The Z Factor: How to Get the Life You Dream of With The Law of Extraordinary Effort

By Edwin Sprague

"When I grow up I wanna be a musician, an NFL quarterback, a CEO, a….”

How’s that childhood dream working out?

Most of us learn to discard our “outlandish” childhood dreams as we mature. It’s part of growing up, right?

No, you can still sell millions of your invention, be a company president, become an author, or sign an NFL contract—anything, anytime, regardless of your experience or education. Edwin J. Sprague has...in fact, he’s done them all!

Unlike the Law of Attraction, The Z Factor is anything but elusive or indescribable. “Z” is the extraordinary effort ordinary people can generate to turn dreams into reality.

Is it time to finally be what you dreamt you’d be when you grew up? If so, it’s time to harness the absolute power of Z. No affirmations here—just humorous, motivating, and gritty stories about:

Why too much learning can kill your dreams, and how Tactical Ignorance keeps them alive.

Raising your ZQ (ballsy [ball-zee] quotient) and introducing your ideas to life’s realities.

A Perpetual Motion Machine and the 10 tactics that'll take you to the next level—repeatedly

Landing a whale (QVC), Feeding the Tuna Mayo, N.Y. Jets Meat, Professor Backwards, It Ain’t Easy Being Seven at My Age... and much more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Career Press
• Release date: Nov 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781601635532

Edwin Sprague

Committed to living all of his dreams, Edwin J. Sprague once accepted a $20,000 trial job offer and, in less than five years, became the corporation's president, managing high-profile, celebrity-endorsed product distribution for direct merchandising titans QVC and American Telecast Corporation. Taking one of those little ideas we all get but don't know what to do with, he became an award-winning inventor, selling nearly 2 million units around the globe. He also signed an NFL free-agent player's contract with the New York Jets and fulfilled his dream to become a published author. Married with two sons, he resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia. For more information, go to Getballzee.com.

Book preview

Preface

I, Me, My: Some Explainin'

I. Me. My. Three little words with enormous potential to rub people the wrong way. We all know the dude at the party who double-parks his sports convertible at the end of the host's driveway—the same self-absorbed, back-patting specimen who winds up double-parked in your grill.

Periscope up! Searching...searching...searching. Over here! HELP!! Someone—anyone—please MAKE HIM STOP!

I think this sufficiently defines the challenge ahead of me. I have a lot to share, and these three little words not only have the potential to rub you the wrong way; they rub me the wrong way, even as I try to explain my use of them. There you have it: all three. Unavoidable, I'm afraid. So as I move ahead I'll try to keep in mind my buddy John, who likes to joke, Well, enough about me. What do you think about me? I'll do my best to offer the humble perspective of an average guy who has made a life out of taking a shot at something more than average living—without rubbing you the wrong way—the sort of everyday dreams and extraordinary journeys of an ordinary man ride-along. Even so, these stories of lessons learned and principles applied force me to give you the dreaded I treatment. So if you can swallow this preamble as a preemptive apology for my own unavoidable back-patting then perhaps you'll find this to be, at the very least, entertaining. But maybe, just maybe, these stories of everyday imaginings and the extraordinary journeys they have launched will inspire, teach, and drive you toward that which is worthwhile in your life—toward getting the life you want.

Introduction

Get Your Z On

Try this on for size:

When I grow up I wanna be ________________.

Go ahead—fill in the blank. What was it you wanted to be?

Fast-forward to today. Now let's try this one:

What I really want is ______________________.

What do you really want? And, how's it workin' out?

I keep hearing on the news and reading in the papers that the American dream is in danger. NEWSFLASH: The American dream has always been in danger. Always will be. The American idea is an evolutionary blossom that has taken life and limb to be. So, yeah, there's danger.

Early explorers faced death and certain calamity not only on the open seas, but also once they landed. News of their unrelenting hardship and misfortune put the dream of voyaging to the New World in jeopardy all over the Old World—for some, but not all. Revolutionaries suffered and perished. The Great Depression saw suicide, famine, and unemployment. Wars shook not only our nation, but the planet. Real estate, banking, and dot-com bubbles burst. The American dream is always in danger! How much depends on just how dangerous the times are. But never, ever have the times kept dreamers from taking a shot at carving out a piece of the American pie. Scores of ordinary people like you and I have fearlessly settled land; amassed influence and fortune; become musicians, inventors, authors, actors, and athletes; and found the success they've once imagined in both calm and decidedly dangerous times throughout our history—economic or otherwise. So let's drop the danger bit. It's melodramatic. We may be in some difficult and dangerous times these days. But if the times keep you from going after what you want, you weren't all that committed in the first place.

"Dad...now would be the best time to go out there and play," said my son, peering out through the driving rain as booming thunder clapped and bolts of lightning raced across the sky. Thirty boys, six coaches, one umpire, dozens of parents, and one nasty odiferous concoction all hovered beneath a narrow overhang in front of the snack-bar seeking shelter from the danger that lurked. Play wasn't in danger; only the time to play was dangerous. People beneath that overhang were afraid—but not all. Not my 9-year-old.

