Host Terry Cruz greeted him with his usual energy. Welcome to America’s Got Talent. What’s your name, young man? My name is Daniel Martinez, the boy said, his voice quiet but steady. I’m 14. I’m from Phoenix, Arizona. And what are you going to do for us today, Daniel? Daniel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope.
It was aged, the paper slightly yellowed, the edges worn from being handled many times over many years. He held it up toward the judge’s table, specifically towards Simon. “Before I audition,” Daniel said, “I need to give this to Mr. Cowell.” The audience murmured, “This wasn’t standard procedure.” Contestants didn’t approach the judges before performing.
They sang or danced or did magic tricks or juggled. They didn’t walk up with envelopes. Simon leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, that familiar expression of skeptical curiosity on his face. What is it? It’s a letter, Daniel said. From my father. He wrote it 12 years ago before he died. He wrote it to you. The murmuring stopped.
The studio went completely silent. Simon’s arms uncrossed slowly. His expression shifted. Something between confusion and caution. To me? Yes, sir. Terry Cruz looked at the producers in the wings, uncertain how to proceed. This had never happened before. Simon stood up, not the casual standing he sometimes did during performances.
This was different, deliberate. He stepped out from behind the judge’s desk and walked toward the stage, his eyes never leaving the envelope in Daniel’s hand. Simon stopped the show. No one knew what was happening. The control room erupted. Director David Freriedman was talking rapidly into his headset. What’s Simon doing? Do we have clearance for this? Should we cut? Executive producer Sam Donnelly stood behind David watching the monitors.
Keep rolling, Sam said quietly. Whatever this is, it’s real. Keep the cameras on them. Simon reached the front of the stage. Daniel descended the three steps that separated the performance area from the floor. The envelope still clutched in his hand. He stopped directly in front of Simon. Up close, Simon could see the boy was trembling.
Could see the tears forming in his eyes that he was fighting to hold back. “Why did your father write to me?” Simon asked, his voice lower now, gentler than the audience was used to hearing. Because 12 years ago you rejected him,” Daniel said simply. “You told him he wasn’t good enough. You told him to give up and two weeks later he died believing you were right.
” The collective gasp from the audience was audible even over the ambient sound of the massive theater. Howie Mandel leaned forward at the judge’s table. Heidi Clum’s hand went to her mouth. Sophia Vgara looked stricken. Simon’s jaw tightened. What was your father’s name? Robert Martinez. He auditioned for you in 2011, season 6. He sang.
You stopped him halfway through and said Daniel’s voice cracked. He took a breath. You said he should find a different dream. Simon closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, something in his expression had changed. I remember, he said quietly. He wrote this letter that night, Daniel continued, holding out the envelope.
Before he got sick, before the cancer took him, “He wrote it because he wanted you to know something, and he made me promise that if I ever got the chance, I would give it to you. So, here I am.” Simon took the envelope with both hands. The paper felt fragile, like it might disintegrate if he held it too tightly. His name was written on the front in shaky handwriting.
To Simon Cowell, can I read it? Simon asked. Daniel nodded. That’s why I’m here. To understand what happened next, you need to understand what happened in 2011. Robert Martinez wasn’t always Robert Martinez, terminal cancer patient and failed auditioner. In 2011, he was a 38-year-old high school music teacher in Phoenix, Arizona.
He taught choir. He directed the school musicals. He had a wife, Maria, and a 2-year-old son named Daniel, who was just learning to talk. Robert loved music more than almost anything. He’d grown up singing in church, had studied vocal performance in college, had dreamed of making it as a professional singer, but had settled into teaching because it paid the bills, and let him stay close to the thing he loved.
But the dream never quite died. Every year he watched singing competitions on television, American Idol, The Voice, America’s Got Talent, and wonder what if. What if he tried harder? What if he’d been braver? What if he’d taken that risk when he was younger? In early 2011, Maria gave him an ultimatum.
Not a cruel one, a loving one. You’re 40 in 2 years, she said, sitting across from him at their kitchen table while 2-year-old Daniel played with blocks on the floor. If you don’t try now, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering. Go audition for one of these shows. Sing. Get it out of your system. Win or lose, at least you’ll know.
Robert was terrified. He was a high school choir teacher, not a performer. He was 40 lb overweight. He was going bald. He wasn’t 22 and beautiful like the contestants who seemed to get all the attention. But Maria was right. If he didn’t try, he’d always wonder. He chose America’s Got Talent. The auditions were coming to Phoenix.
He could try out without having to travel far from his family. He practiced for 6 weeks, working on a song his own father had loved, an old ballad from the 1960s about hope and second chances. The audition was in May 2011. Robert stood backstage at the Oreium Theater in downtown Phoenix, surrounded by singers and dancers and acrobats half his age, all of them vibrant and confident, and everything he wasn’t.
When his number was called, he walked onto that stage with his heart pounding so hard he thought the judges would be able to hear it. Simon Cowell sat at the center of the judges table. This was before AGT had the forage format back when it was just three. Simon, Sharon Osborne, and Howie Mandel.
What’s your name? Simon asked, his tone already carrying that edge of board skepticism. Robert Martinez. I’m a high school choir teacher from Phoenix. And you’re here because because I’ve always wondered if I was good enough. I guess I’m here to find out. Simon nodded unimpressed. Go ahead, Robert sang. He made it through maybe 45 seconds before Simon raised his hand. Stop. Stop, please.
The music cut out. Robert stood frozen in the spotlight, the microphone still in his hand. Robert, Simon said, his voice clinical, almost bored. I’m going to be honest with you because that’s what we do here. You’re a perfectly adequate singer. probably great for teaching high school kids.
