For Sparky, school was all but impossible. He failed every subject in the eighth grade.
    He flunked physics in high school, getting a grade of zero. Sparky also flunked Latin,
    algebra and English. He didn’t do much better in sports. Although he did manage to
    make the school’s golf team, he promptly lost the only important match of the season.
    There was a consolation match; he lost that, too. 

    Throughout his youth Sparky was awkward socially. He was not actually disliked by
    the other students; no one cared that much. He was astonished if a classmate ever said
    hello to him outside of school hours. There’s no way to tell how he might have done at
    dating. Sparky never once asked a girl to go out in high school. He was too afraid of
    being turned down. 

    Sparky was a loser. He, his classmates...everyone knew it. So he rolled with it.
    Sparky had made up his mind early in life that if things were meant to work out, they
    would. Otherwise he would content himself with what appeared to be his inevitable
    mediocrity. 

    However, one thing was important to Sparky - drawing. He was proud of his artwork.
    Of course, no one else appreciated it. In his senior year of high school, he submitted
    some cartoons to the editors of the yearbook. The cartoons were turned down. Despite
    this particular rejection, Sparky was so convinced of his ability that he decided to
    become a professional artist. 

    After completing high school, he wrote a letter to Walt Disney Studios. He was told to
    send some samples of his artwork, and the subject for a cartoon was suggested.
    Sparky drew the proposed cartoon. He spent a great deal of time on it and on all the
    other drawings he submitted. Finally, the reply came from Disney Studios. He had
    been rejected once again. Another loss for the loser. 

    So Sparky decided to write his own autobiography in cartoons. He described his
    childhood self - a little boy loser and chronic underachiever. The cartoon character
    would soon become famous worldwide. For Sparky, the boy who had such a lack of
    success in school and whose work was rejected again and again, was Charles Schultz.
    He created the "Peanuts" comic strip and the little cartoon character whose kite would
    never fly and who never succeeded in kicking a football, Charlie Brown.

    Thoughts while driving my son to school: Morning, Kid. You look pretty sharp in your
    Cub Scout gear, not as fat as your old man when he was a Cub. I don't think my hair
    was ever as long until I went away to college, but I think I'd recognize you any way by
    what you are: a little shaggy around the ears, scuffed around the toes, wrinkles in the
    knees...We get used to one another... 

    Now that you're eight I notice I don't see a whole lot of you anymore. On Columbus
    Day you left a nine in the morning. I saw you for 42 seconds at lunch and you
    reappeared for supper at five. I miss you, but I know you've got serious business to
    take care of. Certainly as serious as, if not more important than, the things the other
    commuters on the road are doing. 

    You've got to grow up and out and that's more important than clipping coupons,
    arranging stock options or selling people short. You've got to learn what you are able
    to do and what you aren't - and you've got to learn how to deal with that. You've got to
    learn about people and how they behave when they don't feel good about themselves -
    like the bullies who hang out at the bike rack and hassle the smaller kids. Yeah, you'll
    even have to learn how to pretend that name-calling doesn't hurt. It'll always hurt, but
    you'll have to put up a front or they'll call you worse names next time. I only hope you
    remember how it feels - in case you ever decide to rank a kid who's smaller than you. 

    When was the last time I told you I was proud of you? I guess if I can't remember, I've
    got work to do. I remember the last time I yelled at you - told you we'd be late if you
    didn't hurry - but, on balance, as Nixon used to say, I haven't given you as many pats as
    yells. For the record, in case you read this, I am proud of you. I especially like your
    independence, the way you take care of yourself even when it frightens me just a little
    bit. You've never been much of a whiner and that makes you a superior kid in my
    book. 

    Why is it that fathers are so slow to realize that eight-year-olds need as many hugs as
    four-year-olds? If I don't watch out, pretty soon I'll be punching you on the arm and
    saying, "Whaddaya say, kid?" instead of hugging you and telling you I love you. Life is
    too short to hide affection. Why is it that eight-year-olds are so slow to realize that
    36-year-olds need as many hugs as four-year-olds? 

    Did I forget to tell you that I'm proud you went back to a box lunch after one week's
    worth of that indigestible hot lunch? I'm glad you value your body. 

    I wish the drive weren't so short...I want to talk about last night...when your younger
    brother was asleep and we let you stay up and watch the Yankees game. Those times
    are so special. There's no way you can plan them. Every time we try to plan something
    together, it's not as good or rich or warm. For a few all-too short minutes it was as if
    you'd already grown up and we sat and talked without any words about "How are you
    doing in school, son?" I'd already checked your math homework the only way I could -
    with a calculator. You're better with numbers than I'll ever be. So, we talked about the
    game and you knew more about the players than I did and I learned from you. And we
    were both happy when the Yankees won. 

    Well, there's the crossing guard. He'll probably outlive all of us. I wish you didn't
    have to go to school today. There are so many things I want to say. 

    Your exit from my car is so quick. I want to savor the moment and you've already
    spotted a couple of your friends. 

    I just wanted to say "I love you, son..." 

    Robert De Vincenzo, the great Argentine golfer, once won a tournament and, after
    receiving the check and smiling for the cameras, he went to the clubhouse and
    prepared to leave. Some time later, he walked alone to his car in the parking lot and
    was approached by a young woman. She congratulated him on his victory and then
    told him that her child was seriously ill and near death. She did not know how she
    could pay the doctor’s bills and hospital expenses. 

    De Vincenzo was touched by her story, and he took out a pen and endorsed his
    winning check for payment to the woman. "Make some good days for the baby," he
    said as he pressed the check into her hand. 

    The next week he was having lunch in a country club when a Professional Golf
    Association official came to his table. "Some of the boys in the parking lot last week
    told me you met a young woman there after you won that tournament." De Vincenzo
    nodded. "Well," said the official, "I have news for you. She’s a phony. She has no sick
    baby. She’s not even married. She fleeced you, my friend." 

    "You mean there is no baby who is dying?" said De Vincenzo. 

    "That’s right," said the official. 

    "That’s the best news I’ve heard all week." De Vincenzo said.