06/21/2025
❤️
In the bustling terminal of LAX one afternoon in the late 1980s, Henry Winkler stood quietly near the check-in counter. He had left behind his leather-jacketed image from "Happy Days," but his face still invited curious glances. A few feet away, a young man, clearly overwhelmed and fumbling with his travel documents, was visibly anxious. His face was flushed, his hands shook, and his voice cracked as he tried to explain his situation to an increasingly irritated airline agent.
Winkler watched for a few moments. The young man was digging through a torn folder, trying to locate a confirmation number. The line behind him grew longer, the agent’s tone sharper. Without pausing to consider whether he might be intruding, Winkler stepped forward. Placing a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder, he said softly, “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be fine.” That calm presence slowed everything down.
Winkler spoke kindly to the agent, asked if they could walk through the reservation details again, and helped the man reorganize his paperwork. Within a few minutes, everything was sorted. The young man turned, barely able to make eye contact, and whispered, “Thank you.” Then he disappeared into the crowd. No name, no further conversation.
Winkler didn’t think twice about it. For him, it was a simple act of human decency. Raised by immigrant parents who had fled N**i Germany, he had been taught from a young age that how you treat people when no one is watching reveals your true character. His own struggles with dyslexia and feelings of isolation during childhood had made him especially empathetic to those who felt lost or invisible. What others saw as celebrity, he saw as an opportunity to step in quietly when someone needed help.
Several years later, in the early 1990s, Winkler was pitching a project he believed in. Though he had produced successful shows like "MacGyver," this new idea was hitting wall after wall. Meeting rooms blurred together. Studio responses were polite but noncommittal. Doors seemed to close before they ever fully opened.
Then came a meeting at a major studio. Winkler sat down across from a young executive whose name rang a distant bell, though he couldn’t place it. The executive greeted him warmly, listened intently, and let Winkler finish his entire pitch without interruption. When Winkler paused, the executive leaned forward with a small smile.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked. “LAX. You helped me with my flight. I was falling apart, and you helped, and never even asked who I was.”
Winkler was taken aback.
“I never forgot that,” the executive said. “And now, I get to return the favor. The project’s approved. Let’s make it.”
Winkler later shared the story during a speaking engagement, not to impress, but to make a point he held close. He believed that compassion offered without expectation is never wasted. The kindness you offer in passing may one day be the very reason a door opens when you need it most.
