I often regretted, back in the dark times, that I failed to write the true story of my youth; if I had, it might have saved lives…either that or gotten me killed. Because, as I’ll explain, I was almost certainly the luckiest man ever born. And that kind of luck — when exposed — either drew people to learn from it or drove them to crucify it.
Whatever your first image for the “luckiest man” might be — health, money, talent, friends — I probably matched it, save that I was never drop-dead handsome. And that was lucky too. I had friends who were that good looking, and it wasn’t a blessing to them. Some people envied them, many hated them, the wrong ones pursued them, and if they weren’t careful their looks would take over their lives. You can hide being smart when people start to hate you…
