Mandino - The spellbinders gift

OTHER BOOKS BY OG MANDINO

The Greatest Salesman in the World
The Greatest Salesman in the World, Part II:
The End of the Story
The Greatest Miracle in the World
The Greatest Success in the World
The Greatest Secret in the World
The Gift of Acabar (with Buddy Kaye)
The Christ Commission
The Choice
Og Mandinos University of Success
Mission: Success!
A Better Way to Live
The Return of the Ragpicker
A Treasury of Success Unlimited
U.S. in a Nutshell
Cycles
Secrets for Success and Happiness

A Fawcett Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

Copyright 1995 by Og Mandino

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Fawcett is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-96694

eISBN: 978-0-307-78833-7

v3.1

For my grandson

WILLIAM AUGUSTINE MANDINO

another spellbinder

He ended, and a kind of spell
Upon the silent listeners fell,
His solemn manner and his words
Had touched the deep, mysterious chords,
That vibrate in each human breast alike.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Tales of a Wayside Inn

It was truly a relaxed and wonderful evening and well past midnight when Mary and I finally arrived home. As we were both undressing, I asked, Well, hon, what do you think of the man?

Bart, he is as impressive and charming up close as he was onstage. There is a special magnetism, an aura of some sort surrounding him thats hard to explain. Hes appealing and attractive and yet I caught myself lowering my voice a couple of times when I was answering his questions as a child might do when speaking to an adult who represented authority. And with that handsome face and beard he reminds me of some of the figures in religious paintings in our church when I was little. He almost looks as if he should be wearing a halo.

Mary, what are you saying?

Bart, Im sorry. Im not really sure what Im saying.

I

F or more than forty years, going back to the days when our young American boys were dying in a mysterious far-off place called Korea, Guys and Dolls was lighting up Broadway, cold sufferers were learning to love antihistamines, Dr. Kinsey had most of us talking openly about sex, Brando was flexing his muscles in A Streetcar Named Desire and we finally ended our Berlin airlift after almost 300,000 flights of mercy for four memorable decades from a small second-story walk-up office not far from Times Square I had served as exclusive booking agent to many of the most famous and dynamic motivational speakers in the entire world.

And then, with little advance warning, the entire roster of uniquely talented individuals that I had developed and represented loyally for so long vanished in less than twelve months! My three oldest professional speakers decided that they had endured enough plane flights and hotel meals and would stay home, live off their fat mutual-fund portfolios and write their memoirs, another developed cancer of the throat, one had a stroke that paralyzed most of his left side and my four most in-demand and highest-priced speakers, all close friends of mine, passed away.

On that very sad and bleak February morning, after I had served as a pallbearer for the fourth time in seven months, I returned to my office both physically and emotionally drained, gathered up my most important papers and files and locked the door behind me, quite certain that my business and professional future had been buried along with the bodies of my friends. I was sixty-eight.

A year or so later I was still trying very hard to enjoy many of the activities that retirees who can afford it are usually doing to fill their hours and enrich their so-called golden years. Mary and I joined a Manhattan bridge club, played golf often during the week and even began attending movie matinees. My helpmate, bless her heart, did more than her share to make retirement for us the heaven on earth that so many dream about. We traveled, we competed in slot-machine tournaments in Reno and Atlantic City, fished in the blue waters off Bermuda, ate peanuts and drank beer at Yankee Stadium, visited scores of museums and cheered the horses and greyhounds in Florida. Still, every now and then, in the midst of some activity, the lady I had been married to for almost forty-five years would cup my face in the palms of her two tiny hands, cock her pretty head and say, Youre bored, arent you?

I would always shake my head, kiss her on the forehead and reply, Of course not, but after two people have loved each other as long as we have, theres not much sense in trying to lie.

There was one activity from my pre-retirement days that I still continued to enjoy and probably needed a lot more since becoming an unemployed couch potato, and that was jogging. Every morning at dawn, for more than thirty years, if I was in town and the weather allowed, I had always followed the same routine. Id ease myself out of bed slowly so that I wouldnt wake Mary, climb into one of my many warm-up suits, consume a large glass of orange juice, cereal and a single cup of black coffee, make certain I had my keys, and close the door quietly as I departed.

Central Park was only two blocks west of our Park Avenue apartment, and through the years I had probably jogged over every foot of its roads, trails and pathways, alternating my course from time to time so that I could enjoy all the parks wonders from Cleopatras Needle to Strawberry Fields, from the Belvedere Castle to Shakespeare Garden, from the Pond to the Great Lawn.

The parks eight-hundred-plus acres, set in the heart of the busiest and noisiest metropolis in the western world, was my heaven on earth, my constant refuge from all the pressures and cares of life and business. Through the years I habitually timed my run to last just about an hour, usually emerging through the Artists Gate on Central Park South. I would then turn left, pass through the cool green area known as Grand Army Plaza, cross Fifth Avenue when the traffic lights allowed and continue jogging east for two more blocks before turning north on Park Avenue, gradually slowing my pace until I finally arrived at our apartment building.

Mary was always up by the time I returned each morning, and after I had showered, shaved and dressed, I would spend some time with her and another cup of coffee before either walking or taking a cab to my office on West 44th Street, depending on what was on tap for the day. Since my retirement, however, I would usually just crawl into my blue jeans and a sports shirt, after showering and shaving, and together we would watch the morning news and The Today Show. However, being a witness to the world in action on television while I sat passively on my duff and struggled with the mornings crossword puzzle in