Mandino - The twelfth angel

More praise forThe Twelfth Angel

Love of the game, apprehension, camaraderie, good sportsmanship, the exhilaration of winning and the anguish of losingThe Twelfth Angel transported me back to my own Little League days in California.

Jim Palmer
Baseball Hall of Fame

Mandino skillfully tells this story and fills it with familiar characters we want to care about. Through this emotional story, he makes the point that life needs to be lived to the fullest using whatever gifts we have. He also suggests we could do ourselves a favor by recognizing the angels that live around us.

The Wilmington News Journal

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
The Spellbinders Gift
Secrets for Success and Happiness

A Fawcett Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright 1993 by Og Mandino

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

This book is not authorized, approved, or sponsored by Little League Baseball, Incorporated. Little League is a registered trademark of Little League Baseball, Incorporated.

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: 96-96750

eISBN: 978-0-307-78478-0

v3.1

In loving memory

Doug Turno

the bravest little
guy Ive ever known
&
Rev. Jack Boland

the bravest big
guy Ive ever known

A HUMBLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT

This book could have never been written without the help and guidance of my son, Matthew. The story line for The Twelfth Angel came from Matt as well as the good counsel and advice that I needed in order to do justice to this very special tale.

Og Mandino

Everyones life is a fairy tale, written by Gods fingers.

Hans Christian Andersen

I

S olitary confinement.

Self-imposed.

For many days after the funeral I did little when I was out of bed except slump at my desk in the den for countless hours and think about ending my life. The phone was off the hook, fax machine disconnected, and all doors leading to the outside world were locked and bolted. Still, each day, what seemed like an endless stream of traffic had moved slowly up my long circular driveway, always followed by a mournful tolling of the door chimes until I finally ripped out some wires. Sympathy from my friends and neighbors was the last thing I wanted.

The past seventeen years. How special they had been. Filled with hard work, rewards, love, joy, success, achievement, laughter and even some tears. There had been so many precious moments, such a long run of proud and unforgettable experiences, and now, even before my fortieth birthday, life was suddenly no longer worth living.

Occasionally I would push myself away from the desk, rise, and move slowly around the room, pausing to stare at each of the framed family photographs on my walls. Memories. The good times and special occasions depicted in each picture were still so vivid to me that I could almost hear voices and laughter. Was it Lord Byron who wrote that we can see farther through tears than with a telescope?

I turned my high-back wooden swivel chair slightly to my right, reached down to the bottom drawer of my large oak desk, tugged at the handle and it slid open silently. Inside, resting atop a telephone directory and several seed catalogs, where I had placed it yesterday after a long search through still unopened packing cartons in the garage, was the dull-finished 45-caliber Colt automatic pistol that I had bought, secondhand, during a rash of house burglaries back in Santa Clara, ten or so years ago. Next to the old weapon was a box of cartridges, a full box. I hated guns, always have, and after three test shots in the basement of a San Jose gunshop, I had never fired the damn thing again. Now I placed the lethal instrument on my desk blotter and stared at it, running my fingers slowly along its scratchy surface. On the flat side of the barrel, just above the trigger, was the small outline of a rearing horse and the words Government Model, COLT, Automatic Caliber .45.

I raised the muzzle end of the gun with thumb and forefinger, stared down the barrel and despite my shattered state of mind a name suddenly flashed through my self-pity to add to my confusionErnest Hemingway. Dear God! A ghost from my childhood! I had discovered Hemingways books in the local library when I was ten, and that summer I devoured everything of his I could find. It was after reading For Whom the Bell Tolls for the second time that I made my decision. When I grew up, I would be a writer, a famous writer, and I would find adventure in all parts of the world like Hemingway. What a wonderful life that would be! And then and then my hero let me down. One day in 1961 he placed the business end of a loaded shotgun to his head and pulled the trigger. I had a terrible time dealing with that. Why would anyone be foolish enough to do such a thing? Why? No rational answer came from the grown-ups I queried. Why? Why? What could possibly cause a man to take his own life, especially a big, tough, smart guy like hima man who had so much to live for? I leaned forward and peered down the guns barrel again, shaking my head as my eyes filled with tears. Mr. Hemingway, please forgive me for judging you and thinking you were dumb to do what you did. Please.

I turned my back on the gun and gazed out the picture window directly behind my desk. Just below was a wide deck that extended across the entire rear of the new Cape Codstyle house. Rolling slightly uphill, away from the deck, were several acres of dark green lawn, studded with white Adirondack chairs, a horseshoe court, cedar picnic table and benches, and two six-foot-tall golf pins with red practice flags, set approximately a hundred and thirty yards apart so that I could practice with my short irons. At the far side of the lawn was a long single row of newly planted privet hedge, and beyond them was a meadow with several huge granite boulders, tall blueberry bushes and a small pond filled with noisy green frogs. Behind the meadow was a stone wall and a thinned-out woodland of pine, birch, maple, and a few ash, extending to both my left and my right as far as I could see. Raindrops suddenly began to fall, splashing against the window and diffusing my view until the outside world through the glass looked more like a painting by Monet. Forty-four acres of heaven on earth. Sally and I had fallen in love with the house and grounds at first sight. Bought it the very same day the realtor showed it to us.