His mom brought home his first guitar when he was 7 years old. She signed him up for lessons with a guy in a little cubicle, smoking a pipe, who introduced him to scales and tortured his students with his smoke and lack of interest.
After a few weeks, he quit the lessons, brought that guitar home, and threw it down the stairs, breaking a tuning peg. It sat at the bottom of the stairs, untouched until he was 15, and a man named Al Paranella moved into the neighbourhood.
Al played in lounges and on the wedding circuit. He took an interest in some of the local kids and started sharing the magic of music. And for the first time, practice felt alive more than a chore.
But Al wasn’t just a guitar teacher. He was a mentor.
The kind of man who shows up with skill and presence. The kind of man who sees a spark in a young person and commits to helping fan it into something tangible.
Many of us, especially men, don’t get many Als.
But when we do, we remember them for life.
Still, the young student only half-heartedly practiced, drifting in and out of lessons without much effort. Until one day, Al snapped. He lost his calm demeanour and said:
“Don’t waste my fucking time. If you don’t know this song next week, we’re done.”
That wasn’t cruelty, it was commitment, it was care.
That’s what mentorship often looks like: not just encouragement, but accountability. A willingness to call you forward. To tell you the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable, because they actually give a damn.
It worked. He took that lesson to heart and committed to practicing his craft every single day.
Al passed away in 1995. In his memory, the boy — now a man — carved the initials “AP” into his guitar. And they’ve been there ever since, a daily reminder of the man who believed in him, pushed him, and helped him find his path through practice.
That man, of course, is Jon Bon Jovi.
This story was part of his 2018 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance speech.
I’ve listened to that speech many times. And every time, it reminds me that greatness doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s built day by day through discipline, yes, but also through connection. Through being seen, challenged, and guided.
This is part of what Operation Bon Jovi Body is about.
It’s not just about building muscle or chasing aesthetic goals. It’s about practice — the kind that honors something deeper than results.
It’s about remembering that we don’t have to do it alone.
That sometimes, our strength as men comes from allowing someone else to invest in us and eventually, learning how to do the same for others.
So I’ll ask you:
- What’s your AP carved into the guitar?
- Who showed up for you?
- Who can you show up for?
- What’s the practice you’re willing to commit to — every single day — not because someone told you to, but because it honors something real in you?
Let’s stop pretending we don’t need each other.
Let’s stop hiding the moments we almost gave up.
Let’s stop buying the lie that discipline has to mean disconnection.
Mentorship is not weakness. It’s how men grow.
And now… It’s your move.
