This book is written with the poem, IF, by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), profoundly recorded in the back of my mind — a life lesson tool given me by my father. The many other wise sayings of my father allow their eternal impact to shine through the pages of this book.

The early days with my family in Clinton, Maryland, were good, bad, and ugly. The good days would be talking about the garden that we had in the back of the house. It would be about the fact that five of us at that time slept in one room; bunk beds were the order of the day. I had the upper bunk and rolled off it almost every night and hit the floor. My dad would come in and pick me up and put me back. Many times I would not even wake up.

Some of the bad happened when my mother and father would have words. It would be loud. The ugly occurred when my mom left my dad, and I had to go with her and not be with my dad. I didn't want to go; however, my dad came and got me every weekend, no matter what. I was in third grade when this happened. From the time that I started school, I had a tough time reading and spelling. I also stuttered very badly.

The story of where we went after we left Clinton, Maryland, will be told as we moved into the projects in SE Washington, DC. The good part there was that I was near my first cousin and he was my age. This was good because we played together; my little brother was just two years old and too young to play with.

We were not there very long before we moved to northeast Washington, DC. We moved into a house that had more than two bedrooms. Here, I had my own room. I went to a public school for the fourth grade. It was the first time I went to a school with white kids. During all my years in Maryland, we were forced to go to separate schools.

Church was different because my father was a pit bull about his religion. He would not back down under any condition. He believed that God created us all in his likeness and image. The priest of the church told my father that my sister and I would have to walk in the back of the line for our first Holy Communion. Well, Dad wrote a letter to the Archbishop of Washington which became my "Mission to Equality" because my sister and I ended up walking in our respective places in line. We bypassed the "Colored Pew" in the back of the Church and sat in the first row every Sunday. Dad always said, "Sometimes you have to overdo a point to make a point."

Washington, DC — a new house; a new school; and, an apple tree to climb in the backyard made life interesting. Being with dad on the weekends was fun because I got to walk in the woods near our old house and hunt with my 22 rifle. There was a school change after the first year in Washington where we went from public school to Catholic school. Dad thought it was the most important thing in living the American dream.

Moving from my first integrated school system of a 50/50 racial split, I would now go to my first year in Catholic school and become a minority again on the other end of the spectrum. In two years, I had come from an all-black school system as one of many to an almost all-white school, being one of a few black students.

Things did not go so well the first year in Catholic school. With my slow start from my first grade, three-room schoolhouse, I got D's and F's my first year in Catholic school and thought that it meant `Doing Fine'. Wrong! Well, with a repeat of the fifth grade, I had to get serious and I did. I turned those D's and F's into A's and B's.

I would start my sports history with the Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) football as a tight end. This went on from the sixth to the eighth grade. I was tall and skinny and didn't set the world on fire. Girls became an interest and Yolanda took me almost one mile out of my way home as I would walk her home after school.

My testing skills were still not good when I took my entrance examination for Catholic high school. The result proved it. I didn't get into any of my selected schools. I was in limbo. Every Catholic high school was designed as all girls or all boys at that time. At fourteen years of age and with a new-found interest in girls, this was not considered such a bad thing.

The events of that summer would prove to be earth-moving in my life. My mother married again and we moved into a new house. My mother's mother, my four sisters, and my little brother were all a part of this new matrix. The chemistry in this new abode was not good. I was neither tied to a school nor the new house that was called home. I still saw my dad every weekend.

I turned fifteen years old on the first day of August that summer. I knew that I needed my dad and not this new "imposter" who didn't measure up in any way, shape, or form. I packed a few things and left for my journey of about ten miles across the landscape of Washington, DC, back to Capitol Heights, Maryland, to my father's apartment.

Dad was a United States Postal Service mail clerk who sorted mail on a train from Washington, DC, to New York City. This was an eight days on five days off job. He would work eight days working on the train, sorting mail grabbed along this route from Washington, to NYC, stay overnight in NYC and return to DC for one day. Then, he would do it again before he would have a schedule that gave him five to seven days off. Then he was back on the train to NYC. No fair warning was possible of my cross-town sojourn for my dad because he was in New York City the day I abdicated from the mother country. There were no cell phones, texting or e-mails in those days.

