to set up shop in L.A. I would fly out a couple of days later.

I stood in front of the house and waved good-bye as they disappeared over the hill and down the driveway. I walked slowly back into the house and, as I took my boots off, I noticed a card on the kitchen table. It was to Braison, from his little girlfriend. He’d fallen
in love for the first time, and leaving her was hard, possibly his first heartbreak.

I picked up the card and noticed on the front were two stick figures, hand-drawn like a kid would do, and beneath them it read, “Ready.” I opened the next page and there was a picture of the same two figures poised at the starting line of a race. It said, “Set.” Then I opened up to the last page and it was just the girl figure by herself. She held her hands over her heart. That picture said, “Don’t go.”

I put the card down, turned around, and there was my old guitar, the one I call the songwriter. It was in the corner, waiting for me. It might as well have said, “Come on. You know that’s a song.” It’s true. I was already hearing the words and the melody.

Within minutes, I had a written a pretty good piece of it, and then my instinct told me to call my neighbor Casey Beathard, who was a hit-song-writing son of a gun himself, one of the best in Nashville. “Hey, my family just left for California, and I got a great hook,” I said. “It’s called ‘Ready, Set, Don’t Go.’” He said, “Man, I’ll be right over.”

Minutes later, he showed up with his gut-stringed guitar, like the kind Willie Nelson plays, and soon the song was completed. We laid it down on my BR 1600 right then and there, and we knew it was special.