Many years ago, my mentor said something that shocked me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I observed, the truer it became. It goes like this: Itâs not as important that I succeed, as it is that my friends fail.
Let me start at the beginning â itâs as good a place as any. I was born September 30, 1945. It was near the end of World War II. I was the first born son, the first grandchild on other side of the family. It was a time of hope, after so many years of economic hardship and war. My early childhood was all but a dream come true. My parents had been high school sweethearts, we lived in a modest but very comfortable home just outside of Philadelphia. And I was the center of attention -âmy parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and all of their friends showered me with love, affection, and lots and lots of toys. After so many years of hard times, things were going to be different for all of the adults in my life, and I was the embellishment of the better times to come.
Eight years later, that all came to an end when my parents turned from being high school sweethearts to bitter enemies, and divorced. An ugly child custody battle ensued, ending with an eight year old child sitting on a witness stand, and being asked by a judge to choose between my mother or my father. I chose my mom â my dad never forgave me for it. Never.
The modest but comfortable home turned into a two-room, shared bath apartment. One side of the family all but disappeared from my life, the other side now had lots of children of their own â I was not to be the center of attention for a long time to come.
Weâll skip the details of the following years â with but one exception.
Unlike many people, I can identify turning points in my life to the exact moment in time that they occurred. The first such âturning pointâ came on a chilly Spring morning in 1958. It was the second Saturday in April, it was overcast, and windy, but it was a day that almost every boy in my town had been looking forward to for months. It was Little League tryout day.
I was 12 years old that year, fat, and very unathletic. But I loved baseball, and it was my last year of eligibility. I wanted nothing more than to be part of a team â to play baseball on a real field, with real uniforms, and real âfansâ in the stands cheering us on. My hometown league was divided into two divisions â Majors and Minors. And on this particular morning the hopefuls were to be given a test, a simple test to let the âcoachesâ decide which division a boy would be assigned to play in. The test was nothing more than one of the men throwing a ball high into the air, and seeing how the would be player handled the simulated âpop-flyâ. Each boy had two chances. Both times as the ball sailed high into the air, I lost sight of it in the overcast sky, and the ball dropped to the ground.
They assigned me to a Minor League team â Colls Camera, coached by Mr. Simpson. I was disappointed that I had not made the Majors, but not much. I was going to be part of the team, and thatâs all that really mattered.
Fat kids in Little League almost always end up being the catcher, and I was no exception. Every night, after supper, we had a practice session. I was in my glory â it was everything I had ever dreamed it would be. I had never participated in any organized sport before, and to be honest, my skill level left much to be desired.
At long last the season was to begin â there was one final practice, and on that night Mr. Simpson would hand out our uniforms and hats. The anticipation was more than a boy could handle, so I showed up even earlier then usual. At long last Mr. Simpson showed up, and we could see the big cardboard boxes in the back of his station wagon â boxes holding the coveted uniforms and hats. The symbols that proved to all the world that a boy, this boy, belonged to the team.
But there was something else in Mr, Simpsonâs vehicle that night â it was a boy, a stranger none of us had ever seen before. Mr. Simpson got out, but the stranger remained behind. Mr. Simpson called me aside â no doubt for a special strategy meeting, right? Wrong. He told me that I just wasnât really good enough to play, and that he had found this other kid who was going to replace me. He also asked that I leave the practice field, so as not to be a distraction.
I did as he asked, got on my bike, and with the sounds of my former team mates laughing and gathering around Mr. Simpsonâs station wagon to get their uniforms and hats, I began the trip back home. It was during the long lonely ride â the long lonely bitter ride home, filled with shame and despair that I vowed to never again be a âteam playerâ. Life had taught me a lesson, and the events that had transpired during the Spring of 1958 changed me forever. That was 45 years ago, but I can remember that night as though it just happened. The memories are no less bitter, no less painful...
Let me start at the beginning â itâs as good a place as any. I was born September 30, 1945. It was near the end of World War II. I was the first born son, the first grandchild on other side of the family. It was a time of hope, after so many years of economic hardship and war. My early childhood was all but a dream come true. My parents had been high school sweethearts, we lived in a modest but very comfortable home just outside of Philadelphia. And I was the center of attention -âmy parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and all of their friends showered me with love, affection, and lots and lots of toys. After so many years of hard times, things were going to be different for all of the adults in my life, and I was the embellishment of the better times to come.
Eight years later, that all came to an end when my parents turned from being high school sweethearts to bitter enemies, and divorced. An ugly child custody battle ensued, ending with an eight year old child sitting on a witness stand, and being asked by a judge to choose between my mother or my father. I chose my mom â my dad never forgave me for it. Never.
The modest but comfortable home turned into a two-room, shared bath apartment. One side of the family all but disappeared from my life, the other side now had lots of children of their own â I was not to be the center of attention for a long time to come.
Weâll skip the details of the following years â with but one exception.
Unlike many people, I can identify turning points in my life to the exact moment in time that they occurred. The first such âturning pointâ came on a chilly Spring morning in 1958. It was the second Saturday in April, it was overcast, and windy, but it was a day that almost every boy in my town had been looking forward to for months. It was Little League tryout day.
I was 12 years old that year, fat, and very unathletic. But I loved baseball, and it was my last year of eligibility. I wanted nothing more than to be part of a team â to play baseball on a real field, with real uniforms, and real âfansâ in the stands cheering us on. My hometown league was divided into two divisions â Majors and Minors. And on this particular morning the hopefuls were to be given a test, a simple test to let the âcoachesâ decide which division a boy would be assigned to play in. The test was nothing more than one of the men throwing a ball high into the air, and seeing how the would be player handled the simulated âpop-flyâ. Each boy had two chances. Both times as the ball sailed high into the air, I lost sight of it in the overcast sky, and the ball dropped to the ground.
They assigned me to a Minor League team â Colls Camera, coached by Mr. Simpson. I was disappointed that I had not made the Majors, but not much. I was going to be part of the team, and thatâs all that really mattered.
Fat kids in Little League almost always end up being the catcher, and I was no exception. Every night, after supper, we had a practice session. I was in my glory â it was everything I had ever dreamed it would be. I had never participated in any organized sport before, and to be honest, my skill level left much to be desired.
At long last the season was to begin â there was one final practice, and on that night Mr. Simpson would hand out our uniforms and hats. The anticipation was more than a boy could handle, so I showed up even earlier then usual. At long last Mr. Simpson showed up, and we could see the big cardboard boxes in the back of his station wagon â boxes holding the coveted uniforms and hats. The symbols that proved to all the world that a boy, this boy, belonged to the team.
But there was something else in Mr, Simpsonâs vehicle that night â it was a boy, a stranger none of us had ever seen before. Mr. Simpson got out, but the stranger remained behind. Mr. Simpson called me aside â no doubt for a special strategy meeting, right? Wrong. He told me that I just wasnât really good enough to play, and that he had found this other kid who was going to replace me. He also asked that I leave the practice field, so as not to be a distraction.
I did as he asked, got on my bike, and with the sounds of my former team mates laughing and gathering around Mr. Simpsonâs station wagon to get their uniforms and hats, I began the trip back home. It was during the long lonely ride â the long lonely bitter ride home, filled with shame and despair that I vowed to never again be a âteam playerâ. Life had taught me a lesson, and the events that had transpired during the Spring of 1958 changed me forever. That was 45 years ago, but I can remember that night as though it just happened. The memories are no less bitter, no less painful...
