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In the early 1980s, the Soviet Union began letting
some of its citizens emigrate to the United States. A surprisingly large
number of those that came over were talented engineers, drafts-people
and factory production workers. One company in Buffalo, New York, hired
a number of the Russian immigrants to work in their factory.
To make their transition to America a little easier, the company’s CEO
and his wife would invite the Russian employees’ families over to their
house to celebrate various holidays during the year. Gregory (a new
employee) came with his family, including little Max, his ebullient
three-year-old son. There were about twenty people there for dinner. The
adults congregated in the living room while the kids played tag in the
kitchen, running circles around the kitchen table, which was piled high
with food and drink.
The table had no chairs—they were all in the living room. The kids
didn’t care. They were having fun chasing Max. He was frustrated because
his size made him an easy target.
Max came up with a plan. First, as fast as his little feet would carry
him, he headed to the living room. The other kids gave pursuit, tearing
their way through the crowd. They were gaining on him. Max didn’t
hesitate. He turned and headed back to the kitchen. The parents watched,
aghast, as Max headed directly for the kitchen table. He wasn’t slowing
down.
Max didn’t miss a step. He ran at full speed right under the table, the
tabletop missing his head by less than an inch. It was a triumph that
the other kids would never forget. It was like an action movie, where
the hero’s car just fits into the tunnel while the evildoers crash into
the overpass.
The question I’ve asked myself a million times is this: “How did Max
know he’d fit?” What if he had hit the table? It goes against all our
instincts to pull a stunt like that—because we’re grownups.
The answer, it turns out, is simple. Max didn’t know. All he knew was
that if he was going to pull this stunt off, he’d have to do it at full
speed. Feeling it out, going slow just to be sure it would be okay, was
a compromise that would make the entire effort worthless.
Max’s lesson wasn’t wasted on his audience. Years later, when the
company was faced with the opportunity to buy a computer-controlled
laser cutter, they had three choices. The obvious, safe choice was to
let the competition go first and see what would happen, then follow
along if it worked. The second, compromised choice was to buy the cheap,
mediocre cutter and see if it made sense to eventually buy the right
machine. Third, the company could invest 25 percent of its equity and
buy the cutter that would do the job.
What would Max do? They bought the big cutter. It saved the company.
Sometimes, compromise is worse than doing nothing, and leaping into the
unknown with all the enthusiasm and naiveté of a toddler is the best
thing you can do.
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