Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter

by Jack Canfield

  He decided to talk to himself, to build up his courage. Come on, buddy, you can do it. Hold on tight, now. I know you’re tired and freezing cold, but you can put on your jacket as soon as you get home. Hold on, buddy, you can do it!

  As time went on, the cold and fear kept him holding tightly to the ladder, pressing himself as closely as he could to the freight car to block the wind. The bushes and trees seemed to fly by as they traveled the rails. After a time, Carlos saw lights in some of the houses by the side of the tracks. But they passed through another small town without stopping!

  Terror filled his heart as he clutched the ladder; tears of anguish flowed from his eyes as he fully realized his danger. He continued to hold his grip as tightly as he could, but it was getting harder all the time. He was exhausted. The sun had set; it was beginning to grow dark. He couldn’t hold on any longer. Maybe he should jump after all.

  Back in the little town of Millen, Carlos’s friends tried to keep him out of trouble for playing on the train. Thinking he was on his way back from the crossing, they said nothing. When they finally told everything they knew, and it was discovered that Carlos was missing, the police began to search for him.

  By Monday morning, all four adjoining counties began searching by air, by rail and on foot. Family, friends, neighbors and strangers alike searched for Carlos. On Tuesday, Carlos was found along a desolate stretch of rail forty miles down the track. He had died from a broken neck. Everyone in the community of Millen shared the grief and sorrow of his death.

  A lady in Savannah read of the tragic accident. The news account stated that the children in Millen had no playground. It went on to say that perhaps if there had been a playground for them, Carlos might have been on a playground and not playing on the train tracks. As a wife and mother of three children, she was concerned that while her city of Savannah had so many playgrounds, Millen did not. A former Girl Scout troop leader, she was accustomed to leadership. She determined she would get a playground built for the children of Millen.

  With the dedication of family, neighbors, friends, merchants and contractors, along with a donation of land, a new playground was completed for the town of Millen. People who had been brought together as strangers ended up as friends. In the process, some healing also took place in the community. By their joining together, their grief and sorrow was lessened.

  On a sunny spring afternoon, Millen’s new playground was officially dedicated as the Carlos Wilson Memorial Playground.

  The ceremony was followed by playtime for the children. It was as if they could hear Carlos saying, “Come on, buddy; let’s play. Let’s go play on my playground!”

  Audilee Boyd Taylor

  Dreams of the Children

  Everyone is good enough

  Everyone is right

  Everyone deserves a home

  And a warm bed at night

  Everybody needs a friend

  Everyone needs their space

  All people are created equal

  So why is it the human race?

  Perhaps our only problem

  Is that some refuse to see

  Not everyone else is the trouble

  The trouble is you and me

  So if we work together

  As a team, me and you

  Maybe we can rebuild our world

  And make our dreams come true.

  Jody Suzanne Waitzman, age 13

  Batgirl

  Today, no one questions whether women are equal to men in ability and intelligence.

  Julie Nixon Eisenhower

  “So what, Ray? So what if I’m not a boy? I can hit better than everybody, except maybe Tommy—and maybe you on a good day. And I’m faster than all of you put together.”

  “You can still play with the girls at recess,” he said.

  I stared him down, eye to eye, both of us sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of my house. The cement felt warm. Crabgrass poked through and scratched my thigh.

  I won the stare-down.

  Ray looked down at the Big Chief tablet on my lap.

  “And you sure can’t win that contest, Dandi,” he mumbled. “I don’t know why you’re even entering.”

  A blue-lined page from his tablet stuck to his knobby knee. He pushed a shock of brown hair, straight as harvest wheat, out of his eyes. Ray’s mom cut both of our hair. I shoved mine out of my face. Then I pulled out the coupon I’d torn from the Kansas City Star sports page.

  “I’m entering,” I said, “and I’m winning.”

  Ray jerked the coupon out of my hand and pointed his finger at the print.