Hmm, I huffed, as first base, lifted by the torrential downpour, floated off into the dugout.

I want so bad to go out there and slide, Dad.

Who are you?

Are you someone seeking shelter from the storm, or someone looking to get out there and play? Because I have to tell you, now may be the best time to play. And regardless of the times, the question will always remain:

What do you really want?

This book is about that: It's about getting what you want. Not about world-class talent, explorer-like fearlessness, or an indescribable Trump-like influence very few possess. But rather, about the elements that make up that talent, fearlessness, and influence—and more. Elements we all possess. This book is about your Z Factor.

Z—if you engage it, you can get anything you want. Z is the concrete force that drives the elusive, hard-to-describe influential power found in what we've famously come to call the X factor. Not many people have the X factor. You only need watch the television show to realize it. The Z Factor is anything but elusive or indescribable. Z is the extraordinary effort ordinary people generate that produce quantitative results guaranteed to outperform the abstractions in such things as the Law of Attraction and the X factor. Z is your ballsy [ball-zee] quotient—your ZQ. Simply put: You have to Get Ballzee to get what you want. And you don't need to be living in the best of times or have experience to get your Z.

Webster defines the X factor as a hard-to-describe influence or quality; an important element with unknown consequences. Z is a quantitative influence or quality; an essential, fundamental element with known consequences. Unlike the elusive X, Z isn't something very few are born with; it's something everyone has—just something we need to draw out. Z is what creates the influence or effects of X. Master Z, and you don't need X.

So, if you wanna be whatever it is you dreamed you'd be when you grew up, or you're not getting what you really want, today it's time to raise your ZQ. It's time to harness the absolute power of Z. Time to Get Ballzee.

I suppose you're wondering what my qualifications are—what makes an ordinary guy like me an expert. Expert is a pretty loosely used term these days, so I'm not sure that I am. However, I do possess certain fundamental elements—certain duplicable skills I have acquired throughout my life that can help ordinary people experience some pretty extraordinary things. These elements or techniques are nothing in-line with prophetic, highbrow affirmations. If you're looking for that sort of stuff, you're going to be very disappointed. But before I go any further, let me pose a few questions.

How does an ordinary person take one of those million-dollar ideas that just pop into his head while sluggin' a beer and sell nearly 2 million of them? How does a dropout take a six-month, $20,000 trial job offer and become the president of a corporation whose clients include high-profile multi-million-dollar and multi-billion-dollar direct sales titans QVC and American Telecast Corporations—in less than five years? How does a skinny, sandlot dreamer take a childhood fantasy to buckle up with the big boys get his shot and sign an NFL free-agent player's contract—with little more than sandlot experience? How does an attention-deficient remedial reader become an author? How does any ordinary, everyday Joe do any of these things in either the best or worst of times?

Before I answer, tell me: Do you know anybody who doesn't dream of at least one of these things, or something very similar? I've got 10 bucks that say you don't. I've got 20 that say you're dreaming of something similar right now!

If you want to take a shot at living the life you dream, you're going to have to get your Z on. That's what I did. I don't shy away from my dreams. I'm committed to them—all of them. In fact, I was that skinny sandlot player who signed that NFL free-agent player's contract; it was me that became an award-winning inventor selling nearly 2 million of my inventions; me, the remedial dropout that became the president of my company and the author of two books. And I didn't start out on these journeys with a list of resources like impressive credentials, world-class talent, influence, or money—as you now know. In fact, my education and qualifications were ridiculously inadequate, if not non-existent. And experience? Experience is earned, not prearranged. You see, these journeys all started like they would for any guy like me, like you, like us average everyday guys. (Note: In Philly, from where I come, guys, mean gals, too. Youse guys got that.) Of course, you do need to acquire certain resources to pull this sort of stuff off. But how do guys like us find them? And what do we do with them when we do?

On the pages ahead, I'll tell funny, motivating, and gritty stories that led to the lessons, principles, tools, techniques, and strategies I've discovered that, when applied, unearth an enormous number of resources—resources that will raise your ZQ and turn you into someone who gets what he or she wants. I'll teach you to overcome undue challenge, gain influence, and ultimately garner the formidable weapons that lead to the experiences in life guys like us want—the life we dream. I'll expose for you the things I did and the fundamental elements I applied—firsthand. No theories. No certified or accredited trainers' tutorials. Just authentic accounts of the things I did that will help get you the things you want.

Now, let's get your Z on.

