Sometimes the most important magic happens in the places where children need it most. Performed by hands that paint smiles on faces that have forgotten how to laugh. By hearts that choose joy as their daily uniform, even when the world seems determined to steal it away. That’s what 58-year-old Bobby Boowbo Martinez proved when he stood at the Family Feud podium.
still wearing traces of face paint under his fingernails from that morning’s hospital visit and gave an answer that stopped Steve Harvey’s heart and reminded an entire television studio that some people spend their lives being professional hopebringers, one balloon animal at a time. Bobby Martinez had been Bobo the clown for 35 years, longer than some of his audience had been alive.
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning for over three decades, he had walked through the doors of St. Mary’s Children’s Hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, carrying a rainbow colored bag filled with magic tricks, balloon making supplies, and an inexhaustible supply of terrible jokes that somehow always made sick children giggle. He had never missed a scheduled visit, not when he had the flu, not when his mother died, not when he was going through his divorce, not even when he had his own minor heart attack.
In 20 Bobby understood that when you’re someone’s source of light during their darkest time, you don’t get sick days. Bobby’s transformation into Bobo happened every morning at 6:30 a.m. in his small apartment bathroom. The white face paint went on first, followed by the red nose, the exaggerated smile painted in bright red lipstick, the rainbow wig, and finally the oversized polkadotted bow tie. By 7:15 a.m.
, Bobby Martinez disappeared and Bobo emerged, ready to spend the day being exactly what sick children needed him to be. The children’s hospital was a world unto itself, where time moved differently and where normal rules about joy and sorrow didn’t apply. In pediatric oncology, six-year-olds discussed chemotherapy schedules with matterof fact acceptance.
In the cardiac unit, teenagers faced surgeries that would determine whether they would see their high school graduations. This was where Bobo did his most important work. Not entertaining children, though that’s what it looked like, but reminding them that despite everything they were going through, laughter was still possible.
That joy hadn’t been permanently stolen from them, by illness or injury. That somewhere inside them, the part that could still be delighted by magic, was alive and waiting. Bobby had learned to read his young audience with precision. He could tell by the way a child held their shoulders whether they needed gentle humor or energetic silliness.
He could determine from their eye contact whether they wanted to participate or just watch from a safe distance. Most importantly, he had learned to recognize the children who needed magic most desperately, the ones who had stopped laughing entirely. Those were his specialty cases. The 8-year-old who hadn’t smiled since starting cancer treatment.
The 12-year-old who had been in a car accident that left him paralyzed and convinced that happiness was something that happened to other people. the 5-year-old whose heart condition required so many procedures that she had developed anxiety about anyone in medical clothing. Bobby had a different approach for each child. Sometimes it meant spending an entire visit, sitting quietly next to a bed, making tiny balloon animals, and leaving them on a side table without saying a word until curiosity finally overcame fear. Sometimes it meant performing
magic tricks for everyone else while strategically positioning himself where a resistant child couldn’t help but see the reactions until social proof convinced them that it was safe to be amused. But always Bobby’s goal was the same. To prove that laughter wasn’t incompatible with serious illness, that joy could coexist with pain, that being sick didn’t mean surrendering the right to be delighted by something simple and wonderful.
Over 35 years, Bobby had entertained an estimated 15,000 children. He had performed at birthday parties, celebrated in hospital rooms, at holiday parties for families who couldn’t go home for Christmas, at graduation parties for children who had completed treatment, and at memorial services for children who hadn’t. Bobby had never had children of his own.
His marriage to Maria had ended partly because of his dedication to his hospital work. his refusal to consider a normal job that would provide better financial security. Maria had wanted children, and Bobby had wanted to continue being available to the thousands of children who already needed him.
The choice had been painful, but it had also been clear. Now, at 58, Bobby was contemplating retirement. His back achd from carrying heavy prop bags and spending hours bent over hospital beds. His knees protested when he had to get down on the floor to perform magic tricks. His voice was starting to show the strain of 35 years of projecting energy and enthusiasm.
But every time Bobby mentioned retirement to Dr. Patricia Williams, the head of pediatric oncology, she would shake her head and tell him about a new patient who specifically asked when the funny man with the red nose would be visiting, or about a child who had been unresponsive until Bobo arrived and suddenly started asking questions about balloon animals.
