The Twelfth Angel PDF
Preview The Twelfth Angel
More praise for The Twelfth Angel “Love of the game, apprehension, camaraderie, good sportsmanship, the exhilaration of winning and the anguish of losing—The Twelfth Angel transported me back to my own Little League days in California.” —Jim Palmer Baseball Hall of Fame “Mandino skillfully tells this story and fills it with familiar characters we want to care about. Through this emotional story, he makes the point that life needs to be lived to the fullest using whatever gifts we have. He also suggests we could do ourselves a favor by recognizing the angels that live around us.” —The Wilmington News Journal OTHER BOOKS BY OG MANDINO The Greatest Salesman in the World The Greatest Salesman in the World, Part II: The End of the Story The Greatest Miracle in the World The Greatest Success in the World The Greatest Secret in the World The Gift of Acabar (with Buddy Kaye) The Christ Commission The Choice Og Mandino’s University of Success Mission: Success! A Better Way to Live The Return of the Ragpicker A Treasury of Success Unlimited U.S. in a Nutshell Cycles The Spellbinder’s Gift Secrets for Success and Happiness A Fawcett Book Published by The Random House Publishing Group Copyright © 1993 by Og Mandino All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. This book is not authorized, approved, or sponsored by Little League Baseball, Incorporated. Little League is a registered trademark of Little League Baseball, Incorporated. Fawcett is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. www.ballantinebooks.com Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-96750 eISBN: 978-0-30778478-0 v3.1 In loving memory … Doug Turno … the bravest little guy I’ve ever known & Rev. Jack Boland … the bravest big guy I’ve ever known Contents Cover Other Books by This Author Title Page Copyright Dedication A Humble Acknowledgment Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV About the Author A HUMBLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT This book could have never been written without the help and guidance of my son, Matthew. The story line for The Twelfth Angel came from Matt as well as the good counsel and advice that I needed in order to do justice to this very special tale. Og Mandino Everyone’s life is a fairy tale, written by God’s fingers. —Hans Christian Andersen I S olitary 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,
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