It's Only Stamina -originally broadcast on NPR's All Things Considered (August, 2004) We lived near Philadelphia that strange and dream-like year after squeaking out of high school and having a baby. Instantly old, instantly veterans in our own way, veterans of something. Yet too young to drink, too young to vote -- too young. They say you learn from mistakes -- I don't know. We didn't learn much those first few years. We were just young enough, somehow strong enough, to keep standing up each time we got knocked down. That's not intelligence; it's only stamina. Our daughter Kristina had been born with a kidney defect. It was hereditary, from her mother, with an anticipated development of about three years old. It was fixable with an operation, the doctor said. Which insurance plan did we have? This conversation was a lot like I imagine it would be to have your foot stuck tight in a railroad switch -- no train in sight, but you can hear a whistle from around the bend. The US Army said they could take my foot from the track, pay for the operation. "100 percent," the recruiter said. "As long as you marry that girlfriend of yours. We're a Christian organization." I didn't know if he was kidding or not, but we took no chances. On one of the last days we ever lived together, my girlfriend and I got married. I did seventeen weeks of army training, and toward the end of it, at a hospital in the Bronx, Kristina had her operation. She was completely fixed, got a lot of presents, and, best of all, ended up with a scar that was a lot of fun to show to people. She drew me pictures of her scar and wrote me letters. Over the next four years, her mother helped with the hard words in my ever-changing addresses: Fort Knox, Fort Eustis, Mogadishu, Port-au-Prince. Once, when I was home on leave, I helped her with some of her kindergarten homework. She put her arms around me and gave me a big kiss and said, "Oh Daddy, you're the smartest Daddy in the whole world." Little girl, I thought, there's no intelligence here. It's only stamina.