The family feud opportunity had come through his nephew Miguel, who worked in television production and had grown up hearing stories about Uncle Bobby’s hospital work. Miguel had always been amazed by his uncle’s dedication and had recently started volunteering at the children’s hospital himself. Bobby’s family for the show consisted of Miguel, his sister Rosa, a retired teacher, her husband Frank, a construction worker, and their daughter Carmen, a nursing student who planned to specialize in pediatrics, partly because of her
uncle’s influence. The preparation for family feud had been both exciting and nostalgic for Bobby. When his family practiced survey questions about what makes children happy, Bobby’s answers always came from his hospital experience. Feeling special, being surprised, knowing someone cares about them.
The morning of their taping, Bobby had completed his usual Tuesday routine at St. Mary’s. He had visited 12 children, performed magic tricks for a birthday party in the cancer ward, and spent extra time with seven-year-old Emma Rodriguez, who was having a difficult day with treatment, but had managed to laugh when Bobo made a balloon giraffe.
Bobby had changed out of his full Bobo costume for the trip to New York. But he couldn’t quite transform completely back into Bobby Martinez. Traces of white face paint lingered around his hairline despite careful scrubbing. His bag still contained balloon making supplies and magic props because a clown never knew when children might need entertainment.
Steve Harvey’s pre-show meeting with the Martinez family was immediately different from typical contestant interactions. When he met Bobby, whose gentle demeanor and persistent traces of face paint suggested someone who spent his days in character, Steve found himself talking with someone whose entire career had been built around understanding what children needed.
Bobby Steve said, “Your family tells me you’ve been a clown at children’s hospitals for 35 years. That’s incredible. What got you started in that line of work?” Bobb’s face lit up with the same warmth that had comforted thousands of sick children. I started as a weekend volunteer when I was 23, just wanting to do something meaningful.
But the first time I saw a child who had been crying about a medical procedure start laughing at my terrible magic tricks, I knew I had found my calling. Working with sick children teaches you that joy isn’t a luxury, it’s medicine. When a child is facing something scary and painful, laughter becomes a form of healing.
It reminds them that they’re still children, not just patience. Steve was struck by Bobby’s obvious dedication and by the way he spoke about his work as a calling rather than just a job. 35 years though, that’s a lifetime of dedication. What keeps you going back to the hospital every week? Bobby’s answer revealed the depth of his commitment.
The children keep me going every week. There are new patients who need to remember that laughter is still possible and longtime patients who count on me to be a consistent source of joy. When you become part of a child’s healing process when they specifically ask for Bobo when they’re having a bad day, you don’t retire from that responsibility.
The opposing family, the Chen family from California, had initially approached the competition with enthusiasm. But when they learned about Bobby’s decades of volunteer work with sick children and witnessed his obvious dedication to bringing joy to others, their competitive energy transformed into respect and admiration.
When Steve Harvey took the stage, the studio buzzed with anticipation. But there was an undercurrent of reverence, recognition that this episode would include someone whose career had been built entirely around serving others, whose legacy was measured in the number of sick children who had found reasons to smile.
The family introductions revealed the Martinez family’s values of service, dedication, and using talents to benefit others. Steve learned about Rose’s career in education, about Frank’s initial skepticism that had turned to respect, about Miguel’s growing involvement in volunteer work, and about Carmen’s decision to pursue pediatric nursing, Bobby, Steve said during the introductions.
35 years as a hospital clown. What’s the most rewarding part of that work? Bobby looked out at the studio audience and cameras, and his response carried the wisdom of someone who had learned that the most meaningful work often happens in places where most people prefer not to go. The most rewarding part is seeing children remember how to laugh.
He said, “When a child has been dealing with pain and fear and medical procedures, they sometimes forget that joy is still available to them. My job is to remind them that being sick doesn’t mean giving up happiness.” The game began with Bobby participating in the faceoff. The question was named something that cheers people up when they’re sad.
Bobby buzzed in confidently and answered a surprise that makes them laugh. It was the number one answer on the board and the Martinez family chose to play. As the round continued, each family member’s answers reflected their understanding of what brings comfort and joy during difficult times.
When it was Bobby’s turn again for name something performers hope their audience will do. He said forget their troubles even for a few minutes. But it was during the fourth round that the moment everyone would remember forever finally arrived. The category was named something clowns give children. And after family members had provided answers like balloons, entertainment, and birthday parties, it was Bobby’s turn.
Steve walked over to Bobby’s position at the podium, microphone in hand, and addressed the man who had dedicated his adult life to being a professional joybrer for children facing unimaginable challenges. Bobby, clowns give children what? Bobby looked at Steve, then at his family, then at the studio audience filled with people who probably couldn’t imagine voluntarily spending time in children’s hospitals, watching children suffer, and choosing to respond with humor and magic.
