Earlier this week, after a valiant battle with cancer, KC’s stalwart production guru Craig Burnett passed away.

Like so many others, I found myself thinking about the countless hours we spent together on the road, on set, and behind the scenes.

The news hit me harder than I expected.

Ever meet someone and instantly take a dislike to them?

That was Craig’s first impression of me.

He thought I was a twit. Or a twat. Maybe both. Probably both.

Naturally, I made it my personal mission to change his mind.

It took the better part of a year. Craig wasn’t someone who handed out respect cheaply. You earned it. And once you did, you had it.

Somewhere along the way, that skepticism gave way to friendship.

Over the years, I saw half the United States with Craig on pharmaceutical production shoots. My job was simple: show up and do the patient interviews. Craig handled everything else. Literally. He directed, shot, lit, recorded audio, edited, solved problems before anyone else knew they existed, and somehow still managed to make everyone laugh.

He made it all look effortless.

If you’ve spent any time around Kansas City’s television, advertising, or entertainment world over the last five decades, you’ve probably seen Craig’s work — even if you didn’t know it. He liked to say he’d been “in show business since 1977,” and it wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

His voice appeared on thousands of commercials and infomercials, and every so often he’d pop up on camera doing something hilariously goofy. One of those spots became a viral GIF seen by millions. Craig’s reaction?

“Hey … no bad ink.”

Even cancer couldn’t keep Craig away from the work he loved. Even while undergoing treatment, he remained the unmistakable “voice of God” for Big Slick. In late May, he posted a photo from the backstage audio booth, headphones on and script nearby, doing what he’d done so brilliantly for decades. It was vintage Craig: no fanfare, no self-pity — just showing up and getting the job done.

One of the things I loved most about Craig was that there was always another layer to discover. He worked with celebrities like Suzanne Somers and Vanna White but he never acted impressed by any of it. He was far prouder of performing improv with Comedy City, working alongside his son Christopher, and talking about Joan, his wife, who, as he liked to say, had “put up with my shenanigans” for decades.

Years ago, I asked Craig to share a few things people might not know about him, and his answers were exactly what you’d expect.

He talked about playing the accordion since he was six years old. “To this day, I get the urge to play the accordion every time I see banana pudding,” he quipped to me.

His favorite Diana Ross story? It wasn’t that he worked on one of her music videos, When You Tell Me That You Love Me. Nope … it was way more nuanced. “I edited while sitting uncomfortably close to her in 1991. For two days it was just the two of us in a boutique edit suite,” he said. “She drank gallons of iced tea. And when she used our unisex restroom, she changed the tissue to roll from underneath.”

His stories continued in earnest. “One of my greatest joys is to be able to work alongside my son,” he also told me. And when he reminisced about his son Christopher, the tale wasn’t about camera work. They were about Guy Fieri complimenting his son’s facial hair and Henry Bloch … uh, avoiding the question.

That’s who Craig was.

He could have been the hero of every story, but he’d rather be the guy telling it.

He was endlessly talented, relentlessly funny, incredibly humble, and the kind of person who made everyone around him better at what they did.

I’m blessed I got to learn so much from him. I’m grateful I earned his respect. And I’m grateful that somewhere along the line, he decided I wasn’t a twit (or twat) after all.

Kansas City lost one of its great storytellers this week.

I lost a friend. We all did.

Thanks for the ride, Craig. You made it a good one.