"A very special story about life and love and courage." MERLIN OLSEN, SPORTSCASTER John Harding had a high-powered career, a loving wife, and a beautiful son. He's lost it all and has returned to his home town of Boland, New Hampshire, teetering on the brink of suicide. But an old friend asks John to manage his old Little League team, the Angels. Reluctantly, he agrees, and meets a hopeless player who bears a striking resemblance to his dead son--and through their extroardinary relationship, John finds the wisdom in living that he thought had slipped beyond his grasp forever.... AN ALTERNATE SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD special story about life and love and courage." MERLIN OLSEN, SPORTSCASTER John Harding had a high-powered career, a loving wife, and a beautiful son. He's lost it all and has returned to his home town of Boland, New Hampshire, teetering on the brink of suicide. But an old friend asks John to manage his old Little League team, the Angels. Reluctantly, he agrees, and meets a hopeless player who bears a striking resemblance to his dead son--and through their extroardinary relationship, John finds the wisdom in living that he thought had slipped beyond his grasp forever.... AN ALTERNATE SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD From the Paperback edition. "A very special story about life and love and courage." MERLIN OLSEN, SPORTSCASTER John Harding had a high-powered career, a loving wife, and a beautiful son. He's lost it all and has returned to his home town of Boland, New Hampshire, teetering on the brink of suicide. But an old friend asks John to manage his old Little League team, the Angels. Reluctantly, he agrees, and meets a hopeless player who bears a striking resemblance to his dead son--and through their extroardinary relationship, John finds the wisdom in living that he thought had slipped beyond his grasp forever.... AN ALTERNATE SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD "From the Paperback edition. Og Mandino  is one of the most widely read inspirational and self-help authors in the world. Former president of Success Unlimited magazine, Mandino was the first recipient of the Napoleon Hill Gold Medal Award for literary achievement. Og Mandino was a member of the Council of Peers Award for Excellence Speaker Hall of Fame and was honored with a Master of Influence Award by the National Speakers Association. Og Mandino died in 1996, but his books continue to inspire countless thousands all over the world. I     Solitary 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 confusion—Ernest Hemingway. De