Ace Freely was standing in line at a pawn shop when he heard the kid in front of him ask the price of a used guitar. 125, the owner said. The kid pulled out a carefully folded envelope and counted his money. $50 in crumpled bills and coins. I’ve been saving for 2 years, the kid said quietly. Is there any way? The owner cut him off. No discounts, kid. Come back when you have the rest. What Ace did next made the whole store stop and watch.
It was a Saturday afternoon in the Bronx, September 1998. Ace had stopped by Mike’s Pawn and Trade looking for vintage guitar equipment. The place was crowded with random items, power tools, jewelry, electronics, musical instruments hung on one wall. Ace was wearing a Yankees cap and sunglasses dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. Just another customer. There were three people in line ahead of him. An older woman, a businessman, and a kid. The kid couldn’t have been more than 12.
Latino, short for his age, wearing a faded Mets t-shirt and worn sneakers. But what caught Ace’s attention, was how he was staring at the guitars with an intensity Ace recognized immediately. That was the look of someone who needed a guitar. The kid waited patiently through the other transactions. When his turn came, he approached the counter with his backpack. Can I help you? Mike, the pawn shop owner, was a stocky guy in his 50s with gray hair and reading glasses hanging on a chain around his neck.
“The blue guitar,” the kid said, pointing to a Fender Stratcaster copy hanging on the wall. “It was beat up with scratches on the body and tarnished hardware, but it was a real electric guitar with all six strings.” “How much?” Mike looked at the guitar, then pulled it down from the wall. He checked the price tag taped to the back. $125. The kid’s face fell slightly, but he nodded. Okay. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a white envelope that had been folded and reffolded many times.
The envelope was worn soft, the creases threatening to tear. Ace watched as the kid opened the envelope with shaking hands and began counting. First bills, tens, fives, ones, all wrinkled and soft, then coins, quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies. The kid counted carefully. When he finished, he looked up. I have $50. Mike shook his head. Guitar’s 125, kid. I know, but I’ve been saving for 2 years. This is everything I have. I mow lawns, walk dogs, collect bottles. Is there any way you could sell it for 50?
Mike’s expression wasn’t unkind, but it was firm. No discounts, kid. This is a business, not a charity. Guitar is worth 125. You come back when you have the rest of the money. But it’s been on your wall for months,” the kid said, his voice cracking slightly. “Nobody’s bought it, and I really need it. I’m trying to learn guitar, and I’ve been using my friends.” But he moved away, and now I don’t have one anymore. And kid, Mike interrupted, not harshly, but definitively.
I can’t give you a $75 discount. That’s more than half off. Come back when you have the full price. The kid stood there for a moment, staring at the money on the counter. Ace could see his jaw clenching, fighting back tears. Slowly, the kid started gathering up his money, putting the bills and coins back into the envelope with shaking hands. “Can you at least hold it for me?” the kid asked quietly. “So, nobody else buys it while I save more.” “I don’t do holds,” Mike said.
“First come, first served. If it’s still here when you get the money, it’s yours.” The kid nodded, zipped the envelope back into his backpack, and turned to leave. As he passed Ace, Ace could see tears on his cheeks that the kid was trying to wipe away quickly with his sleeve. Something in that moment connected with Ace. He remembered being a kid in the Bronx, desperate for a guitar, staring at instruments in store windows, counting money, hoping that someday he’d have enough.
The feeling of being so close to your dream, but not quite able to reach it. Ace had been fortunate. His parents had eventually helped him, but not every kid had that. Not every kid had someone who believed in their dreams enough to invest. “Wait,” Ace called out to the kid. The kid stopped and turned around, wiping his eyes. “Yeah.” Ace walked up to the counter and looked at Mike. “I’ll buy the guitar,” Mike shrugged. “Okay, 125.” “And I want the kid to have it,” Ace added.
Mike looked confused. The kid’s eyes went wide. “What?” the kid said. Ace pulled out his wallet. “How much do you have, kid?” ” $50,” the kid said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay,” Ace said. “You give Mike your 50. I’ll give him the other 75. Guitar is yours.” The kid stared at Ace like he’d just spoke in a foreign language. “I I don’t understand.” “It’s simple,” Ace said. “You’ve been saving for 2 years. You worked hard for that money.
You deserve this guitar. I’m just helping you close the gap.” But I don’t know you, the kid said. Why would you do that? Because someone helped me once, Ace said simply. And because I know what it feels like to want something this badly. The kid’s lip trembled. I can pay you back. I’ll keep mowing lawns. I don’t want you to pay me back. Ace interrupted. I want you to play that guitar. Practice every day. And someday when you’re playing professionally, help some other kid who needs it.
That’s how you pay me back. Tears were streaming down the kid’s face. Now, “Are you serious?” “Dead serious,” Ace said. “Now get your money out. Let’s do this before I change my mind.” He smiled to show he was joking. With shaking hands, the kid pulled out his envelope again and carefully counted out $50 on the counter. Ace added $75 in cash. Mike was watching this whole exchange with a mixture of surprise and something that might have been respect.
Sold,” Mike said, processing the transaction. He handed the guitar to the kid who took it like it was made of glass. The kid was crying openly now, holding the guitar against his chest. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t even know your name.” Ace hesitated for a moment, then took off his sunglasses and Yankees cap. “I’m Ace.” “Ace Frilley.” The kid’s mouth fell open. “Space Ace from Kiss?” “That’s me,” Ace confirmed. “Oh my god,” the kid breathed.
