Free Twelfth Angel by Og Mandino Page A

I
was
somebody! I
would
succeed! It was almost impossible to think negative thoughts while announcing to the world and to myself that “day by day in every way I am getting better and better!”
    Coué and his process of conscious autosuggestion faded from popularity long before the great depression, and he had his share of critics, as do all pioneers in the fields of medicine and psychology. But from my own experiences I knew that positive thoughts programmed into my subconscious mind through self-affirmations, either repeated aloud or to myself, produced positive results, and my favorite was “Day by day in every way I am getting better and better!”
    “Timothy,” I asked after I finally closed my mouth and took another deep breath, “where did you learn that saying?”
    He frowned and glanced at me suspiciously. Finally he said, “From Doc Messenger. He’s nice. He’s very old, but he always takes care of me and my mother when we get sick. When I saw him the last time, he played catch with me and told me if I kept saying those words, lotsof times each day, I would get better at whatever I was doing, even playing baseball. Doc Messenger is nice. He comes to see me practice, sometimes.”
    “Oh, was he here today?”
    “Uh-huh. He was sitting behind first base all by himself. Today he was wearing a cowboy hat. He waved at me. He has a white beard.”
    “Has he taught you any other sayings?”
    Timothy nodded, threw out his small chest and said, “Never … never … never … never … never … never give up!”
    I knew that one too. Winston Churchill’s commencement address to a graduating class at Oxford. Eight words … eight very powerful words. Then the great man turned away from his audience and walked slowly back to his seat.
    “Do you believe those words, Timothy, that one should never give up?”
    He nodded. “I never give up.”
    We spent our first practice working on Timothy’s hitting. I would stand next to him, also holding a bat, and ask him to imitate my stance and swing. Worked better than I had hoped. After ten minutes or so I began pitching to him while correcting any variances in either his stance or his cut at the ball. Before long Timothy was taking short strides into my pitches with a level swing and even following through while maintaining his balance. He only made contact a few times, but I could see that his confidence was gradually building, and he seemed to be enjoying our routine. We even spent timepracticing bunting, and although he had difficulty pivoting and keeping his arms relaxed, I finally had him crouching and bending his knees until he dropped several fine bunts down the third-base line.
    That evening, at home, I phoned Bill.
    “You okay?” he asked quickly, unable to hide his concern.
    “For the moment.”
    “How did it go with your little Angel?”
    “Fine. Fine. He’s getting better and better.…”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Bill, I was wondering, are you familiar with a Doc Messenger in this town?”
    “Everybody is, John. Old Doc Messenger has practiced here for a long time. He was a big man on the staff at Johns Hopkins and came here to Boland after he retired—to grow a few tomatoes and hit some golf balls, he told everyone. Then Boland’s only doctor suddenly moved to Seattle, and this township had no one to take care of them, so the old man decided to come out of retirement and he’s been Boland’s savior ever since. Even makes house calls for sick kids and old folks. Why are you asking about him? Something wrong, John? Need a doctor?”
    “No, no. Timothy was telling me about the good doctor. Seems like he’s quite a special man. According to Timothy I guess he’s even come to a couple of our practices.”
    “I thought that was him sitting high up, back of first base, wearing that old hat of his. Never gave it anotherthought when we got busy. Didn’t figure him to be spending time at a Little League practice.”
    “Timothy said he