I then realized my appearance was a bit odd. My right leg was no longer with me. It had caught somewhere in the top of the cockpit as I tried to leave my Spitfire.

He tried to stretch it to a triple, but he gout caught up with the third baseman a little bit and jammed his neck. They ended up having to carry him off the field on a stretcher. It was a scary thing to see.

It wasn't until '94 when I tried to commit suicide that I realized that it wasn't about the money.

I tried being a mechanic and I tried catering, but I realized I had even less aptitude for semi-skilled labour than for academic work.

I'm not keen on cars and motorbikes. I tried to be a biker, but it wasn't me - I bought a Harley-Davidson and dumped it.

I tried acupuncture, the patch, and hypnosis, but found that I needed to do it alone - when the time was right for me.