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alleys of the oldest, most claustrophobic, and most mazelike part of New York City. I took off with all the energy and blind optimism of youth and managed to get through the day and somehow safely delivered the three hundred cases . . . in spite of my often overenthusiastic driving. My supervisor was white-knuckled with worry that I would deliver 150 cases onto the street as the old truck leaned precariously at corners I was taking much too fast. Though I delivered every case, my driving skills did not impress the supervisor, and my truck-driving career was over (they still kept me on as a helper). Nevertheless, I proudly took home a $20 salary that day to show my father.
    The next summer, I wanted something better than standing in a crowd every morning hoping for a day’s work. My opportunity came when the hiring boss announced one morning that the Pepsi plant in Long Island City was looking for porters to clean the floors, full-time for the summer. I raised my hand. I was the only one who did.
    The porters at the Pepsi plant were all black. The workers on the bottling machines were all white. I didn’t care. I just wanted work for the summer, and I worked hard, mopping up syrup and soda that had spilled from overturned pallets.
    At summer’s end, the boss told me he was pleased with my work and asked if I wanted to come back. “Yes,” I answered, “but not as a porter.” He agreed, and next summer I worked on the bottling machine and as a pallet stacker, a more prestigious and higher-paying job. It wasn’t exactly the Selma March, but I integrated a bottling machine crew.
    Very often my best didn’t turn out that well. I was neither an athlete nor a standout student. I played baseball, football, stickball, and all the other Bronx sports, and I did my best, but I wasn’t good at any. In school I was hardworking and dedicated, but never produced superior grades or matched the academic successes of my many high-achieving cousins. Yet my parents didn’t pester me or put too much pressure on me. Their attitude was “Do your best—we’ll accept your best, but nothing less.”
    These experiences established a pattern for all the years and careers that came afterward. Always do your best, no matter how difficult the job, or how much you dislike it, your bosses, the work environment, or your fellow workers. As the old expression goes, if you take the king’s coin, you give the king his due.
    I remember an old story told by the comedian Brother Dave Gardner about two ditch diggers. One guy just loves digging. He digs all day long and says nothing much. The other guy digs a little, leans on his shovel a lot, and mouths off constantly, “One of these days, I’m gonna own this company.”
    Time passes and guy number one gets a front-end trench machine and just digs away, hundreds of feet a day, always loving it. The other guy does the minimum, but never stops mouthing off, “One of these days, I’m gonna own this company.” No, guy number one doesn’t end up owning the company, but he does become a foreman working out of an air-conditioned van. He often waves to his old friend leaning on his shovel still insisting, “One of these days, I’m gonna own this company.” Ain’t gonna happen.
    In my military career I often got jobs I wasn’t crazy about, or I was put in situations that stretched me beyond my rank and experience. Whether the going was rough or smooth, I always tried to do my best and to be loyal to my superior and the mission given to me.
    On my second tour in Vietnam, I was assigned as an infantry battalion executive officer, second in command, in the 23rd Infantry Division (Americal). I was very pleased with the assignment. As it happened, I had just graduated with honors from the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Shortly after I arrived in Vietnam, a photo of the top five graduates appeared in Army Times . The division commanding general saw it, and I was pulled up to