The guy that invented heart catheterization was considered, in his time, a nut-case. When he was a trainee, he snuck into the OR and stuck a urinary catheter into the vein in his arm, then walked up two floors to use X-ray to guide the catheter into his heart. He published the procedure in a medical journal. His boss fired him. He dropped out of cardiology. (I’m guessing he didn’t include his boss’ name on the paper.) And then, 27 years later, he won the Nobel Prize for it. Every day in our hospital, the procedure saves people’s lives.

It's not easy to break with the status quo.

When I was a senior in high school, I took a class in poetry from one of the high school’s best English teachers. One of our assignments was to write a poem and to get up in front of the class to read it aloud.

I always got nervous reading in front of people. I took poetry seriously, though, and I wanted to be a poet, a writer, and author. So I earnestly composed a love poem about a girl I liked. I steeled myself the next day and recited my very personal poem in a tremulous voice. The students — those who were not sleeping — were polite but mostly indifferent. We all had the same task, and everyone was tired of hearing the same big clunky words being chiseled and hammered into trite lines of verse. We all tried too hard. My sentiments may have been heartfelt, but my poem was drivel.

A fellow student named Tommy Mullins was in my class. He was a star basketball player and a popular “jock.” He was unusual because he was also the kindest, nicest person in the entire school, treating everyone — whether jock or nerd, popular or geeky — with the same grace and dignity that he had when shooting a jumpshot or making a layup. I admit, though, that before he recited his poem, I did not think that his poem was going to be all that great.

But Tommy Mullins’ poem, well, it was exciting, visceral, musical, rhythmic, and concise. It was so good you could even taste it. Feel it. Hear it. I still remember the poem, in its entirety, 41 years later. And I still love it.

Tommy stood up in class. He was always neatly dressed in a tie and crisp white sneakers. He looked at us with an earnest look, put his hands behind his back, leaned forward and said with confidence, “My poem is entitled ‘Potato Chips.’” Then he paused, looked over our heads and into some distant void, and recited:

“Potato chips!

Potato chips!

Potato chips!”

That was the whole entire poem. People laughed. But I loved it. It was simple, elegant, musical, and short. The teacher said it was lacking. But to me, it was beautiful. I don’t know what ever happened to Tommy. But I do know that his poem is still my favorite.