Guest Blogger: Matt McLaughlin, my brother.

On August 7, 1974 the Frenchman Philippe Petite walked a tightrope between the
World Trade Center towers in New York. He didn’t just walk; as one policeman who
witnessed the scene suggested, he “danced”.  In a span of over 40 minutes,
Petite skipped, turned, kneeled, ran, and at times even lied down on the
tightrope wire. He traversed the buildings eight times, to the chorus of singing
birds, cursing policemen, whirring helicopters, and gasping onlookers, who
watched a quarter of a mile below.

In spite of the fact that I live in NYC, I was only recently introduced to this
part of my city’s history through Colum McCann’s novel Let the Great World Spin.
The novel led me to the documentary Man on Wire, an intimate account by Petite
and his friends of not just the walk itself, but the preparations that made the
feat possible (just ask yourself – how did they get a 200 pound wire across the
buildings, all while avoiding building security?) as well as the consequences of
the walk (including, somewhat tragically, a gradual separation from the friends
who had helped him).

If I had witnessed the event, I suspect that I would have felt the same morbid
curiosity as the other onlookers. I would have jostled for good viewing
position. I would have cursed any obstructions. I would have compared notes with
other gawkers. I would brag to coworkers that I saw it. I would read the
newspapers with interest. I would have asked the same questions: Why did he do
it? Would he be arrested? Would he do it again? Would New Yorkers honor this
gift, another monument from the French to my city?

These questions would have occupied dinner conversations (much like in McCann’s
novel) and been answered with authority. But, for me, I think they would have no
relevance. That’s because the daredevil persona is further from me than that
high wire atop the twin towers. Staring upwards, I’d see someone wholly other
than me; only sky, not a mirror.

It was in watching Man on Wire that Petite emerged as a face familiar to me. The
face was not mine, but Dan’s, my brother.

I could spend all day writing about the similarities (and differences) between
Petite’s walk and the Dan Plan. The importance of hard work and preparation. The
fact that excellence comes from commitment, not talent. The value of setting
goals. And the fact that all accomplishments, even “individual” ones like
walking a tightrope or winning a golf tournament, depend on the contributions of
many.

I could talk about these things. But I won’t. I’ll let Dan do that part.
Instead, I want to talk about what speaks to me. The inspiration for Petite’s
walk came in the 1960s while waiting in a dentist’s office. Petite picked up a
magazine with a drawing of the yet to be built Towers. At that instant, he knew
his destiny. Tooth pain and all, he ran from the dentist’s office, homebound to
begin preparations.

I live in a world of 401ks, of Balance Sheets, of gains and losses, where
motivations can be parsed, predicted, manipulated, and bought. And in general I
see little mysterious in what makes people tick: narrow self-interest, the need
for positive self-image, and the desire for external validation, just to name a
few. But here is Petite’s case, where a life’s dedication comes from something
not so easily labeled. There’s no business plan, no convenient narrative, no
justification of the why. Only a commitment to tell a new story – his story.

I think the Dan Plan is interesting because it reminds us that there are still
dramatic narratives to be told, ones that aren’t written to fund a retirement
plan. These are important stories, compelling ones, inspiring ones. And in them
we appear as more than just homo economicus. There will be many who see this as
a bad thing. They say: “What? Quit your job? For an unrealistic goal?
Professional golfer? How stupid is that?” But for me it’s comforting and
inspiring. To know that there is still Mystery. There are still those with the
vision and passion to turn over new stones. I think Dan found his story in the
Dan Plan. Perhaps I’ll be inspired to write my own.