You are here
Advice from a Kid with a Wooden Leg
It begins in a pretty average middle-class suburb in Minnesota. But October 1, 1945, has some real significance for me. It was the day Rod Carew, the longtime Minnesota Twins' Hall of Fame first baseman, was born- into abject poverty, literally on a train in Panama.
Growing up, all I wanted to be was Rod Carew.
At night, when I shut my eyes to fall asleep, I could see him stepping into the batter's box, cracking a single down the third base line or spearing a line drive.
Like a lot of other 8-year-old boys, every waking moment was about baseball. Like any self-respecting kid would, I nagged the hell out of my mom until she signed me up for Little League. And like every other kid on my team, I ran onto the field and played my heart out. The thing was, as much as I tried to be like everyone else, I knew deep down that I was different.
You see, I was born without a fibula in my right leg. It was just one of those genetic mistakes.