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Chicken Soup for the Heart

Love Is Stronger . . .

Having a goal based on love is the greatest life insurance in the world. If you had asked my dad why he got up in the morning, you would have found his answer disarmingly simple: "To make my wife happy." Mom and Dad met when they were nine. Every day before school, they met on a park bench with the homework. Mom corrected Dad's English and he did the same with her math. Upon graduation, their teachers said that the two of them were the best "student" in the school. Note the singular! They took their time building their relationship, even though Dad always knew she was the girl for him. Their first kiss occurred when they were 17, and their romance continued to grow into their 80s. Just how much power their relationship created was brought to light in 1964. The doctor told Dad he had cancer and estimated that he had six months to one year left at the most. "Sorry to disagree with you, Doc," my father said. "But I'll tell you how long I have. One day longer than my wife. I love her too much to leave the planet without her." And so it was, to the amazement of everyone who didn't really know this love-matched pair, that Mom passed away at the age of 85 and Dad followed one year later when he was 86. Near the end, he told my brothers and me that those 17 years were the best six months he ever spent. To the wonderful doctors and nurses at the Department of Veterans' Affairs Medical Center at Long Beach, he was a walking miracle. They kept a loving watch on him and just couldn't understand how a body so riddled with cancer could continue to function so well. My dad's explanation was simple. He informed them that he had been a medic in World War I and saw amputated arms and legs, and he had noticed that none of them could think. So he decided he would tell his body how to behave. Once, as he stood up and it was evident he felt a stabbing pain, he looked down at his chest and shouted, "Shut up! We're having a party here." Two days before he left us he said, "Boys, I'll be with your mother very soon and someday, some place we'll all be together again. But take your time about joining us; your mother and I have a lot of catching up to do." It is said that love is stronger than prison walls. Dad proved it was a heck of a lot stronger than tiny cancer cells. Bob, George and I are still here, armed with Dad's final gift.

A goal, a love and a dream give you total control over your body and your life.

The Case of the Missing Chocolate

I came home the other night after my writing class to find my husband Ted in bed, playing Gameboy with a very satisfied look on his face. I thought, Uh-oh, walked to the kitchen and discovered his trail of foil and chocolate crumbs. He had discovered the brownies I'd made for the Saturday picnic. I should have known, I thought, as I looked at the remains. Ted peeked around the kitchen door. "My doctor says I'll never outgrow my need for chocolate...it's medicinal!" "He really said that?" "Yep, He says there's nothing that can be done." This is not the first time it has occurred to me that having a husband is a bit like having a big dog. Ted's case history of chocolate addiction is lengthy. Mid- afternoon, when he dives in the bowl of M&Ms and Hershey's Chocolate Kisses at his office, Paula, his secretary of 26 years, rolls her eyes...she knows he will soon be bouncing off the walls. Usually a generous soul, Ted gets territorial only over chocolate. One night I served him a particularly beautiful chocolate eclair I'd found that day. I was dieting and the sight became too much for me. I said, "I wish I had a bite of that." He emitted a little grown and said, "Sure you do..." as he placed his arm protectively around his plate, "Like a frog wishes he had wings so he wouldn't bump his butt along the ground." He gives up chocolate every New Year's Day. That usually lasts until Valentine's Day, when he begins eating it slowly, like normal people do, and tells me he has it under control. Gradually, I begin to notice that every night after dinner he asks, "Do we have any chocolate?" Non-fat frozen yogurt with non- fat hot fudge topping is not for him; he points the car toward the local Italian ice cream parlor where he asks for a taste of every chocolate gelato they have. Eventually he notices chocolate has become an obsession and he talks about giving it up again. Which he does, until Easter, and then we are off again. We make it fairly well through the summer months, but with the approach of autumn and Thanksgiving, then Christmas, he falls off the wagon with a thud. Here is Ted's very favorite chocolate dessert. It is a tiny warm chocolate cake with a gooey center and a warm chocolate sauce that our friend Margo Rogoff introduced him to at mad.61, the trendiest new restaurant in New York City at this writing, located in Barney's department store at 61st and Madison. I have photos of Ted using his fingers to scrape up the very last lick. Warm Valhrona Chocolate Cakes Makes 6 servings Recipe courtesy of mad.61 pastry chef, Patti Jackson.