  “See!” he said triumphantly. “It says right here: 1959 batboy contest. Write in seventy-five words or less why you want to be batboy for the KC Athletics pro baseball team. Not batgirl.” He cackled as if a batgirl was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  “Well, it’s not fair!” I said, half to Ray, half to myself.

  I was tired of not getting to do stuff just because I was a girl. Ray played Little League. I could knock him down with a line drive, hitting from my Stan Musiel batting stance. But our small Missouri town didn’t have a girls’ baseball team.

  I was ten, the age when boys stopped caring that you were the only one who could hit an inside-the-park homer or the only one who knew the infield fly rule. They simply wouldn’t let you play because you were a girl.

  My sister, Maureen, slammed the screen door.

  “What’s going on out here?” she asked.

  Maureen, who was my older sister, couldn’t tell a baseball from a football if it hit her in the face.

  “Nothing,” I answered. I tucked the coupon in my tablet.

  “We’re . . . umm . . . drawing,” I lied.

  Ray looked confused. “Drawing? I thought we were . . . ”

  I nudged him into silence.

  Maureen tried giving me one of our mother’s suspicious looks. The attempt made her look more like Bruno, our hound dog, when he had to go outside.

  Ray and I sat in the sun and set our pencils scratching. At the end of an hour, I had fourteen paper wads to show.

  “I’m done,” Ray announced.

  “Read it,” I demanded.

  I crossed my fingers and hoped it would be awful. Ray swatted at a horsefly, then held up his paper and read aloud. “I want to be a batboy for the Kansas City A’s because I really, really, really like baseball and I really, really, really like Kansas City and the Athletics.”

  He looked wide-eyed at me. “What do you think, Dandi?”

  I hadn’t hoped it would be that awful.

  “Why so many reallys?” I asked.

  He looked wounded. “I need the words! What do you know, anyway? You can’t even enter the contest.”

  Ray left me standing alone on the sidewalk. I took in the sweet scent of the cornfields across the road and thought about what I might write.

  The words began to flow as I put pen to paper:

  My whole life people have told me that I can’t. My sister has said that I can’t sing. My teacher has said that I can’t spell. Mom has said that I can’t be a professional baseball player. My best friend has said that I can’t win this contest. I’m entering this contest to prove them wrong. I want to be your next Kansas City A’s batboy.

  I signed it “Dan Daley.” My dad always called me “Dan,” short for Dandi. I addressed the envelope and mailed my entry.

  As the months passed, filled with sandlot baseball, I played whenever I could force my way into a game. Then late one autumn afternoon, there was a knock at our door. When I opened the door, I was surprised to find two men in suits, carrying briefcases. Surely they were from out of town.

  “Hello, little girl,” the shorter man said. “We’d like to speak to your brother.”

  “Don’t have a brother,” I said.

  The taller man wrinkled his forehead and popped open his briefcase. He took out a handful of papers. Both men studied them while I stood in the doorway, guarding my brot
herless home.

  “Is this 508 Samuel Street?” asked the shorter one.

  “I guess,” I answered.

  Nobody used house numbers in our neighborhood. There were only two houses on our road.

  “Isn’t this the home of Dan Daley?”

  A light went on in my head. Then I got it.

  “Mom!” I screamed, without taking my eyes off the strangers. “Come here! Hurry!” Sure enough, I had won the batboy contest. My words had done the trick!

  I let Mom explain about my not having a brother. I confessed I’d entered as “Dan.” Maureen and Bruno started to congratulate me—but not the strangers.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, a familiar feeling of dread creeping up my spine.

  “Well,” said the taller one, “you’re not a boy.”

  “Well, duh,” I answered.

  “Contest rules clearly state ‘a boy aged eight to twelve,’ ” said the shorter one.

  “But I won!” I protested.

  “Little girl,” he said, “this was not a batgirl contest.”

