Robin Sharma - Leadership Wisdom from the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari - The 8 Rituals of the Best Leaders

“You have no idea who I am, do you, Peter?” he asked in a friendly tone.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t. And if you don’t tell me now, I’m going to kick your sorry behind down the hallway and out into the parking lot,” I yelled menacingly.

“I see you still have that temper, Peter. We’ll need to work on that. I’ll bet it doesn’t help you win the loyalty of your team. And I know it does nothing but hurt your golf game, which never was that good,” said the young man, breaking into a laugh.

“Do you have any idea who you are talking to, you arrogant little troublemaker?” I screamed, disregarding the fact that the mysterious stranger was well over six feet tall and in superb physical condition. “How dare you chastise me for my temper? And how do you know so much about my golf game? If you’ve been following me around, I’m definitely getting the police to charge you. That’s a very serious offense you know,” I noted, whipping myself into a frenzy that caused me to sweat profusely once again.

Then the young man did something that astonished me. He lifted his hand and reached deep into his robe, pulling out what appeared to be a gold-plated golf ball. He then tossed it high into the air for me to catch. “I thought you might want it back,” he remarked, still smiling.

I was stunned by the object now resting in the palm of my hand. For the golf ball carried an inscription: To Julian on your fiftieth birthday, a golden golf ball for the man who has it all. It was signed: Your friend always, Peter. How did the young man get this ball? I had given it to my former golfing partner, Julian Mantle, a few years ago. Julian had been a legend in the business world and one of the few friends I had been able to keep over the years. A man with an absolutely brilliant mind, he was widely acknowledged as one of the finest lawyers in the country. Unlike me, he had come from money, his grandfather being a prominent senator and his father, a highly respected judge of the Federal Court. Groomed for success at an early age, Julian graduated number one in his class at Harvard Law School and then landed a coveted position with a spectacularly successful law firm.

He rose to national prominence within a few short years, and his blue-chip client list included multibillion-dollar corporations, major sports teams and even leading governments. In his heyday, he managed a team of eighty-five talented lawyers and won a string of legal victories, which, to this day, causes me to marvel. With an income well into the seven figures, he had everything anyone could want: a mansion in a tony neighborhood favored by celebrities, a private jet, a summer home on a tropical island and his most prized possession of all—a shiny red Ferrari parked in the center of his driveway. But, like me, Julian had his flaws.

He worked like a fiend, regularly working through the night and then catching a few hours of sleep on the couch in his princely corner office before beginning the daily grind all over again. Though I loved playing golf with him, he was hardly ever available. I mostly heard the same excuse from his executive assistant, “I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin, Mr. Mantle will not be able to join you for golf this week due to an emergency that has come up on one of his cases. He does apologize.” The man pushed himself relentlessly and, over time, lost most of his friends along with his once sympathetic wife.

I honestly thought Julian had a deathwish or something. Not only did he work far too hard, he lived far too hard. He was well-known for his late-night visits to the city’s finest restaurants with sexy young fashion models and for his reckless drinking escapades with a rowdy band of cronies, which often ended up in fights that were splashed across the newspapers the next day. Despite his statements to the contrary, Julian Mantle was digging himself into an early grave. I knew it, the lawyers at his firm knew it and, deep within his soul, I think he knew it.

I watched Julian’s steady decline with a feeling of sadness. At the age of fifty-three, he looked as if he was in his late seventies. The constant stress and strain of his hard-driving lifestyle wreaked havoc on him physically, transforming his face into a mass of wrinkles. The late-night dinners in expensive French restaurants, smoking thick Cuban cigars and drinking cognac after cognac had left him embarrassingly overweight and he constantly complained that he was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Over time, he lost his once wicked sense of humor and rarely laughed. A time eventually came when he stopped playing golf, even though I knew he loved the sport as well as our outings together. With all the work on his plate, Julian even stopped calling me. I knew he needed my friendship as much as I welcomed his, but I guess he just didn’t care.

Then tragedy struck the Great Julian Mantle. One Monday morning, in the middle of the packed courtroom where Julian was arguing a case for one of his best corporate clients, Air Atlantic, he collapsed. Amid the frenzied screams of his paralegal and the clicking cameras of the media that were present, Julian was rushed to the hospital. On arrival, he was diagnosed as having suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed into the coronary care unit. The cardiologist said Julian was as close to death as any patient he had ever seen. But somehow he survived. The doctors said Julian was a fighter and seemed to have “a heroic will to live.”

That sad episode changed Julian profoundly. The very next day, he announced he was leaving the practice of law for good. I’d heard through the grapevine that Julian had headed off to India on some kind of expedition. He told one of his partners he “needed some answers” and hoped he would find them in that ancient land that had, over the centuries, gathered such great wisdom. In a striking act of closure, Julian had sold his mansion, his jet and his private island. However, it was his final gesture before departing that was his most unexpected: Julian sold the Ferrari that he loved so much.

My thoughts quickly returned to the young stranger in the monk’s robes, now standing in the center of my office, still smiling and still wearing the hood over a thick mop of brown hair. “How did you get this gold-plated golf ball?” I asked in a quiet tone. “I gave this to a dear friend of mine a few years ago as a gift for a very special birthday.”

“I know you did,” replied the visitor. “And he really appreciated your gesture.”

“And might I ask how you would know that?” I persisted.

“Because I’m the dear friend. I am Julian Mantle.”

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