Butter and sugar for 6 5 eggs plus 3 egg yolks brioche molds 1/4 cup sugar 8 ounces Valhrona bittersweet 2 tablespoons strong brewed chocolate (Caraibe-see Note) coffee 6 ounces (3/4 stick) sweet 3/4 cup sifted pastry flour (unsalted) butter Chocolate Sauce: 3/4 cup heavy (whipping) cream 2 tablespoons sweet butter 6 ounces Valhrona chocolate, 1 teaspoon vanilla or Myers coarsely chopped dark rum Note: Valhrona chocolate is dark, rich and not too sweet. If not available, use any excellent bittersweet chocolate. 1. Preheat oven to 375 F. Butter 6 (4-ounce) brioche molds (or other molds about 1 inch high) heavily and sprinkle with sugar; set aside. In the top of a double boiler, melt together the chocolate, cut in small pieces, and butter. 2. In a mixer, beat together whole eggs, egg yolks, and sugar until light and lemon-colored. Add and mix in the coffee, followed by the chocolate/butter mixture and sifted pastry flour. Pour the batter into the prepared molds, filling them within 1/8 inch of the top. (These may now be left at room temperature for up to 3 hours or refrigerated for up to 48 hours.) 3. To make the Chocolate Sauce, heat the cream just to a boil and pour over the chocolate pieces. Add butter and vanilla or rum; stir until smooth. Use while warm; if sauce should cool, reheat over simmering water or in a microwave oven on low heat, taking care not to overheat or it will separate. 4. Just before serving, place the cakes in preheated oven and bake for 8 minutes until set around the edges - center of cakes should be runny. Turn out of molds immediately onto serving plates. Top with chocolate sauce and serve warm with ice cream.

Two Families

One family, which had emigrated from Japan and settled at the turn of the century near San Francisco, had established a business in which they grew roses and trucked them into San Francisco three mornings a week. The other family was a naturalized family from Switzerland who also marketed roses, and both families became modestly successful, as their roses were known in the markets of San Francisco for their long vase-life. For almost four decades the two families were neighbors, and the sons took over the farms, but then on December 7, l941, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Although the rest of the family members were Americans, the father of the Japanese family had never been naturalized. In the turmoil and the questions about internment camps, his neighbor made it clear that, if necessary, he would look after his friend's nursery. It was something each family had learned in church: Love thy neighbor as thyself. "You would do the same for us," he told his Japanese friend. It was not long before the Japanese family was transported to a barren landscape in Granada, Colorado. The relocation center consisted of tar-paper-roofed barracks surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. A full year went by. Then two. Then three. While the Japanese neighbors were in internment, their friends worked in the greenhouses, the children before school and on Saturdays: and the father's work often stretched to 16 and 17 hours a day. And then one day, when the war in Europe had ended, the Japanese family packed up and boarded a train. They were going home. What would they find? The family was met at the train depot by their neighbors, and when they got to their home, the whole Japanese family stared. There was the nursery, intact, scrubbed and shining in the sunlight - neat, prosperous and healthy. So was the balance in the bank passbook handed to the Japanese father. And the house was just as clean and welcoming as the nursery. And there on the dining room was one perfect red rosebud, just waiting to unfold - the gift of one neighbor to another.

A Picture's Worth...

A little old man came into the store holding a torn, green, vinyl double picture frame with pictures of a young couple inside. The frame had been damaged and was torn down the center. It looked like someone had tried to repair it by using stiff, letter clicker tape, which was unsuccessful. In fear of causing more damage the man brought it to the frame shop. The expert framer was not able to repair the frame. I could not help but overhear the request, and I asked if I might take a look at the frame. I was not really sure what I was going to do, but I asked him if I could keep the picture frame overnight. The man sighed and said yes. He bowed his head as he walked out the door. I carefully removed the stiff tape and glued the fragments back together. Next, I applied an artificial binding and cosmetically repaired the outer surface with a little bias tape and DMC floss. The next day, the little old man came into the store and I handed him the frame. As I looked at him I said, "No charge." I paid for the supplies out of my own pocket. He was impressed by the craftsmanship and he started to cry. The pictures were of him and his wife. He pointed to the picture and said, "This is my wife, she just passed away. She put this frame together in the 1920s and I was so afraid it was ruined." As a result, tears came to my eyes and I said, "Well, you come back to see us anytime." As he walked out the door, he said, "I will never forget you, Christine." He walked into my life at a time I was feeling uncertain about my job and I wanted to quit. He made me realize where I needed to be and what purpose my life really held. It is so much of a blessing to give from the heart. What that little old man did for me meant more to me than I could ever express. Later that year, I was quickly promoted to a high-paying position as a craft coordinator. Sometimes, God brings people into our lives for a reason. I don't even know his name, but I will never forget my little picture frame man.

