Making Your First Million.pdf - Association of Net Entrepreneurs and ...

Making Your First Million
thanks for the lift again, do you want to see a photo of my wife and kids?, six of em,
aren't they beautiful. I made small talk while Darren passed the photos around, carrying
the bulk of the conversation while Lyndon, my business partner murmured assent at
polite intervals. "We'll drop you at Palmer's Road." I yelled above the roar of the rain.
The hail started a couple of miles before Palmers Road and I looked at Lyndon. We
understand each other quite well. "We'll drop you at the station." Lyndon shouted. At
Morisset the 6.08 from the city was disgorging its commuters. Darren and I stood
awkwardly, an oddly matched pair, as streams of people, some of whom I knew, swirled
past us. Lyndon returned with a train ticket in his hand. "There you go Darren. That'll get
you home." Darren fingered the ticket, silent. Absent-mindedly he flicked it open and
inside was the unmistakable orange flare of a $20 note. His voice started to tremble. "You
blokes . . ." A tear escaped down his cheek. "You blokes . . . I'm 25 years old. Been on
the streets since I was 11. Lived rough all me life. Nobody's ever . . .: His voice trailed
away. I seized the moment and shook his hand. "Good on you, Darren. God loves you
mate." And left.
All things are possible. I met W Mitchell at the Sydney Convention Centre. He told his
story to an audience of 3000. W was for Wonderful. In his early twenties he was rushing
to meet his girlfriend riding his motorbike. At an intersection he collided with a milktruck
and the truck toppled onto the bike. He was trapped under the truck and as the fuel
gushed from the tank he tried to remember from science class the flash point for gasoline,
hoping it hadn't been exceeded. His thoughts were interrupted by a whoomph as the fuel
ignited and his body began to be incinerated.
When the paramedics arrived they hauled his body from under the truck, thinking him
dead. But a check revealed there was still a pulse and they rushed him to the burns unit at
the hospital in Crested Butte, expecting him to die in the morning. But he clung to life.
For the next three months he lay comatose, his dreadful burns attended to with love and
care by hospital staff who daily expected him to die. But Mitchell survived. After many
months he recovered and on the day his bandages were removed Mitchell stood before
the mirror and surveyed the damage. And he wished he had died. His face was burnt off
and unrecognizable either as him or as a face. He had no fingers or thumbs. He wanted to
die and went into a deep depression. Many months of reconstructive surgery, the love and
attention of the staff and his own natural optimism turned him around and within a year
he was back out there.
And Mitchell went into business in real estate. Ignoring and overcoming his handicaps
Mitchell became happy and successful and even stood once for the US Senate from his
position as mayor of Crested Butte, Montana. And then in the later part of his life he
bought a twin-engine Cessna which he used to ferry his customers to view real estate. It
was on one of these trips that he landed awkwardly on the airstrip as wind shear slammed
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