I knew his schedule like it was mine. I knew that he would return in the early am of the next morning of August 2nd. I had my apartment key and with a skilled hand of hitch hiking, I made it to dad's place. All was well until a knock came at the door about eight hours after my arrival. I didn't open the door but asked who was there. "It's the State Police," was the response. I still didn't open the door but asked if I could help them. They asked if I was Eric and I affirmed that I was. They stated that my mother reported me a run-a-way. I explained that I couldn't be much of a run-a-way when I was at my dad's place. I never opened the door. They asked me to call my mother. I guess my bass voice at fifteen years of age told a lot of the story.

Well, about 2:30 am brought the arrival of dad, home from his two-day jaunt from New York City and the United States Postal Service. I was a big surprise for him. He woke me and put forth the proverbial question, "What are you doing here?" I was glad to see him and got up and had tea with him. It was his drink of habit. I explained that with the new husband and six women, home was not the place I needed to be. I told him that I needed to be with him. He was quick to explain that he didn't have anyone to take care of me when he was on his New York run.

I think I have denoted that this was my fifteenth birthday week. I was now about six feet, three inches tall. My bass in my voice was the reverse of my height. My answer to my daddy's dilemma was my request for a caregiver, brunette in nature, about five feet eight inches tall, 36-24-36. Dad was quick to move away from this subject to remind me of how much of a disciplinarian he was and I would have to walk a very straight line. He announced that dust was not allowed to hit the floor. I took his challenge and told him that I would catch the dust before it hit the floor.

After dad talked to mom the next morning, dad did what he knew was best. We set up housekeeping and all the ground rules were established. Now, I had one month to get ready for school. I signed up for the local high school which was only at the top of the hill, less than a half-mile away. I had friends already because I spent every weekend with dad. That was easy. Now, in short order, I would be going to school with these buddies and girls.

I had to go and see my mother at least once every ten to twelve days. I didn't stay over but just went to visit. School started and I was quick to discover that this high school would not get me into college. I had cycled 360 degrees in the Brown vs the Board of Education. I had started my education in a three-room schoolhouse separate but equal make-up which was the law of the land. In 1954, the Supreme Court overturned Plessy vs Ferguson (1896), in a decision where the Supreme Court denoted separation by race was still equal in education. Well, this was not true. This overturn of this fifty-two year old law had me now enrolled in a multicultural, multiracial school from the fourth grade going forward in my flow of life in America.

On my return to Maryland, now living with my dad, I was at a school where political gerrymandering had me once again back at a 99.1% black school. I had lived this history and studied this history in school, but it was upon my return to this high school that I clearly understood that separate was not equal. In the ninth grade, I was being introduced to course material that I had studied twice in the fifth grade, and some of the content was from my sixth grade classes. Within two weeks, I told my dad that I had to go back to Catholic school and leave the girls if I ever wanted to go to college and on to medical school. I explained the difference that I saw in the two education systems. I had lived it. My father was quick to answer and said that I should take the entry examination again. He also said, "When you get in, I will find a way to pay for it." This school year had a lot of A's and B's with a dose of student council and drama and a flash of basketball. I was now about six feet four-inches tall with a deep desire to play basketball. I only got to run the court twice before the basketball coach requested that I grab the rim from a standing position. I couldn't do it. My audition was short lived and I was relegated back to the local outdoors basketball courts for more lessons to be learned.

However, my desire remained intact and was intensified with that short fall of not being able to grab the basketball rim when a respected high school basketball coach thought with my height I should have had that ability at a minimum. And dad always said, "Never let someone's minimum be your maximum." I would practice jumping every day in the apartment, trying to have my head touch the ceiling of the eight foot six inch ceiling. I will tell you that in a short period of time I reached that goal and then had to be careful not to drive my head through the ceiling or even break my neck. I changed my location for my target jumping thereafter, where I had no glass or manmade ceilings on my ability to jump out of the gym.

My dad posed the question shortly after Christmas of that year and that was would I like to see a high school basketball player who was seven feet one inch tall. This basketball phenomenon was coming to play against a local Catholic high school. My response was a quick, "Yes, please, and thank you." Game time came. We sat up high in a sold-out Maryland Cole Field House with 13,500 fans in attendance. The electricity in the air was unbelievable that night. The outcome was in favor of the big guy from New York, but the local team had hit a cord with me. As my father and I drove home in the recent snowstorm, I told my dad that I was going to go to the same Catholic high school and I was going to play basketball for them. My father was quick to stop me, and suggested that I remember why I was going to go back to Catholic school from the present public school. He denoted that first things were first. If my studies were in order, I could play any sport I desired.