I have all your albums. Well, I had them. I sold them to save money for the guitar. He looked down at the CDs he’d sacrificed. This is your This is the best day of my life. What’s your name? Ace asked. Tommy, the kid said. Tommy Rodriguez. Well, Tommy Rodriguez, Ace said. You just became the owner of your first electric guitar. That’s a big deal. This is where it starts. Where? What starts? Tommy asked. everything. Ace said, “Every musician has a story about their first real guitar.
This is yours, and it’s a good one.” Mike spoke up. You want a case for that? I got one that’ll fit 20 bucks. Before Tommy could say anything, Ace pulled out another 20 and slid it across the counter. He’ll take the case. Mike got the case and showed Tommy how to put the guitar in it properly. Tommy watched like he was learning the most important skill in the world. Can I ask you something? Tommy said to Ace, “Why did you really help me?
I mean, you don’t know me. I could be anyone.” Ace thought about how to explain it. When I was about your age, maybe a little older, I wanted a guitar more than anything in the world. I used to go to music stores and just stand there looking at them, imagining what it would be like to play. And I was lucky. My family eventually helped me get one. But I remember that feeling of wanting something so badly and not being able to have it.
I remember how that hurt. He gestured to the guitar case in Tommy’s hands. When I saw you counting your money, when I saw how carefully you’d saved every dollar, when I heard you tell Mike you’d been working for 2 years, I saw myself and I thought, “What if nobody had helped me? What if I’d had to walk away from my dream because I was $75 short? Where would I be now?” “You’d still be Ace Frilley,” Tommy said.
“Maybe,” Ace said. Or maybe I would have gotten discouraged and given up. You never know what moments change your life. This might be one of those moments for you. It is, Tommy said with certainty. It definitely is. Ace reached out and tapped the guitar case. You need to promise me something. Anything, Tommy said. Promise me you’ll take this seriously. Not just mess around with it, but really learn. Take lessons if you can. Practice every day. Learn music theory.
Learn to read music. become the best guitarist you can possibly be. I promise, Tommy said solemnly. And promise me that when you get good, not if, when, you’ll remember this moment. Remember that your dream almost didn’t happen because of $75. And if you ever see another kid in the same situation, you help them. Even if it’s just a little bit, even if it’s just encouragement, you help them. I promise, Tommy said again. I really promise. Ace pulled a business card from his wallet and wrote a phone number on it.
This is my manager’s office. If you stick with guitar, if you get really good, call this number in about 5 years. Tell them who you are and that I told you to call. We’ll see if we can get you some real lessons. Maybe connect you with other musicians. Tommy took the card like it was a golden ticket. 5 years I’ll be 17. I’ll call. I swear. I believe you,” Ace said. And he did. There was something in this kid’s eyes, a determination that reminded Ace of himself at that age.
This wasn’t just a kid who wanted to play guitar casually. This was a kid who needed music the way other people need air. Mike cleared his throat. “That was a good thing you did,” he said to Ace. “I’ve seen that kid looking at that guitar for months. Every week, he’d come in, stare at it, then leave. I figured he was just window shopping. He was saving, Ace said. Takes discipline to save for 2 years at 12 years old.
Yeah, Mike agreed. Most kids would have given up or spent the money on something else. Tommy was still standing there holding the guitar case, looking between Ace and Mike like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Can I ask you one more thing, Mr. Freely? Call me Ace, Ace said. What’s your question? Would you sign it the guitar so I never forget this day? Ace smiled. I’d be honored. Tommy carefully opened the case and took out the guitar.
Ace borrowed a silver Sharpie from Mike and thought for a moment about what to write. Then he signed the guitar’s body to Tommy. Your dream starts today. Keep rocking. Ace Frillley. September 1998. Tommy read it and more tears came. I’m never going to forget this. Never. Good. Ace said, “Because I meant what I said. This is where your story starts. And what happens next is up to you. 5 years later, almost to the day, Ace’s manager received a phone call from a 17-year-old named Tommy Rodriguez.
He’d kept his promise. He’d practiced every single day. He’d taken lessons when he could afford them, taught himself from books and videos when he couldn’t. He’d started a band in high school. He’d won a local Battle of the Bands competition, and he still had the Blue Stratacastaster copy with Ace’s signature on it. Ace arranged for Tommy to get professional lessons from a session guitarist he knew in New York. Two years after that, Tommy was playing in clubs around the city.
5 years after that, he was touring as a backup guitarist for a major Latin rock band. But none of his success mattered as much to Tommy as the guitar hanging on his wall at home. The beatup blue Stratacastaster copy from a Bronx pawn shop signed by Ace Freilley purchased with $50 he’d saved for two years and $75 from a rock legend who remembered what it felt like to dream. And whenever Tommy told the story, which he did often to every young musician he met, he always ended it the same way.
Ace Freely didn’t just give me a guitar that day. He gave me permission to believe that my dream was worth fighting for. And when someone believes in you like that, especially when you’re 12 and nobody else does, it changes everything. The pawn shop owner, Mike, framed the receipt on his wall. That was the day I learned the difference between price and value. He’d tell people that guitar cost 125, but what it was worth to that kid. Priceless.
And Ace never forgot Tommy Rodriguez. In helping that 12-year-old kid, Ace had done something more important than any stadium concert. He’d kept music alive in someone’s heart. He’d made sure a kid’s dream didn’t die because of $75. Because that’s what music is really about, not fame or stadiums. It’s about connection, seeing yourself in someone else, remembering where you came from, and making sure the next generation gets their chance. All because Ace Freilley stood in line at a pawn shop and chose to listen when a 12-year-old’s dream almost died.
