RB walked through the narrow London streets, anticipation thrumming through his veins. He was about to meet two of the most iconic figures in rock history—Keith Richards and Mick Jagger. It was a dream come true, an appointment set up weeks in advance, a meeting that could change everything. He wasn’t just a fan; this was business. A collaboration between the Rolling Stones and his own persona—Racket Boy (RB)—was on the table, with the possibility of merging their legendary brand with his. RB envisioned taking their combined power to the BBC, broadcasting to millions, and going global.
But as he approached their sleek, understated office, tucked away from the frenzy of the city, a familiar doubt crept in. He had been here before, metaphorically speaking—on the brink of greatness, only to be faced with rejection. Still, he shook off the uncertainty, rehearsing his pitch one last time. This was the Rolling Stones. This was RB. Surely, something magical would happen.
Inside, Keith and Mick were as you’d imagine—ageless in their own way, still effortlessly cool. Their office wasn’t flashy; it felt grounded, stripped back to the basics, almost like a tribute to the raw, rebellious energy that had set them on their journey decades ago. RB took a breath. It felt like the right place, the right time.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “what I’m proposing isn’t just a collaboration—it’s an evolution. Racket Boy, the Stones, two brands that defy convention, coming together to create something bigger than either of us could imagine. We take it to the BBC, national television, and from there—worldwide. It’s bold, but it’s achievable. We could create something legendary.”
But something was off. RB could see it in their eyes. Keith, with his quiet, calculated nods, and Mick, glancing at his watch, were both courteous but distracted. They listened politely, nodded in all the right places, but the spark just wasn’t there. As RB finished his pitch, Mick leaned forward, his voice smooth but final.
“Appreciate you coming in, mate. But we’re a bit tied up at the moment. Got some other things going on.”
Keith added with a grin, “It’s a great idea, but timing, you know? We’re juggling a lot. Respect to Racket Boy, though.”
And that was that. A polite handshake, a few more pleasantries exchanged, and then RB found himself outside the office, alone. The sky had darkened to a thin, inky blue as night settled over Thornton Heath, Croydon. The streets felt colder, emptier. A quiet disappointment settled in, as if the city itself had conspired against him.
He walked aimlessly, the sting of rejection familiar, but still sharp. RB had faced this before—time and time again, the door closing just when it seemed about to open. But as he wandered into the thin, dark air, he remembered something. A line from Gone with the Wind, spoken by Scarlett O’Hara: “Tomorrow is another day.”
RB stopped in his tracks, looking up at the dimly lit streets. Courage is going the extra mile, he thought. It’s keeping on when there’s no strength left.
This was just another bump in the road. A rejection, yes, but rejection was part of the journey, wasn’t it? He had been here before, and he had come out stronger. He could do it again. After all, the streets weren’t crowded at this hour—and neither was the path he had chosen. It was rarely crowded for those who went the extra mile.
As he walked on, the bells of San Romano chimed, cutting through his thoughts. Nine chimes, echoing through the still night air. RB was suddenly transported to the vivid memory of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, where characters from the past came out to play as the clock struck twelve. There was magic in those moments—an escape from reality, a glimpse of something otherworldly, much like the Paris of his imagination.
RB paused, the bells ringing in his ears, and he smiled to himself. Fluctuat nec mergitur—the Latin phrase rose unbidden in his mind. “He is tossed by the waves but does not sink.”
That was it. That was RB’s spirit. Tossed by the waves, battered by rejection, but never sinking. Never giving up. He could see the path forward now, clearer than ever. The Rolling Stones might not have been interested, but this was only one chapter in a much larger story. There would be more meetings, more pitches, and somewhere down the line, the right opportunity would come.
The night had turned cold, but RB felt a warmth rise within him. He turned his steps back toward the drawing board, back to where new ideas were born, where the light always shone a little brighter after rejection. Tomorrow was indeed another day, and RB could already see the way forward, illuminated by the faint light of optimism and determination.
After all, it was never crowded at the extra mile.
