Taking an oath

Tips, tricks, inspiration, and encouragement for storytellers of all stripes

Jan 16, 2026

Greetings from Sarasota—

Back on December 17, we did our first performance of the world premiere one-man show 11 DAYS: THE STORY OF OPERATION PINEAPPLE EXPRESS.

I’ve been telling you about this play for awhile.

My dear friend Scott Mann, retired Green Beret, plays 24 characters onstage (and another ten or so pre-recorded!) and tells the true story of rescuing Afghan allies during the fall of Kabul back in 2021.

He had originally told this story in a book, OPERATION PINEAPPLE EXPRESS, which, y’know, just happened to become a NY Times Bestseller.

11 DAYS is the theatrical adaptation of that story. I was his storycoach, associate producer, and director. We jammed together in his story lab for many months, and it’s a project I am wildly proud of.

Next week we are taking the show Off-Broadway for a limited run at The Wild Project.

If you’re in the East Village next week (Jan 22-25), come say hi and check out the show!

Tickets for 11 DAYS Off-Broadway!

If you can’t make the show, you can read the script.

11 DAYS script

But here’s the story I want to tell you today.

On Friday, December 19, Scott faced one of the most difficult audiences imaginable.

Seven of the characters in the play were in the audience.

Remember, this is a true story. The first chunk of the play is about how Scott got his Afghan Special Forces friend, Nezam, safely into HKIA (Hamid Karzai International Airport) so that he wouldn’t be executed by the Taliban for helping American forces.

Nezam was in the audience, along with six more of the real, actual people that Scott and I had turned into characters in a play.

Real Congressional aides. Actual Special Envoys—all the way from Finland! Other soldiers and vets who had been a part of this makeshift, improvised mission that saved so many lives.

Imagine being on stage… performing versions of people… who are in the audience… watching you perform them.

I’ll be honest… I was a bit starstruck when I met these people. I saw one of the Captains in the lobby and recognized him from photos and promptly fan-boyed all over him. This soft-spoken man who I had come to “know” in writing and re-writing and rehearsal… he gave me the ol’ nod’n’smile.

Smooth, Jason. Real smooth.

If my reaction was to fan-boy, just imagine how much more intense it was gonna be for Scott!

“Scott, be ready,” I told him backstage pre-show. “You’re gonna have feelings that you haven’t experienced before. Don’t let ‘em throw you off. Just tell the story.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I got it.”

Post-show: “Jason, I feel like I got hit by a train!!”

Yeah. Of course. For a year, we’d been sweaty and anxious, fighting like hell to honor these people, but fearful they would see our version of them and their stories and be horrified, or embarrassed, or baffled.

Thankfully, after the show, they all gave us their blessing. They told us to keep going, to keep telling the story. Sure, it was weird seeing themselves refracted through Scott on the stage, but our work had paid off. They were honored, and humbled, and grateful.

Then, on Saturday, December 20, Scott faced an even more difficult audience.

On August 26, 2021—eleven days after the Taliban overran Kabul—an ISIS-K suicide bomber detonated himself outside HKIA at Abbey Gate. The blast killed thirteen US servicemen and women, and some 200 Afghans who were trying to get to safety inside the airport.

One of those servicemen was Ryan C. Knauss.

At our December 20 performance, Ryan’s mother was in the audience.

In the photo above, you see a big, green, digital timer that reads “11:00:00:00.” Through the course of the show, that timer ticks down. And down. And down. Days, hours, minutes, seconds.

As the timer began its inevitable descent, Ryan’s mother began to sob. Loudly. In excruciating, heaving gasps. She was as loud as Scott, even though he was mic’d.

I was in the back row, watching the audience watch the show. I saw Scott quiver. He had heard those sobs, and I knew he knew exactly who they were coming from.

It was like I could see a cartoon thought-bubble over Scott’s head: Oh my god. When that timer hits zero, and I say my next line to trigger the explosion, I am going to kill that woman’s son right in front of her all over again.

The show continued. The timer ticked down. Ryan’s mother keened. Scott trembled and soldiered on.

The timer hit zero with a buzz. Scott turned to look at the projection screen…

00:00:00:00

His next line is: “You all knew this was going to happen.”

But he doesn’t say it. He can’t. Ryan’s mother is openly weeping. Scott turns away from us. His shoulders are shuddering.

I think: I don’t know if he’s going to be able to continue.

But Scott is a storyteller of the highest order. His integrity is unimpeachable. His generosity is tested and true. He knows—and I know he knows—that to stop now would dishonor Ryan. Even though this mother is in agony, the only way to help her… is to go on.

Scott turns back to us. He grits his teeth and spits out, “You all knew this was going to happen.”

The stage manager takes the cue. The lights flash blinding white. The speakers rumble with the heartwrenching sound of an explosion.

Ryan’s mother goes silent.

Scott finishes the show. He’s pale. I can’t imagine what this is costing him.

The play is over. Scott comes back onstage for the talkback. At the end of the talkback, he invites Ryan’s mother up on stage.

She looks at the audience. Her gaze is a laserbeam.

And she tells us her story.

She found out about Ryan while she was on her honeymoon.

He was the final of the thirteen to succumb to his injuries.

She has started her own foundation to support other Gold Star families.

She thanks Scott. She apologizes for being so loud and says, “It’s just… when I saw that timer, all I could think was… My boy only has five minutes left, and he doesn’t know it.”

She turns to her husband, who holds out a large purse. She reaches in and pulls out an oversized challenge coin.

She smacks that coin into Scott’s hand, then presses her own hand over his.

“Don’t you dare stop telling my son’s story.”

She’s making him take an oath.

Scott is speechless. He nods. The talkback ends.

I make my way down to the stage and approach Ryan’s mother.

“Thank you so much for coming,” I say.

“Who are you?” Her voice like a thump on my sternum. No time for nonsense. No patience for fools.

“Um, I’m Jason, I directed the show.”

Her eyes narrow. Feeling the heat of that laserbeam gaze from the back of the theater was one thing. Having it full throttle on me from two feet away is quite another. Her head flicks in Scott’s direction.

“You help him?”

“Yes, ma’am. For the last year I coached him on the script and then worked with him through rehearsals—”

“You support him?”

I gulp.

“Yes, ma’am, for several years now, we’ve been working together and it’s been one of the honors of my career to work with him.”

“You’ll continue to support him?”

She’s a drill sergeant. She’s a relentless attorney grilling the witness during the climax of a legal thriller.

She’s a mother exuding singular purpose.

She turns to her husband. He already has the purse presented. She reaches in, pulls out another challenge coin, slaps the metal disk into my hand, presses it against my palm.

“Don’t you dare stop supporting him.”

She’s making me take an oath.

I can’t speak, but she sees it in my eyes.

“Good.”

And she’s past me. The husband gives me a nod and follows her.

I look down at the coin filling my hand. “The Respect and Remember Foundation.”

I flip the coin over. My breath catches. It’s a picture of Ryan.