When he spoke, his voice carried the certainty of someone who had learned that some gifts are invisible but essential. Permission to laugh when they’ve forgotten how, he said simply. The words filled the studio with a truth that transcended typical game show entertainment. This wasn’t just an answer about what clowns provide.
This was insight into the healing power of laughter, the importance of joy during trauma, and the courage required to bring lightness to dark places. Steve Harvey, who had built his career on making people laugh, found himself facing someone who had learned that laughter could be medicine, that humor could be heroism, that choosing to be funny in the face of childhood illness required a special kind of strength.
Permission to laugh when they’ve forgotten how, Steve repeated slowly, then louder. Permission to laugh when they’ve forgotten how. He set his microphone down and walked directly to where Bobby stood. The cameras kept rolling, but everyone in the studio understood that they were witnessing something that went beyond television.
“Bobby,” Steve said, his voice thick with emotion that might be the most beautiful answer anyone has ever given on this show. He positioned himself directly in front of Bobby, speaking with the respect that one entertainer has for another who had chosen the hardest possible audience. You know what you just taught all of us? You taught us that laughter isn’t just entertainment, it’s healing.
When children are scared and sick and facing things they shouldn’t have to face, you give them permission to still be kids, to still find joy, to still believe in magic. Steve turned to address the entire studio, his voice carrying the weight of recognition for something profound. Ladies and gentlemen, this man right here has spent 35 years, 35 years, going into children’s hospitals twice a week to make sure that sick children don’t lose their ability to laugh.
While most of us avoid hospitals because they make us sad. Bobby puts on a clown costume and walks in there to bring joy to children who need it most. The studio audience rose to their feet in sustained applause. But Steve wasn’t finished. But that’s not even the most incredible part. The most incredible part is that he’s never missed a scheduled visit in 35 years. Not when he was sick.
Not when he had personal problems. Not even when his own heart attack. because he understands that when you’re someone’s source of light, you don’t get to take days off from being hope. Steve walked back to Bobby, who was standing quietly with tears in his eyes, overwhelmed by recognition for work he had always considered simply what needed to be done.
Bobby, I want to ask you something. Would you show us what you do? Would you give us just a little bit of the magic that has helped thousands of children remember how to laugh? Bobby reached into his bag and pulled out a few basic supplies. balloons, a simple magic wand, and a red foam nose. As he put on the nose, something transformed in his posture.
Bobby Martinez stepped back and Bobo emerged. “Hello, boys and girls,” Bobo said to the studio audience in the voice that had comforted thousands of sick children. “Who wants to see some magic that will make you forget all your troubles?” For the next three minutes, Bobo performed simple magic tricks and made balloon animals while telling terrible jokes that somehow made the entire studio audience laugh like children.
He made a balloon dog for Steve, performed a magic trick where a coin disappeared and reappeared and led everyone in singing If You’re Happy and You Know It. When he finished, the silence lasted for several heartbeats before the studio erupted in applause that lasted over a minute. It wasn’t just applause for entertainment. It was recognition for someone who had shown them what it meant to dedicate your life to bringing joy to others.
Steve walked back to Bobby, who had removed the red nose, but whose transformation back to regular persons seemed incomplete. “That’s what you do every week for sick children,” Steve said with profound respect. “That’s the magic that has helped thousands of kids remember that they’re allowed to be happy even when everything else is scary.
” The episode aired 6 weeks later and became a phenomenon that extended beyond typical game show entertainment. Bobby’s story sparked national conversations about the importance of joy during medical treatment, the therapeutic value of laughter, and the unsung heroes who dedicate their lives to serving children in hospitals. The response from viewers was overwhelming.
Children’s hospitals across the country reported increases in volunteer applications from entertainers. Medical clown programs received unprecedented funding and support. Most importantly, thousands of health care workers reached out to share their own stories of witnessing the healing power of laughter.
Steve Harvey, who had spent decades making people laugh, learned something profound about the difference between entertainment and healing. In interviews afterward, he said, “Bobby taught me that some laughter is medicine, that some entertainment is actually therapy, and that the most important stages aren’t always the biggest ones.
” Bobby used his portion of the family’s winnings to establish a fund for medical clown programs at children’s hospitals, and to purchase better equipment for his performances. But the real prize was recognition that his work mattered. That his choice to dedicate his life to bringing joy to sick children was valuable and important.
Bobby Bobo Martinez continues to visit St. Mary’s Children’s Hospital twice a week. Continues to carry rainbow colored bags full of magic and hope and continues to prove that some of the most important work in the world happens when someone chooses to be a professional hopebrer. Giving children permission to laugh when they’ve forgotten how.
One balloon animal at a
