An Ode to Eric Braeden
The Great Man
By Kristoff St. John
It was a cold day in January, 14 long years ago,
That I first stepped on this stage to act on this show.
I remember meeting Eric — Mr. Braeden — in the hall.
He was larger than life, very stern, very tall.
He peered at me and asked, “What is your name?”
“I’m Kristoff St. John. I’m a big fan of your game.”
“Game, my dear boy?” Eric said with disdain.
I said, ” ‘Game’ stands for work. It’s one and the same.”
“I see,” said Eric. “What role are you playing?”
“Neil Winters,” I said. “And I hope I’ll be staying!”
“Well, that depends on you and how you do.
How good is your game and is your game true?”
I smiled a big smile, but I was shaking inside.
I was sweating big bullets. I just wanted to hide.
He was making me nervous and I didn’t know why.
Perhaps it was that look that he had in his eye,
That penetrating stare I could feel right through my back.
When out of the blue Eric asked, “Kristoff, are you black?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied. “No, I’m not, to be fair.
I’m half black and half white — see my skin tone and hair.”
Eric grinned, then he chuckled and continued to stare.
I was a mess. I was quickly becoming unglued.
My stomach was growling, in need of some food,
As I wondered inside, “Who is this damn dude?”
I had heard about Eric and his fight for control
Since his run in the ’60s on that show “Rat Patrol.”
Then I remembered years ago seeing “Planet of the Apes”
“101 Rifles” Man, Eric was great!
His career was flying by me like a train speeding past.
And then the thought came, “Isn’t he Hans Gudegast?”
Now just when I was thinking it was time to walk away,
Eric stopped me and said, “My boy, I’ve got something to say.
A piece of advice while you’re here on the show:
Be prepared, know your lines or they may let you go.”
It was my turn to stare and all I could think,
I was late for my call and did my breath stink?
“One last thing, before I let you go,
Never ever never try to write for this show.
But if you do, fax your changes at least two days before.”
Then he slapped me quite hard on my back and said, “Bye.
Good luck. Do your best,” and I said I would try.
He turned and he walked into 43B
And for one brief moment I wished that were me.
See, I didn’t want his dressing room or his big parking space,
But the respect he commanded from all over the place,
His mischievous smile, that devilish glance,
Those trademark raised eyebrows, that Braeden posture and stance.
His class and integrity, his learned wise ways,
His showmanship and dignity that inspire this play.
And years from now, when I’m old and gray,
I’ll feel proud that I’m able to say,
“I knew Eric Braeden — or Hans Gudegast,
The great German man from deep in my past.”
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