  The men left, taking with them my dream of being a Kansas City A’s batboy. Hoping to make up for it, they sent us season tickets, team jackets, autographed baseballs, hats and a hardwood bat. I never did wear that hat. I became a St. Louis Cardinals fan instead. But I did grab that bat the day it came. I marched to our school playground where Ray, Tommy and the guys were in the middle of a pickup game.

  “I’m batting,” I said, one-arming Ray away from the plate.

  The guys groaned, but Ray seemed to know something more was at stake. He nodded to the pitcher. I took the first pitch, high and outside, just the way I liked it. Before the crack of the bat, I knew I’d send that ball over the fence for a home run. I turned my back before the ball hit the street, finally bouncing into a ditch.

  Gently, I released my Kansas City Athletics bat and heard it bounce in the dirt. I proudly walked the bases to home plate, leaving that bat where it had fallen.

  “Let the batboy get it.”

  Dandi Dailey Mackall

  G-o-o-o-a-a-a-a-l-l-l-l !

  Laugh and learn, because we all make mistakes.

  Weston Dunlap, age 8

  Running as fast as my small legs could carry me, I concentrated on the black-and-white object spinning ahead, and realized that this was my chance. This was my dream come true. I had a jump on the others, and it was all up to me! I looked behind me and saw the yellow jerseys and green shorts of my teammates, the National Auto Glass Dinosaurs. They looked like a swarm of bees, all headed toward the soccer ball. I saw the faces of my opponents and could tell that some of them were running really hard. They wanted the ball, but it was mine, all mine!

  I ran up to the ball and gave it a tremendous, four-year-old kick. It scooted farther down the field, and again I sprinted after it. The other players gained on me, but I was nearing the goal. The confused look on the goalie’s face told me that he wasn’t ready to make a save. The rooting section on the sideline was chanting, “Kick it! Kick it! Kick the ball!”

  I wound up and toed the ball as hard as a four-year-old ever could. It bounced into the net, past the scrambling goalie. I went wild! I had just scored my first real goal!

  I ran back to my teammates. Some were cheering and celebrating with me, but most of them had their arms crossed, with scowls on their faces and annoyed looks in their eyes. They wanted to score that goal, but I had! Ha! Ha!! I looked to my mom and dad on the sideline. They were laughing with some other parents. This is just too cool! I’d scored my first ever goal—for the other team!

  Heather Thomsen, age 13

  With Every Footstep

  You have made known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence. . . .

  Ps. 16:11

  I was not only a little surprised, but worried to find myself in the Vault Finals at the 1996 Olympic Games when Kerri Strug was forced to pull out as a result of an ankle injury. I had done well during the team competition, but had just missed qualifying for the Vault Finals competition. When my coach, Steve, and I were notified that I’d become eligible to compete in this event, I wasn’t feeling prepared to be Kerri’s replacement.

  My first reaction was, How can I? Due to an extremely sore wrist, I had not been able to work a second vault. Vault Finals require that the gymnast compete on two vaults from two different vault families. This was a moment when all of my gymnastics experience had to be there to support me. Steve encouraged me to give it a try.

  Once I recovered from the initial shock, I knew that I didn’t want to give up the opportunity to compete in another event of the 1996 Olympics. I fully intended to give it my best shot from that moment forward. With a positive attitude, and with support from Steve and my parents, I gave it everything I had during my workouts, and they went great. I didn’t miss a single vault—even while warming up for the actual competition. I focused on how great an opportunity it was to be given the chance to compete.

  However, my positive attitude and joy quickly turned to tears of embarrassment and discouragement. When the time came to compete, I sprinted hard down the runway, but as I approached the springboard, I knew that my steps were off. I was not coming onto the vault horse at the right place! In an instant, it was all over. I had missed placing one of my hands down on the horse, which resulted in my performing an outrageous flip in the air and landing on my seat right in front of literally hundreds of thousands of people! I felt the hot flush of embarrassment swimming from my stomach straight up to my bright red face.

