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

Making Your First Million
he became known as the Wolfman of Belmore Park. Eric's only human contact was with
Trevor who ran the mission bus, and the matron at the Salvation Army hostel. When Eric
was safely comatose Trevor would gather him up and take him to the Salvation Army
mission. Here he would be fed and his clothes washed and after a day he would be well
enough to get back onto the street. On each occasion, the matron would sit by his bed and
say: "I don't even know you're name. You've been coming here for 8 years and never
spoken a word. But I know you. I have been where you are. You think your only friend in
the world is alcohol. But there is one who loves you more. God loves you. If you ask him,
he will come into your heart and take away the pain."
And of course, all Eric wanted was to get back out on the street and get off his face. He
told me his story at the Pizza Hut one night, and said what happened for him was his only
friends deserted him. No matter how much alcohol or drugs he took in, they didn't work.
He couldn't get off his face. And in desperation, on his final detox, he opened his mouth
to speak for the first time in 8 years: "God, come into my heart and take away the pain." I
see Eric every week at AA. He is a different man, sober many years. Still damaged,
certainly, but his life has completely turned around.
The example Eric sets for me, is no matter how elevated, and no matter how far down we
go in life, there is a power outside of ourselves that can reach us. While ever we refuse
that power's help and insist on doing it our stubborn way then we are left to do it. What is
our purpose here? Are we simply meaningless protoplasm? I don't believe we are but I
can't answer for you. You will have to find the answer for yourself. All I can do is tell
you my story.
In the summer of '92 I was in the US promoting a music company we had started. This
was one of our many failures and ran directly contrary to my own advice to myself:
"Stick to your knitting." In this case we lost a quarter million in 5 months. Anyway it was
the 4th of July and we had a few hours to kill before returning to Nashville. We'd been to
Chattanooga and on the way back decided to head into them thar Appalachian hills and
do a bit of off-road sightseeing in our rented Cadillac. We slid sideways off the freeway,
Blues Brothers fashion, (You're allowed to do that in a rented Cadillac) at a store selling
fireworks and headed deep into the hills. The further in we got, the closer together the
trees got hanging over the dirt road and I reran some spools from Deliverance in my
head. Happily, though, the deeper in we got, the friendlier the folks seemed. Each car we
passed, the driver waved, there were flags flying from every farmhouse and we passed a
clearing with the whole population out playing baseball. Past a country bar, complete
with Dolly and Kenny and pickups and hound dogs and shotgun racks (Barbecue Jack's,
whole hog, deep pit, hickory fired barbecue. All you can eat for $4.95. Catfish free) we
came to a clearing in the woods and pulled in. It was a graveyard. It was hot and we took
a walk in the shade, amongst the flags and the flowers of that morning's ceremonies,
looking at the headstones. They were all identical except for the inscriptions. Then I came
upon a headstone that caused me to stop. It had the person's name, when they were born,
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