Letters to Eileen

I have three children. Paul, the oldest and only boy, is named for his dad. Theresa, the baby of the family, has her daddy's brown eyes and curly hair. Eileen is the middle child. She is named for me and my mother whose name was Eileen Ann. When I was born, my mother turned it around and named me Ann Eileen. So when my first girl was born, I did the same thing, naming her Eileen Ann. Eileen showed a streak of independence from the early age of five months. She refused to let anyone feed her, determined to do things her way. All three kids were great fun to be around. They worked hard, had senses of humor and did well in what they attempted. Like all homes, however, there were times when we initiated a discussion of some behavior that their dad and I wanted improved. With Paul and Theresa, the reactions ranged from quiet agreement to vocal disagreements, but always with a mutual clearing of the air. With Eileen there were never any discussions. She immediately objected to our right to have an opinion, stomped up the stairs to her room, slammed the door, turned the music up loud and announced she did not want to discuss it! Several times in the early days I tried reasoning with her, but this only irritated her further. One day out of a need for Eileen to hear our side, I wrote her a letter. In the letter I explained her dad's and my position and what we wanted changed. I waited until she left for school the next day to put the letter on her bed. She never mentioned the letter, and I never found any evidence of it. But her behavior changed! As the years passed, there were more letters left while she was at school, at work or on a date - probably two or three letters a year for a period of 14 years. She never acknowledged the letters or discussed what was in them, but her behavior would change. Occasionally she stated as she went upstairs, "And don't write me one of those letters." Of course, I wrote a letter. Eileen's dad died in 1990. Three years later, she got engaged, and I was determined not to be the overbearing mother of the bride. Everything went well until about a month before the wedding. We had a disagreement. She indignantly told me she was 24 years old and a special education teacher about to be married. She also told me not to write her a letter! I wrote her a letter. Three days before the wedding, Eileen was packing things to move to her new home. She told me there was a box in her closet that was not to be thrown away. "It contains all the letters you ever wrote me. Sometimes I reread them and someday I will read them to my daughter. Thank you, Mom." Thank you, Eileen.

In Praise of Teachers

In 1972, I returned to Miami Beach High School to speak to the drama class. Afterward I asked the drama teacher if any of my English teachers are still there. Irene Roberts, he tells me, is in the class just down the hall. I was no one special in Miss Roberts' class - just another jock who did okay work. I don't recall any one special bit of wisdom she passed on. Yet I cannot forget her respect for language, for ideas and for her students. I realize now, many years later, that she is the quintessential selfless teacher. I'd like to say something to her, I say, but I don't want to pull her from a class. Nonsense, he says, she'll be delighted to see you. The drama teacher brings Miss Roberts into the hallway where stands this 32-year-old man she last saw at 18. "I'm Mark Medoff," I tell her. "You were my 12th-grade English teacher in 1958." She cocks her head at me, as if this angle might conjure me in her memory. And then, though armed with a message I want to deliver in some perfect torrent of words, I can't think up anything more memorable than this: "I want you to know," I say, "you were important to me." And there in the hallway, this slight and lovely woman, now nearing retirement age, this teacher who doesn't remember me, begins to weep; and she encircles me in her arms. Remembering this moment, I begin to sense that everything I will ever know, everything I will ever pass to my students, to my children, is an inseparable part of an ongoing legacy of our shared wonder and eternal hope that we can, must, make ourselves better. Irene Roberts holds me briefly in her arms and through her tears whispers against my cheek, "Thank you." And then, with the briefest of looks into my forgotten face, she disappears back into her classroom, returns to what she has done thousands of days through all the years of my absence. On reflection, maybe those were, after all, just the right words to say to Irene Roberts. Maybe they are the very words I would like to speak to all those teachers I carry through my life as part of me, the very words I would like spoken to me one day by some returning student: "I want you to know you were important to me."