My target jumping continued to improve by leaps and bounds as I prepared for my delayed entry examination for admission into Catholic high school. I marked DeMatha Catholic High School as my number one choice for entry. I took the examination, passed and got my first choice. I was on my way to DeMatha Catholic High School. My father made me take a typing course that summer at DeMatha. I thank him for that to this day.

The first day of school had started. It was a shirt, tie, and jacket dress code with my shoes to a spit shine because I lived with the former First Sgt., veteran, United States Army World War II. He denoted that you could determine a man by his shoes and mine always had to be Right- Dress- Right. Dad's mantra was "you never get a second chance to make a first impression."

I was walking in the halls of DeMatha Catholic High School on the first day of school when an outstretched hand fell upon my shoulder. I turned my now six foot five inch body to a friendly face that asked me my name. I hadn't had enough time to break any of these new rules within the school. So, I answered with confidence, "I am Eric I. Mitchell." The next question was, "Do you play basketball?" My answer was "Yes." This time, I had been asked a simple question without any validating basketball task attached. The smiling face said, "I am Morgan Wootten, the basketball coach, and I would like to see you out on the floor the first day of basketball practice." I assured him that I would be there.

School started anew from Section C of the tenth grade at DeMatha Catholic High School. This was not a college-prep track section like tracks A and B, but I was allowed to request and take courses outside of my home room of Section C. So, I did just that and fashioned my courses with college in mind. By my senior year, every course I was taking was not in Section track C but tracks B or A.

The first day of B-Ball practice was about to change my life. My abilities as a basketball player were about to reflect the players who were on the court. I had a lot of desire and the assistant coach picked up on my raw talent, or the lack thereof. He asked if I was willing to work an extra twenty minutes every day to improve my skills. I accepted this offer in a heartbeat.

Frank was the name of the assistant coach. He was the biggest white man I had ever known. Frank might not have been the biggest white man in the world, but in my eyes, he was about six feet eight inches tall with the biggest hands and feet I had ever seen. Frank worked with me every day after the regular practice and modified my jumping program and showed me how to jump from down low. Grabbing the rim was now child's play. Frank made it clear that the game of basketball was to be played above the rim, and that's where I needed to live, above the rim.

After months of working with Coach Frank, I could now elevate to above the rim. I could now dunk the basketball one or two handed. He taught me how to go to a spot on the floor where the action would be in the coming seconds — anticipation. He taught me to watch every pass, every shot, and determine where the next pass or shot was coming from. With this information, I could determine where the shot was long or short and start moving for that rebound before the ball even hit the rim. I improved with every game. Our team was to get another opportunity at this seven foot one inch player and his team from NYC. Coach Wootten had a tennis racket which was held up in shooting drills because even our biggest and tallest guy didn't have the wing span of their star.

We had a better outcome this year with a victory over this NYC team, and DeMatha was raised to national prominence for high school basketball. Oh, what a difference a year can make! The college coaches flocked to our school before that game. Now, with a number one ranking, the race was on. In my junior year, I took on a sixth-man role, where I would come off the bench and inject my energy into the game: two steals, one offensive charge, two offensive rebounds, and four to six points, to give DeMatha another win. My name started showing up in the sports section week after week.

The letters of recruitment for basketball started to come from every size and shape of colleges and universities across the country. Coach Wootten laid down all the rules that we were to follow in meetings with coaching and traveling to schools for recruiting trips. Coach Wootten already had national recognition as one of the top high school basketball coaches in the country. So here I was with two blessings, a stellar head basketball coach, and the best big man assistant coach with private lessons wrapped into one program. Me, I was doing what my dad had denoted that snowy night as we drove home from my first encounter with DeMatha basketball. I kept my studies up, and I was taking more and more college-bound courses outside of my Track C homeroom, and playing any sport I wanted to.

Vietnam was starting to heat up as I worked my way through high school. The Selective Service Board had just changed the drafting process from oldest in a family to a by date of birth process. Every young man at the age of eighteen years was to sign up with their local Selective Service Board. This new system was a lottery-type system where a number was attached to each day of the year. The unlucky day was Sept 27th which got the number one spot for recruitment into the Armed Forces.