A man is a hero, not because he is braver than anyone else, but because he is brave for ten minutes longer.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson -
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Ten Steps
A couple of days ago I mentioned Rick Pitino's book about the "Ten Steps To Overacheiving In Business And Life". Here are the ten steps.
1. Build self-esteem
2. Set demanding goals
3. Always be positive
4. Establish good habits
5. Master the art of communication
6. Learn from role models
7. Thrive on pressure
8. Be ferociously persistent
9. Learn from adversity
10. Survive success
1. Build self-esteem
2. Set demanding goals
3. Always be positive
4. Establish good habits
5. Master the art of communication
6. Learn from role models
7. Thrive on pressure
8. Be ferociously persistent
9. Learn from adversity
10. Survive success
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thoughts For The Day
There is no such thing as "fun for the whole family'.
- Jerry Seinfeld -
Baloney is a lie laid on so thick you hate it. Blarney is flattery laid on so thin you love it.
- Fulton J. Sheen -
- Jerry Seinfeld -
Baloney is a lie laid on so thick you hate it. Blarney is flattery laid on so thin you love it.
- Fulton J. Sheen -
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Thought For The Day
There is no age limit on transforming your life. No rule that says that after a certain age you are simply the way you are and that's it. Change not only is possible at any time but is essential.
- Rick Pitino -
- Rick Pitino -
Success Is A Choice
Lately I've been re-reading parts of Rick Pitino's book, "Success Is A Choice: Ten Steps To Overachieving In Business And Life". It's one of my favorites. I especially like the chapter about being on time. He says that unless you arrive at least fifteen minutes early, you're late. It doesn't take his teams long to realize that a three o'clock practice really means be there at 2:30 to warm up because full-speed drills start exactly at three o'clock, and they had better be prepared.
Here's part of the introduction to the book:
"What's true on the basketball court is true in business and in life.You want to succeed? Okay, then succeed. Deserve it. How? Outwork everybody in sight. Sweat the small stuff. Sweat the big stuff. Go the extra mile. But whatever it takes, put your heart and soul into everything you do. Leave it all out on the court.
But that won't happen unless you choose to make it happen. Success is not a lucky break. It is not a devine right. It is not an accident of birth. Success is a choice."
-Rick Pitino -
Here's part of the introduction to the book:
"What's true on the basketball court is true in business and in life.You want to succeed? Okay, then succeed. Deserve it. How? Outwork everybody in sight. Sweat the small stuff. Sweat the big stuff. Go the extra mile. But whatever it takes, put your heart and soul into everything you do. Leave it all out on the court.
But that won't happen unless you choose to make it happen. Success is not a lucky break. It is not a devine right. It is not an accident of birth. Success is a choice."
-Rick Pitino -
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Thought For The Day
Let your light shine, and if it does, you won't need to tell anybody it does. Lighthouses don't fire cannons to call attention to their shining - they just shine.
- Dwight Moody -
- Dwight Moody -
Only In Boston
Ok, we made it through two early morning baseball games, a first for Red Sox Nation. Only in Boston would that many people get up at 6 AM to watch baseball. Only in Boston does every game have the intensity of the seventh game of the World Series. Some players can handle it and some can't (Shea Hillenbrand). Now the Sox go back to playing exhibition games for a few days, including one in the Los Angeles Coliseum before 115,000 fans. The left field stands are only 190 feet from home plate, but the screen in front of the stands is about 60 feet high.
I think I'll sleep in tomorrow - until 6:30.
I think I'll sleep in tomorrow - until 6:30.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Thought For The Day
Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginitive vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.
- Cecil Beaton -
- Cecil Beaton -
Monday, March 24, 2008
Thought For The Day
Maturity is an uneven, discouraging process. Becoming who you are is not done on schedule. There are years when nothing seems to happen,
- George Sheehan -
- George Sheehan -
The Greatest Baseball Poem
Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast:
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that,
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter was a fake,
So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little hope of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much-despised, tore the cover off the ball,
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a mighty yell,
It rumbled in the valley and it rattled on the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled on the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped up to his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt.
And when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye; a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere comes hurtling through the air,
And Casey stands a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there arose a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on some stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stand,
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone:
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on,
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud,
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out!
- Ernest L. Thayer -
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast:
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that,
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter was a fake,
So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little hope of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much-despised, tore the cover off the ball,
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a mighty yell,
It rumbled in the valley and it rattled on the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled on the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped up to his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt.
And when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye; a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere comes hurtling through the air,
And Casey stands a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there arose a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on some stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stand,
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone:
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on,
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud,
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out!
- Ernest L. Thayer -
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Thought For The Day
Good manners will open doors that the best education can not.