Lady, Are You Rich?

They huddled inside the storm door - two children in ragged outgrown coats. "Any old papers, lady?" I was busy. I wanted to say no - until I looked down at their feet. Thin little sandals, sopped with sleet. "Come in and I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa." There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone. I served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill outside. Then I went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget... The silence in the front room struck through to me. I looked in. The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked me in a flat voice, "Lady...are you rich?" "Am I rich? Mercy, no!" I looked at my shabby slip covers. The girl put her cup back in its saucer - carefully. "Your cups match your saucers." Her voice was old, with a hunger that was not of the stomach. They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They hadn't said thank you. They didn't need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers. But they matched. I tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good steady job - these things matched, too. I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet upon my hearth. I let them be. I want them there in case I ever forget again how very rich I am.

Great Expectations

Pete Rose, the famous baseball player, and I have never met, but he taught me something so valuable that it changed my life. Pete was being interviewed in spring training the year he was about to break Ty Cobb's all time hits record. One reporter blurted out, "Pete, you only need 78 hits to break the record. How many at-bats do you think you'll need to get the 78 hits?" Without hesitation, Pete just stared at the reporter and very matter-of-factly said, "78." The reporter yelled back, "Ah, come on Pete, you don't expect to get 78 hits in 78 at-bats do you?" Mr. Rose calmly shared his philosophy with the throngs of reporters who were anxiously awaiting his reply to this seemingly boastful claim. "Every time I step up to the plate, I expect to get a hit! If I don't expect to get a hit, I have no right to step in the batter's box in the first place!" "If I go up hoping to get a hit," he continued, "then I probably don't have a prayer to get a hit. It is a positive expectation that has gotten me all of the hits in the first place." When I thought about Pete Rose's philosophy and how it applied to everyday life, I felt a little embarrassed. As a business person, I was hoping to make my sales quotas. As a father, I was hoping to be a good dad. As a married man, I was hoping to be a good husband. The truth was that I was an adequate salesperson, I was a not so bad father, and I was an okay husband. I immediately decided that being okay was not enough! I wanted to be a great salesperson, a great father and a great husband. I changed my attitude to one of positive expectation, and the results were amazing. I was fortunate enough to win a few sales trips, I won Coach of the Year in my son's baseball league and I share a loving relationship with my wife, Karen, with whom I expect to be married to for the rest of my life! Thanks, Mr. Rose!

Take a Stand

Jackie Robinson made history when he became the first black baseball player to break into the major leagues by joining the Brooklyn Dodgers. Branch Rickey, owner of the Dodgers at that time, told Robinson, "It'll be tough. You're going to take abuse you never dreamed of. But if you're willing to try, I'll back you all the way." And Rickey was right. Jackie was abused verbally (not to mention physically by runners coming into second base). Racial slurs from the crowd and members of his own team, as well as from opponents, were standard fare. One day, Robinson was having it particularly tough. He had booted two ground balls, and the boos were cascading over the diamond. In full view of thousands of spectators, Pee Wee Reese, the team captain and Dodger shortstop, walked over and put his arm around Jackie right in the middle of the game. "That may have saved my career," Robinson reflected later. "Pee Wee made me feel that I belonged." Be sure that the employees on your team feel that they belong.

The Station

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We are traveling by train - out the windows, we drink in the passing scenes of children waving at a crossing, cattle grazing on a distant hillside, row upon row of corn and wheat, flatlands and valleys, mountains and rolling hillsides and city skylines. But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there, our dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes - waiting, waiting, waiting for the station. "When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry. "When I'm 18." "When I buy a new 450sl Mercedes Benz!" "When I put the last kid through college." "When I have paid off the mortgage!" "When I get a promotion." "When I reach retirement, I shall live happily ever after!" Sooner or later, we realize there is no station, no one place to arrive. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us. "Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118.34: "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow.

Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today. So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers,

watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

My Own Personal Hero

Uncle Gordyn had always been my own personal hero. When I was six years old, he scraped the mud off my dress shoes so I wouldn't get in trouble. During my freshman year, Mom and I constantly battled over whether I had to wear to school her old, outgrown nylons with ugly seams. The subject was never mentioned again after my uncle sided with me. When my parents bought my younger brother, but not me, a car, he righted that injustice, too. But what I loved most about him was how he always had the ability to make me feel like I was the most precious being in the entire world. When my parents were planning their 50th wedding anniversary, he told them that he wouldn't attend. Although it had been 20 years since he and my aunt divorced, the thought of facing the entire family and their disapproval was too much for him. Even though he always said no, Mom kept asking if he would come. Finally, he told her not to ask again. When he did show up at the party, I told him that every time I called Mom, I asked if he was coming. "I know, honey," he said, "that's why I came." I would forever be his little princess. When he passed away, I thought, "I'm sad because I'll never have another Christmas with him." But somehow my grief went deeper than that. In one swift and profound insight, it came to me that although the grown-up me had many loving, accepting friends, the six-year-old inside me, who had felt rejected and unloved as a child, no longer had anyone who saw her a princess, and I desperately needed that. One night in a dream, I saw Uncle Gordyn swinging the six-year-old in his arms. "I did both," he said to the grown-up me. "Now it's your turn." I told him I didn't understand. "All these years you didn't love yourself," he said, "so I had to love you enough for me and for you. I did both. Now it's your turn.." And in my heart, I gathered little Nancy in my arms and whispered, "You're my little princess." The look in her eyes was one I had seen before - it's the look a little girl gives to her own personal hero.

A Father's Love

Fathers seldom say "I love you" Though the feeling's always there, But somehow those three little words Are the hardest ones to share.

And fathers say "I love you" In ways that words can't match - With tender bedtime stories - Or a friendly game of catch!

You can see the words "I love you" In a father's boyish eyes When he runs home, all excited, With a poorly wrapped surprise.

A father says "I love you" With his strong helping hands - With a smile when you're in trouble With the way he understands. He says "I love you" haltingly, With awkward tenderness - (It's hard to help a four-year-old into a party dress!)

He speaks his love unselfishly By giving all he can To make some secret dream come true, Or follow through a plan.

A father's seldom-spoken love Sounds clearly through the years - Sometimes in peals of laughter, Sometimes through happy tears.

Perhaps they have to speak their love In a fashion all their own. Because the love that fathers feel Is too big for words alone!

Do It Now!

In a class I teach for adults, I gave the assignment to "go to someone you love, and tell them that you love them." At the beginning of the next class, one of the students began by saying, "I was angry with you last week when you gave us this assignment. I didn't feel I had anyone to say those words to. But as I began driving home my conscience started talking. Then I knew exactly who I needed to say `I love you' to. Five years ago, my father and I had a vicious disagreement and never really resolved it. We avoided seeing each other unless we absolutely had to at family gatherings. We hardly spoke. So by the time I got home, I had convinced myself I was going to tell my father I loved him. "Just making that decision seemed to lift a heavy load off my chest. "At 5:30, I was at my parents' house ringing the doorbell, praying that Dad would answer the door. I was afraid if Mom answered, I would chicken out and tell her instead. But as luck would have it, Dad did answer the door. "I didn't waste any time - I took one step in the door and said, `Dad, I just came over to tell you that I love you.' "It was as if a transformation came over my dad. Before my eyes his face softened, the wrinkles seemed to disappear and he began to cry. He reached out and hugged me and said, `I love you too, son, but I've never been able to say it.' "But that's not even my point. Two days after that visit, my dad had a heart attack and is in the hospital. I don't even know if he'll make it. "So my message to all of you is this: Don't wait to do the things you know need to be done. What if I had waited to tell my dad? Take the time to do what you need to do and do it now!"

What You Are Is As Important As What You Do

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in Oklahoma City. My friend and proud father Bobby Lewis was taking his two little boys to play miniature golf. He walked up to the fellow at the ticket counter and said, "How much is it to get in?" The young man replied, "$3.00 for you and $3.00 for any kid who is older than six. We let them in free if they are six or younger. How old are they?" Bobby replied, "The lawyer's three and the doctor is seven, so I guess I owe you $6.00." The man at the ticket counter said, "Hey, Mister, did you just win the lottery or something? You could have saved yourself three bucks. You could have told me that the older one was six; I wouldn't have known the difference." Bobby replied, "Yes, that may be true, but the kids would have known the difference." As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what you're saying." In challenging times when ethics are more important than ever before, make sure you set a good example for everyone you work and live with.

