The emcee who had nothing to say
A story about assumptions, contingency, and learning to prepare for silence
I was producing a glitzy event in New York City.
Big space. Big client. Big expectations. The kind of night where everything looks effortless only if it actually is.
We’d hired an emcee to host the evening. A professional. Someone with a lot of experience doing this. The kind of talent who is not supposed to need much from you.
Before the event, we did what we always do. A phone briefing (with his manager). Walked through the run of show and a messaging outline. Talked background, beats, tone, transitions. Asked the obvious question.
“Do you need a script?”
The answer, via his manager, was immediate.
“No, definitely not. He likes to ad lib.”
Great - works for us!
Day of the event, the emcee arrives.
And it becomes clear very quickly that he has no idea what the event is… because he walked in the door, I greeted him myself - with my exec clients by my side - and he says, “Hey, nice to meet you, great to be here. So what’s happening tonight?”
He didn’t know what the event was - its purpose, the audience, nothing. He hadn’t seen any of the prep materials.
The event hadn’t started yet and we were already in trouble.
There was no formal script prepared. No note cards. No safety net. Just a confident “no” from days earlier and a person who was about to walk on stage and talk to a room full of people.
So we scrambled.
We pulled together talking points on the fly. Printed note cards. Rewrote transitions standing in hallways. I became his shadow for the rest of the night.
Every time he was about to go on stage, I’d walk him through what he needed to say. What the moment was, our story and intention, where we were headed next.
Hit. Walk. Whisper. Reset. Repeat.
To his credit, he pulled it off. The night worked. Most people never knew how close we were to a full derailment.
But I knew.
And that night burned something into me.
“Probably won’t need it” is not a plan.
Especially when the person saying it isn’t the one who has to fix things if they’re wrong.
Since then, I plan for the version of the night where someone forgets. Or panics. Or arrives unprepared despite every promise.
Scripts can go unused, and note cards can stay in pockets. But contingency is not optional.
If something matters enough to be on a run of show, it matters enough to be backed up.
I don’t trust confidence anymore… I trust preparation.
That lesson has saved me more times than I can count.
— Rob