I was stuck at a red light. It wasn't a particularly long light. But I remember the moment because it was dark and it was quietâthe first moment of quiet on the day my son Jonas was born.

And there I was, stuck at this red light.

It was one of those moments where you sit outside your bodyâlike your first kiss, or that first time someone in your family diesâand you're looking down, knowing that the moment is so personally vital that the only way to comprehend it is to witness it from somewhere else.

So as I sat there, gripping the steering wheel of our little banged-up car, I remember looking up at the crisp black sky and thinking about this baby boy we were just blessed with. That's when it hit meâand when I asked myself the question for the very first time: what kind of man did I want my son to be?

I have three children now. I've long since realized I have little say in the matter.

But I still love that moment. That pure, beautiful moment where you get to think about your newborn child and every door and every possibility is just waiting there, perfectly open. You can dream as big as you want in that moment. That baby of yours may be the future president of the United States, or a creative genius, or a big thinker, or, best yet, the kind of person who leaves the world better than he found it.

It's a moment where there are no limits or detours or any of the restrictions that reality eventually brings. And it was in that moment of unbridled love and pure naÃ¯vetÃ© that this book was born.

I decided right there that I'd write this book over the course of my son's lifeâthat I'd fill it with advice and good ideas. I started that very night, writing the instructions he needed to be a good man:

1. Love God.
2. Be nice to the fat kid in class.

The plan was that I'd add more ideas throughout his lifetime, and then one day, when he was older, he'd thank me, realizing what a brilliant father I was. (I'd assumed Cat Stevens would be playing in the background. Norman Rockwell would of course be resurrected to paint the moment.)

It was the day my son was born. I'm allowed mushy.

And so, on that day, I began this book.

Of course it was crap.

Sure, there was some good advice in there. But most of it was just sentimental manureâthe ramblings of someone who clearly had never been a parent. I mean, did I really think that if I said, “Be good,” my son would
be good
?

So I started thinking about my own life: Where did I learn kindness? Who taught me about the benefits of patience? I didn't have to look far. Sure, my mom and dad had laid the foundation. But when I thought of my first real hero, the person who came to mind was my grandfather, Ben Rubin.

When I was little, my grandfather knew I loved hearing Batman stories, so he'd always tell me this one story that went like this: “Batman and Robin were in the Batmobile. And they were riding along the edge of a curving cliff. And up ahead of them was a white van, which held the Joker, the Penguin, the Riddler, and Catwoman. And as they drove along this cliff, Batman and Robin
caught them
.”

That's when I'd look him right in the eyes and whisper, “Tell it again.”

He'd smile at me and say, “Batman and Robin were in the Batmobile. And they were riding along the edge of a curving cliffâ¦.”

And when it was done, I'd say, “Tell it again.”

And he would.

It was the same story every time. Just four sentences long.
Batman and Robin were in the Batmobileâ¦
. But he told me this story over and over simply because he knew I loved hearing it.

That's a hero to me.

In that action, he taught me about love and compassion and dedication. He taught me the power of creativity. He opened the first window of my imagination. And most of all, as I look back on it, he showed me the true impact of a well-told story.

That's what I wanted for my son.

From there, I started looking for more heroes. I wanted to hear their storiesâthe ones no one knew. It made sense to meâespecially since, as a parent, I know that the
only
lesson we ever teach is the one that comes from example.

One of the first stories I heard was about the Wright brothers. A friend told me that every day when Orville and Wilbur Wright went out to fly their plane, they would bring enough materials for multiple crashes. That way, when they crashed, they could rebuild the plane and try again. Think about it a moment: every time they went outâ
every time
âthey
knew
they were going to fail. But that's what they did: Crash and rebuild. Crash and rebuild. And that's why they finally took off.

I
loved
that story. I
still
love that story. And
that's
the kind of story I wanted my son to hear: a story that wouldn't lecture to him, but would show him that if he was determinedâ¦if he wasn't afraid to failâ¦if he had persistence (and a side order of stubbornness)â¦the impossible becomes possible.

Since that time, I've been collecting heroes and their stories for my son. (Though of course, every hero in here is heroic for both boys and girls alike. Every single one.)
There are thousands of heroes. And I think that's what I like best. There is proofâabsolute proofâeverywhere. Look around at any life and you'll find examples of charity and honesty, leadership and humility, tenacity and dignity. These are the tools I want my son to have. And the tools I want my daughter, Lila, to have. (I'm already working on her book.) Indeed, as this book got started, it became triply important: my younger son, Theo, was born. I want these tools for Theo too.

Does that mean every hero in the world is in here? Of course not. I purposely left out most religious leaders so there'd be no battling among faiths.

You'll see heroes you know, like Jim Henson and Eleanor Roosevelt. There are others who are not as well known, like Frank Shankwitz and Barbara Johns. And there are others who seem almost ridiculously obvious, like George Washington and Rosa Parks. But to be clear, this is not a book about fame. Thomas Jefferson isn't in here just because he wrote the Declaration of Independence. He's in here because he didn't publicize that fact (indeed, it didn't become common knowledge that he was the author until years after he was president), showing the kind of modesty that I want my sons to know about.

This isn't a book about how to be rememberedâit's a book about how we live our lives, and what we are capable of on our very best days.

Is that schmaltzy and naive? I hope so. Because I want my sons to learn those things too.

We all are who we areâuntil that moment when we strive for something greater.

In the end, I suppose there are easier ways to share life's most valuable lessons with my sons. There were moments when I thought about doing it Mr. Miyagi style and teaching it through karate. But I don't know karate. And so I do the only thing I know how to do: I tell a story. Just like my grandfather taught me all those years ago.

BRAD MELTZER

Fort Lauderdale, Florida, 2009

â
INNOVATORS
â
the wright brothers

Inventors of the world's first flying machine.

When it was time to try building the first flying machine, Samuel Langley had incredible resources and tens of thousands in funding. Bicycle salesmen Orville and Wilbur Wright had a flying toy their father gave them as children and a dream they refused to give up on. Guess who won?

E
very day, they knew they'd fail.

Every time they'd go out to flyâ
every time
âthey brought extra materials because they knew their fledgling design would crash.

Crash and rebuild. Crash and rebuild.

But never ever, ever give up.
*

If we worked on the assumption that what is accepted as true really is true, then there would be little hope for advance.

âOrville Wright