The New York Times bestselling author of Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire shares his proven methods for creating compassionate children During twenty-five years of teaching at Hobart Elementary School in inner city Los Angeles, Rafe Esquith has helped thousands of children maxi­mize their potential—and became the only teacher in history to receive the president's National Medal of Arts. In Lighting Their Fires , Esquith translates the inspiring methods from Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire for parents. Using lessons framed by a class trip to a Dodgers game, he moves inning by inning through concepts that explain how to teach children to be thoughtful and honorable people—as well as successful students—and to have fun in the process. Rafe Esquith has taught at Hobart Elementary School for twenty-two years. He is the only teacher in history to receive the National Medal of Arts. He has also been made a Member of the British Empire by Queen Elizabeth. His many other honors include the American Teacher Award, Parents magazine’s As You Grow Award, Oprah Winfrey’s Use Your Life Award, and the Compassion in Action Award from the Dalai Lama. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Barbara Tong. Read CBS's news story on Rafe Esquith. pregame show Out of the Ordinary It was five p.m. on a Friday afternoon in May at Hobart Elementary School in Los Angeles, and most of the dedicated teachers and administrators had long since left the campus. I wished I could have escaped with them. I was exceedingly tired. It had been a particularly long week. In fact, it had been a long year. Yet, this Friday I was able to push myself even though a long night lay ahead of me. A few months before, I had spoken to some outstanding teachers at a school in Los Angeles. One of them was friends with the general manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. When she learned of my love of baseball, she called him to arrange tickets. He graciously offered my class six tickets for several games during the year. I would be able to take five kids per game, and after picking names out of a hat, a schedule was made to ensure that eventually all the kids in the class would get to attend a contest. So on this Friday night, five students were coming with me to attend their first baseball game. It would be a fun night, but also a late one. On Saturday mornings I normally work with my former students, a group of enthusiastic teenagers who return to prepare for college admissions tests and read the plays of William Shakespeare. Probably more tired than I, these hard-working scholars sacrifice most of their Saturday mornings to come back to Room 56 once more. Many of them yearn for a more relevant education than they are receiving at the schools they currently attend. But this was the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, so I had given them (and myself) a Saturday off . I was truly exhausted, but I consoled myself knowing that after the ball game ended I could go home and get a good night's sleep. Outside my classroom, I could see the crooked parking lot gates struggling to remain open. This sixteen-foot-high fence has two pieces that swing shut and can be bolted with a large padlock and chain. It's unfortunate that we even need this contraption, but the school is in a rough neighborhood, and keeping the kids and their resources safe is a big priority. Unfortunately, it is plain to see that the barricade is in real need of repair. Over the years it has been damaged by cars, climbers, and rain, so that the two swinging sections do not remain apart when they are supposed to and are difficult to close when it's time to lock up the school. Like the facilities they guard, the gates do the best they can under difficult circumstances. Inside, though, the environment can seem like a diff erent world. On this Friday, as on all Friday afternoons, a group of amazing fourth and fifth graders had stayed late with me in Room 56. They were part of the Hobart Shakespeareans group, and had been working on an unabridged production of William Shakespeare's As You Like It. The previous summer, these kids had volunteered to come to school through July and August to dissect the play's intricate language, learn accompanying parts on musical instruments, and unite for a cause that would bring hope to themselves and those around them. After eleven months of rehearsals, the kids were ready to perform the production for the public. They knew their show was brilliant. Just a few months earlier the Royal Shakespeare Company had spent the day with them and wept and cheered through an unforgettable per for mance. School officially ended that Friday at 2:19 p.m., but these children had volunteered to stay daily until 5:00. As they said their good-byes, threw on their backpacks, and headed out the door, six of them stayed behind. Five were going with me to the Dodgers game, and they were understandably excited. But the sixth, Sammy, was not, and I quickly grew concerned