I Got Sick When I Was 19,

He Had No Money And No Home; He Lived Entirely On The Road Of The Racing Circuit, Sleeping In Empty Stalls, Carrying With Him Only A Saddle, His Rosary, And His Books...the Books Were The Closest Thing He Had To Furniture, And He Lived In Them The Way Other Men Live In Easy Chairs.

Every Day After Lunch When I Was Writing My First Book, I'd Nibble A Square Of Fine Chocolate And Meditate On All That Had Gone Into Its Creation: The Sun And Rain That Spilled On The Cocoa Plant, The Soil That Nourished It, The Hands That Picked The Beans, And So On. My Taste Of Chocolate Became A Lesson On The Interconnectedness Of Things, And The Infinite Blessings For Which I Am Grateful.

In Terms Of Writing About Horses, I Fell Backwards Into That. I Was Intent On Getting A Ph.d., Becoming A Professor, And Writing On History But I Got Sick 14 Years Ago When I Was 19. Getting Sick Derailed That Plan Completely

Finally, I Wish To Remember The Millions Of Allied Servicemen And Prisoners Of War Who Lived The Story Of The Second World War. Many Of These Men Never Came Home; Many Others Returned Bearing Emotional And Physical Scars That Would Stay With Them For The Rest Of Their Lives. I Come Away From This Book With The Deepest Appreciation For What These Men Endured, And What They Scarified, For The Good Of Humanity. It Is To Them That This Book {unbroken} Is Dedicated.

In 1938... The Year's #1 Newsmaker Was Not Fdr, Hitler, Or Mussolini. Nor Was It Lou Gehrig Or Clark Gable. The Subject Of The Most Newspaper Column Inches In 1938 Wasn't Even A Person. It Was An Undersized, Crooked-legged Racehorse Named Seabiscuit.