- Clarence Thomas -
- Clarence Thomas -
An Essay By Dr. George Sheehan
A Legend in Your Own Mind
It was a sweltering summer's day. Hot, humid and not even a hint of a breeze. As I ran past the marina, I saw that all the flags were hanging straight down, draped against the poles. No one was stirring; the early-afternoon heat had sent people indoors. Alone with my thoughts, I ran the deserted back streets of this little harbor town. I was sweating profusely and enjoying it. "I sweat to think," a running friend once told me. Sweating, or what brings on the sweat, helps me think, too. It also makes me feel good about myself. This day, I was a king running through my kingdom. Then up ahead I saw another human being. He was on a scaffold, shingling a house. I am fundamentally a loner who passes others without a word. But because this workman and I appeared to be the only living people in town, I felt the urge to speak to him. I called up, "Do good!" He turned my way, appearing to measure me and what I was doing. "Intend to," he replied. Ordinarily, that exchange would be a long conversation for me. I have been on coast-to-coast flights during which I said fewer words to the strangers sitting next to me. But something compelled me to say more to this man. "God is watching," I called to him. I had been brought up certain in the knowledge that God has his eye on me, recording every deed and misdeed. The man looked at me again and said, "Hope so." In that one short response, he had made himself the equal of anyone on this earth and made what he was doing of equal importance to any other human activity. He did that for me, too. We were both doing what we do well and doing it the best we could. His shingling was work. It was also what my running is to me: play. He had reached the level Robert Frost had defined: when "work is play for mortal stakes." The shingler had gone beyond that stage and transformed his work into an art. He was defining himself by what he did. And I suddenly realized I was doing the same. "The artist is not a special kind of man," writes Eric Gill. "But every man is a special kind of artist." Our art is living. What we call "the arts" are secondary. We live our lives in a special way and find in that our meaning. We hope God is watching. I finished my run still thinking about my encounter with the shingler. Two ordinary people, doing something mundane (and in my case, something with no tangible product), had discovered that art and meaning, heroism and a glimpse of heaven, are available to anyone, anywhere, anytime. "George Sheehan," one critic has said, "is a legend in his own mind." Of course I am. So is the shingler. You should be, too. Each one of us must be his or her own hero. Our highest human need is to be a hero; we are here to lead a heroic life. When we cease to be heroic, we no longer truly exist. A.E. Housman describes that condition well: "Runners whom renown outran? And the name died before the man." What fame, you ask? The only true fame, I say-the inner celebration of self. Heroism is ever available to each of us. Through ordinary experiences, the ordinary person can become extraordinary. Life boils down to finding the best means of expressing heroism; each of us needs to find our own personal arena, our true talent, our gift, our vocation. We all must be heroic, but in our own way. That way can include shingling a roof or running an hour on a sultry summer's day.
It was a sweltering summer's day. Hot, humid and not even a hint of a breeze. As I ran past the marina, I saw that all the flags were hanging straight down, draped against the poles. No one was stirring; the early-afternoon heat had sent people indoors. Alone with my thoughts, I ran the deserted back streets of this little harbor town. I was sweating profusely and enjoying it. "I sweat to think," a running friend once told me. Sweating, or what brings on the sweat, helps me think, too. It also makes me feel good about myself. This day, I was a king running through my kingdom. Then up ahead I saw another human being. He was on a scaffold, shingling a house. I am fundamentally a loner who passes others without a word. But because this workman and I appeared to be the only living people in town, I felt the urge to speak to him. I called up, "Do good!" He turned my way, appearing to measure me and what I was doing. "Intend to," he replied. Ordinarily, that exchange would be a long conversation for me. I have been on coast-to-coast flights during which I said fewer words to the strangers sitting next to me. But something compelled me to say more to this man. "God is watching," I called to him. I had been brought up certain in the knowledge that God has his eye on me, recording every deed and misdeed. The man looked at me again and said, "Hope so." In that one short response, he had made himself the equal of anyone on this earth and made what he was doing of equal importance to any other human activity. He did that for me, too. We were both doing what we do well and doing it the best we could. His shingling was work. It was also what my running is to me: play. He had reached the level Robert Frost had defined: when "work is play for mortal stakes." The shingler had gone beyond that stage and transformed his work into an art. He was defining himself by what he did. And I suddenly realized I was doing the same. "The artist is not a special kind of man," writes Eric Gill. "But every man is a special kind of artist." Our art is living. What we call "the arts" are secondary. We live our lives in a special way and find in that our meaning. We hope God is watching. I finished my run still thinking about my encounter with the shingler. Two ordinary people, doing something mundane (and in my case, something with no tangible product), had discovered that art and meaning, heroism and a glimpse of heaven, are available to anyone, anywhere, anytime. "George Sheehan," one critic has said, "is a legend in his own mind." Of course I am. So is the shingler. You should be, too. Each one of us must be his or her own hero. Our highest human need is to be a hero; we are here to lead a heroic life. When we cease to be heroic, we no longer truly exist. A.E. Housman describes that condition well: "Runners whom renown outran? And the name died before the man." What fame, you ask? The only true fame, I say-the inner celebration of self. Heroism is ever available to each of us. Through ordinary experiences, the ordinary person can become extraordinary. Life boils down to finding the best means of expressing heroism; each of us needs to find our own personal arena, our true talent, our gift, our vocation. We all must be heroic, but in our own way. That way can include shingling a roof or running an hour on a sultry summer's day.