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of their homes. Vans with brightly colored TV call letters crowded the streets. Curious neighbors circled the houses. And these smiling, radiant, joyful young women answered questions shouted by the press, “What’s it like to know you are one of the first women astronauts? When did you want to be an astronaut? Did you cry when you heard the news? Will you be scared when you ride the shuttle?”
    I went to my living room and drew back the curtain to see if there was a squadron of news vans parked in my driveway. Nope. No vans. No frothing press. No neighbors. Nothing. I was alone to dwell on my rejection. I tried to rationalize my loss:
    It wasn’t meant to be.
    I had given it my best shot.
    Maybe I’ll get selected next time.
    You never know unless you try.
    I sought comfort in these and a hundred other motivational platitudes. But none helped. The winners were on TV. The losers were watching them. I thought of calling my wife, Donna, in Florida and telling her the bad news, but decided it could wait. I just didn’t feel like talking about it.
    I drove to my Mt. Home AFB office to find Donna had tried to reach me there. She had left a message, “Mr. Abbey at NASA called this morning and wants you to call him back.” George Abbey was chief of Flight Crew Operations Directorate (FCOD), the NASA JSC division that included the astronaut office. He had chaired the astronaut candidate interview boards. I was certain this would be his “thanks for the effort” call.
    I dialed the number and got Abbey’s secretary. After a moment of holding (more proof of rejection) he came on the line. “Mike, are you still interested in coming to JSC as an astronaut?”
    In the moments that followed I proved it is possible to live with a stopped heart. Over the previous hour I had built a precise rejection scenario. The women on TV were proof NASA had notified the lucky winners. (Actually, the women had been notified first so there would be thorough news coverage of their novelty.) Now, NASA was just following up with courtesy calls to the rest of us. But George’s lead-in question certainly didn’t sound like a prelude to a rejection.
    There wasn’t enough spit in my mouth to wet a stamp but somehow I managed to croak a reply, “Yes, sir. I would definitely be interested in coming to JSC.”
    Interested?! What the hell was I saying?! I was interested in having Hugh Hefner’s job. I would kill to be an astronaut.
    Abbey continued, “Well, we’d like you to report here in July as a new astronaut candidate.”
    I don’t recall anything else from that conversation. I was blind, deaf, and dumb with joy. NASA had selected Mike Mullane as an astronaut.
    I immediately called Donna with the news. “I told you! I told you, Mike! Didn’t I always say everything would work out for the best? I told you!” And she had. Again and again she had. She had never lost faith. I wanted so much to be with her to share in the thrill, but it wasn’t to be. I wouldn’t be home for another couple days.
    I called my mom and dad and they were as stunned as I. My dad and I laughed as we reminisced about launching my homemade rockets. I could sense that my mom, ever the pragmatic parent, was already anticipating the danger this new job would bring. No doubt her rosary was going to get a workout over the next couple years.
    I called my commander in Florida. After offering his congratulations, he said Brewster Shaw and Dick Covey, both test pilots in the squadron, had also gotten Abbey calls. They were in. But other pilots were receiving rejection calls. I hurt for them. But not for long. My boundless, intoxicating joy roared back.
    That night I bought beer for the rest of my Mt. Home AFB office and included them in my celebration. At that particular moment I was glad I was away from my home squadron. Most of the Idaho EF-111 flyers were from the USAF Tactical Air Command and none had applied for the astronaut program. My celebration with them was