After giving a talk at a high school, I was asked to pay a visit to a special student. An illness had kept the boy home, but he had expressed an interest in meeting me. I was told it would mean a great deal to him, so I agreed. During the nine-mile drive to his home, I found out something about Matthew. He had muscular dystrophy  . When he was born, the doctor told his parents that he would not live to five, and then they were told he would not make it to ten. Now he was thirteen. He wanted to meet me because I was a gold-medal power lifter, and I knew about overcoming obstacles and going for my dreams. I spent over an hour talking to Matthew. Never once did he complain or ask, "Why me?" He spoke about winning and succeeding and going for his dreams. Obviously, he knew what he was talking about. He didn't mention that his classmates had made fun of him because he was different. He just talked about his hopes for the future, and how one day he wanted to lift weights with me. When we had finished talking, I went to my briefcase and pulled out the first gold medal I had won and put it around his neck. I told him he was more of a winner and knew more about success and overcoming obstacles than I ever would. He looked at it for a moment, then took it off and handed it back to me. He said, "You are a champion. You earned that medal. Someday when I get to the Olympics and win my own medal, I will show it to you." Last summer I received a letter from Matthew's parents telling me that Matthew had passed away. They wanted me to have a letter he had written to me a few days before: What would be the best title for this passage?
A sick boy. A special friend. A real champion. A famous athlete.