  As soon as the event was over, I headed up to the USA gymnastics suite, where I knew my parents would be waiting for me. My tears were flowing pretty freely, so my parents took me aside so that we could have a little privacy. I try always to place my trust in God to direct my path. I never pray to win, but I always ask God to help me do my best. I had been so full of joy and confidence going into the competition. What had happened?

  Mom asked me if I remembered the poem Footprints that hung on the wall of my room. She reminded me that God had always been walking with me. Never had he abandoned me. Maybe it was time for me to allow God to carry me. Rather than be worried about once again failing, I could remember that I didn’t have to do this all by myself. All I needed to remember was that God is always by my side. Instead of dreading Beam Finals the next day, I needed to be grateful for the opportunity to express the talent that God had given me, and not to be concerned about winning or losing.

  The next evening, I was calm and at peace while I waited for my turn to compete. When I mounted the beam, I heard a man yell at someone in the crowd, “Turn your [camera] flash off!” I consciously thought, How sweet of him to be concerned about my welfare. A camera flash can cause an accident that could potentially end a career, or worse. It struck me that I had never before heard what was going on around me when I was competing. I was usually so tremendously focused, I had blocked out everything else. But that night’s competition was different from any other. I felt an emotional connection with the audience whose love of gymnastics, and the athletes who represented the sport, seemed to completely surround me. At that moment, I was able to let in all the joy of the evening, of being in the Olympic Games, and of the sport of gymnastics.

  I took a few calming breaths and thanked God for being with me, and for the talent that he has given me. And then, I went for it!

  I aced my routine! I felt so great when my feet hit the mat. I honestly had no idea as to whether or not I would win a medal. But at that moment, medals truly did not matter. I had accomplished something far greater than a world record in gymnastics. I had felt the comfort and strength of God’s presence with every footstep of the routine.

  I took home an Olympic Gold Medal to remind me of that night. But the night was golden in more ways than one. I will always treasure in my heart what it is like to experience God’s presence.

  Shannon Miller

  The Rock Club

  If you don’t like the way t
he world is, you change it. You have an obligation to change it. You just do it one step at a time.

  Marian Wright Edelman

  One night when I was in second grade, I saw something on the news that really bothered me. It was about a group of homeless people sleeping outside in the cold, with nowhere to go for warmth and comfort. I felt sorry for them, and I wanted to help.

  So I decided to start a club. The goal was to raise money to help the homeless. I called it the Rock Club. When I first started, we only had about five members, but that quickly grew to about twenty. It wasn’t hard to get people to join the club. I hardly had to ask anybody if they wanted to be a member. In fact, they came up to me and just asked me if they could join!

  We spent all of our free time at recess painting rocks. We painted animals, flowers and shapes—even names of sports teams. We all just worked on whatever we felt like painting.

  We’d go around the school in search of teachers who would buy our rocks and use them as paperweights. We sold the rocks for five cents, ten cents and even up to twenty cents each. We painted one huge rock with polka dots that sold for five bucks! By Christmas, we had raised thirty-three dollars. We decided to give the money to a local homeless shelter.

  My mom offered to take my friend and me to the shelter to deliver the money. When we pulled up, we noticed that there were whole families sitting on the snowy sidewalk. As we went into the building, I could not get the picture of what I had just seen out of my mind. I kept thinking about the little children, and all of the men and women with nowhere to sleep.

  When we got inside, we met the lady at the front desk and gave her the money that the club had earned. She seemed really grateful for our donation. She invited us to take a tour of the shelter. I had never seen a real homeless shelter before, so I wanted to see the inside. As we toured the building, what really got to me were the rows and rows of tables set up to help feed the hungry. There must have been over one hundred tables in there. In the kitchen, the helpers were making what seemed like endless rows of gingerbread men. It was amazing to me that for every gingerbread man, the shelter was expecting a person in need for dinner and shelter that night.