Human

I was a strange child; I think I was born an adult. My parents divorced when I was 18 months old, and my dad raised me as a single father. He wasn’t exactly the soft, nurturing type. He was a former university football coach, and he hard-wired me for achievement.

Thanks to Dad, wake-up calls were at six o’clock every morning. Not by a loving tap on the shoulder or even the sound of a radio alarm. No, I was awakened each morning by the repetitious pile driving sound of iron pounding on the concrete floor of our garage, situated next to my bedroom. It was like waking up 12 feet from a construction zone. He’d painted a huge “No pain, no gain” sign on the wall of the garage, which he stared at while he did countless old-school strongman dead lifts, power cleans, lunges and squats. Rain, sleet or shine, Dad was out there in his shorts and tattered sweatshirt. He never missed a day. You could set your watch by his routine.

I had more chores than a housekeeper and gardener put together. Upon returning from school, there was always a list of instructions to greet me: pulling weeds, raking leaves, sweeping the garage, dusting, vacuuming, dishes, you name it. And getting behind in school wasn’t tolerated. That’s just the way it was.

Dad was the original “no excuses” guy. We weren’t ever allowed to stay home from school sick. Unless we were actively puking, bleeding or “showing bone.” The term “showing bone” came from his coaching days; his players knew they weren’t allowed to come out of the game unless they were seriously injured. One time his quarterback asked to be pulled out of the game. Dad said, “Not unless you’re showing bone.” The quarterback pulled back his shoulder pad, and sure enough, his collarbone was showing. Only then was he allowed to come off the field.

One of Dad’s core philosophies was: “It doesn’t matter how smart you are or aren’t, you need to make up in hard work what you lack in experience, skill, intelligence or innate ability. If your competitor is smarter, more talented or experienced, you just need to work three or four times as hard. Who cares—you can still beat them!” No matter what the challenge, he taught me to make up in hard work where I might be disadvantaged. Miss free throws at the game? Do 1,000 free throws every day for a month. Not good at dribbling with your left hand? Tie your right hand behind your back and dribble three hours a day. Behind in your math? Hunker down, hire a tutor, and work like hell all summer until you get it. No excuses. If you aren’t good at something, work harder, work smarter. He walked his talk, too. Dad went from being a football coach to a top salesperson. From there he became the boss and ultimately went on to own his own company.

But I wasn’t given loads of instruction. From the beginning, Dad let us figure it out. He was all about taking personal responsibility. He didn’t hammer on us every night about homework; we just had to show up with the results. And, when you did, you were celebrated. If we got good grades, Dad took us to Prings, an ice cream parlor where you could get these king banana splits—six scoops of ice-cream and all the fixings! Many times my siblings didn’t fare as well in school so they didn’t get to go. Getting to go was a big deal, so you worked your butt off to win the trip.

Dad’s discipline served as an example for me. Dad was my idol, and I wanted him to be proud of me. I also lived in fear of disappointing him. One of his philosophies is: “Be the guy that says ‘no.’ It’s no great achievement to go along with the crowd. Be the unusual guy, the extraordinary guy.” That’s why I never did drugs—he never harped on me about it, but I didn’t want to be that guy who just went along because everyone else was doing it. And, I didn’t want to let Dad down.

Thanks to Dad, by age 12, I’d mastered a schedule worthy of the most efficient CEO. I could lie and say I hated it. Sometimes I griped and moaned (I was a kid!), but even then I secretly liked knowing that I had an edge over my classmates. Dad gave me a serious head start on the discipline and mentality it takes to be dedicated and responsible, to achieve whatever I set out to achieve. (It’s no accident that the tagline of SUCCESS magazine is “What Achievers Read.” I wrote that!)

Today Dad and I joke about what an addictive overachiever he trained me to be. At 18, I was making a six-figure income in my own business. By age 20, I owned my own home in an upscale neighborhood. By age 24, my income grew to over $1 million a year, and by age 27, I was officially a self-made millionaire with a business that was doing more than $50 million in revenue. That just about brings us to the present day because I’m not yet 40, but I have enough money and assets to last my family the rest of my life.

“There are lots of ways to screw up a kid,” Dad says. “At least my way was a pretty good one! You’ve seemed to do pretty well.” So, while I admit that I’ve had to practice sitting on my hands and being present in the moment, or chilling out peacefully in a beach chair from time to time (without taking a pile of business books or self-improvement CDs with me), I’m grateful for the success skills I learned from my dad and my other mentors along the way.

The Compound Effect reaveals the “secret” behind my success. I’m a true believer in the Compound Effect because my Dad made sure that I lived it, each and every day, until I couldn’t live any other way if I tried.