Customer Service is Not a Mickey Mouse Affair

Not too long ago, a guest checking out of our Polynesian Village resort at Walt Disney World was asked how she enjoyed her visit. She told the front-desk clerk she had had a wonderful vacation, but was heartbroken about losing several rolls of Kodacolor film she had not yet developed. She was particularly upset over the loss of the pictures she had shot at our Polynesian Luau, as this was a memory she especially treasured. Now, please understand that we have no written service standards covering lost luau snapshots. Fortunately, the hostess at the front desk understood Disney's philosophy of caring for our guests. She asked the woman to leave her a couple of rolls of fresh film, promising she would take care of the rest. Two weeks later, this guest received a package at her home. In it were photos of the entire cast of our luau show, personally autographed by each performer. There were also photos of the parade and fireworks in the theme park, taken by the front-desk hostess on her own time, after work. I happen to know this story because this guest wrote us a letter. She said that never in her life had she received such compassionate service from any business establishment. Heroic service does not come from policy manuals. It comes from people who care - and from a culture that encourages and models that attitude.

Everybody Can Do Something

Roger Crawford had everything he needed to play tennis - except two hands and a leg. When Roger's parents saw their son for the first time, they saw a baby with a thumb-like projection extended directly out of his right forearm and a thumb and one finger stuck out of his left forearm. He had no palms. The baby's arms and legs were shortened, and he had only three toes on his shrunken right foot and a withered left leg, which would later be amputated. The doctor said Roger suffered from ectrodactylism, a rare birth defect affecting only one out of 90,000 children born in the United States. The doctor said Roger would probably never walk or care for himself. Fortunately Roger's parents didn't believe the doctor. "My parents always taught me that I was only as handicapped as I wanted to be," said Roger. "They never allowed me to feel sorry for myself or take advantage of people because of my handicap. Once I got into trouble because my school papers were continually late," explained Roger who had to hold his pencil with both "hands" to write slowly. "I asked Dad to write a note to my teachers, asking for a two-day extension on my assignments. Instead Dad made me start writing my paper two days early!" Roger's father always encouraged him to get involved in sports, teaching Roger to catch and throw a volleyball, and play backyard football after school. At age 12, Roger managed to win a spot on the school football team. Before every game, Roger would visualize his dream of scoring a touchdown. Then one day he got his chance. The ball landed in his arms and off he ran as fast as he could on his artificial leg toward the goal line, his coach and teammates cheering wildly. But at the ten-yard line, a guy from the other team caught up with Roger, grabbing his left ankle. Roger tried to pull his artificial leg free, but instead it ended up being pulled off. "I was still standing up," recalls Roger. "I didn't know what else to do so I started hopping towards the goal line. The referee ran over and threw his hands into the air. Touchdown! You know, even better than the six points was the look on the face of the other kid who was holding my artificial leg." Roger's love of sports grew and so did his self-confidence. But not every obstacle gave way to Roger's determination. Eating in the lunchroom with the other kids watching him fumble with his food proved very painful to Roger, as did his repeated failure in typing class. "I learned a very good lesson from typing class," said Roger. "You can't do everything - it's better to concentrate on what you can do." One thing Roger could do was swing a tennis racket. Unfortunately, when he swung it hard, his weak grip usually launched it into space. By luck, Roger stumbled upon an odd- looking tennis racket in a sports shop and accidentally wedged his finger between its double-barred handle when he picked it up. The snug fit made it possible for Roger to swing, serve and volley like an able-bodied player. He practiced every day and was soon playing - and losing - matches. But Roger persisted. He practiced and practiced and played and played. Surgery on the two fingers of his left hand enabled Roger to grip his special racket better, greatly improving his game. Although he had no role models to guide him, Roger became obsessed with tennis and in time he started to win. Roger went on to play college tennis, finishing his tennis career with 22 wins and 11 losses. He later became the first physically handicapped tennis player to be certified as a teaching professional by the United States Professional Tennis Association. Roger now tours the country, speaking to groups about what it takes to be a winner, no matter who you are. "The only difference between you and me is that you can see my handicap, but I can't see yours. We all have them. When people ask me how I've been able to overcome my physical handicaps, I tell them that I haven't overcome anything. I've simply learned what I can't do - such as play the piano or eat with chopsticks - but more importantly, I've learned what I can do. Then I do what I can with all my heart and soul."