1

Divine DeZign

Z-1

Raise Your Expectations

Giving some consideration to my friends, family, and the overwhelming majority of people I know, I suddenly find myself curious about something rather obvious. They're average. There's an exception here or there. But for the most part, they're just like me: standard-issue middle class. Good-humored, happy-go-lucky, wide around the middle, hard-working, well-intentioned wonderful shlubs—the whole lot of us. I'll bet it's the same for you. Anyhow, curiosity has me wondering how it's possible there are so many powerful, wealthy, and accomplished people running around and seemingly so few, if any at all, in the average Joe's circle. Is it that accomplished types run in exclusive packs and wherever they are—it's only where they are? What about Joes? Do Joes tend to hang only with Joes? There's no need to fry my pint-sized brain on this one because in less time than it takes to knot my shoes I can tell you: Yes, we run in packs. We can't help it. For a variety of compounded, if not confounded reasons there's an imperceptible cooperative force that keeps folks keen on sticking to their own. We self-segregate. We buy into the belief that we have little or nothing in common.

Or do we?

Twelve of us huddled together in the corner of the end zone. We were the last standing survivors of Coach Fortunato's and Coach McHugh's legendary Marine Corps boot camp for 115-pound youth football. Each summer, without fail, these two hard-ass drill instructors blistered and chased off scores of teenage boys before kickoff of the first preseason game. Their tactics produced perennial winners that oozed character. But not many characters. Only a handful of kids made the grade—kids as hard as nails. They called us The Dirty Dozen.

It was our first preseason game and we ventured far from our hardscrabble row home neighborhood out into the rarefied domain of the privileged, to take on a team in a heavier weight division. Well into the voyage, off in the distance, I spotted a sports complex atop endless, gently sloping hills. I supposed the oasis was our destination. Driving on, we wound our way through miles of countryside sprinkled with extravagant homes spread so wide I couldn't help but wonder if those who lived there were of royal blood. I could have never imagined so much open space. Turning into the enemy's den, our five-car Chevy caravan rolled slowly over a stone-covered parking lot toward a mass of people who didn't bother so much as to look up to avoid us. The lot was littered with Cadillacs, Lincolns, and BMWs. Someone in the backseat mumbled, We ain't in Folcroft anymore. Butterflies filled the void in my empty belly when beyond the cars, at the far end of the field, I made an alarming observation. Our challenger was not only bigger in size, but bigger in numbers—much bigger.

We were about to mix it up with the rich kids. Big rich kids. A lot of big rich kids. They lived in big homes on rolling hills; we, in row houses on narrow streets. The contrast between our worlds was as obvious as the absent sidewalks. Their facility was magnificent. Goal posts were padded and matched their team colors. Tall bleachers stretched the length of the sidelines. And grass. As if having it wasn't enough, it was lush and green and covered every square inch of field. Not a single bald spot or mud puddle. It was even painted and lined with hash marks and numbers. It was a spectacle as grand as the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.

They were the champs out in those parts and we had never lost more than a single game in any one season—never. But we had never been out to that part of the world. We felt misplaced, outclassed, unworthy. But with only moments until kickoff, there we stood in the end zone, 12 dirt-faced 13-year-old kids sweating profusely under battle-worn helmets in the August sun—12 to their 40.

Our coaches were sticklers—supreme disciplinarians who demanded self-respect. Our old white uniforms were bleached bright, our black spikes polished, and our marred helmets buffed to a dull shine. It was the code: clean, polish, tuck, and prepare for games. Look like winners. Still, the teams at either end zone looked much different. They were tall and confident as they roared and then raced onto the field. We were silent and still. Coaches Fortunato and McHugh insisted on quiet confidence. No cheerleading, just playing. We watched from one knee as our challengers chanted at midfield before the home crowd.

Who we gonna beat?

Folcroft!

Who are we?

Bulldogs!

Watching alongside us, Coach Fortunato slowly, deliberately turned and looked us over. Pointing at our adversary, Do you see those boys? We looked into his fiery eyes. Do you know how they put their pants on? He hesitated, and then pointed at Gene Sullivan. Just like you: one leg at a time. He pointed at Mike Needleman. Just like you: one leg at a time. He pointed at each of us, addressed us individually. Just like you: one leg at a time.

Put our pants on one leg at a time. Coach Fortunato was right. We do have a lot in common. Wealthy, average, powerful, or underprivileged, we all put our pants on the same way. Deep inside we're all the same. We all hold, at the very core, common ingredients. It's the complexity of Divine Design. We're all endowed with everything required to meet our own expectation—no matter how big.

You see, expectation is a lure that draws out your potential. Expecting to see a dream come to life is the key that unlocks the essential elements that bring a dream to life. Sure, being born into wealth, power, or privilege is an advantageous ingredient, but not an essential one. These ingredients have nothing to do with Divine Design. These are only inherited ingredients a select class holds, not the inherent ingredients we all hold. It points to one absolute truth: Dreams don't qualify dreamers; dreamers qualify dreams.

So whether one is wealthy, common, powerful, or underprivileged, anything is possible for anyone. After all, not every powerful person was born in a castle with a silver spoon, any more than every homeless person was born on the street without a dream.

At a book signing, a guy who I'd guess to be about 25 was complaining about how difficult it is for the common people these days. He rambled on about competition, overcrowded markets, the economy, and the cost of things. His list and whining was endless. I wasn't buying. The common man can have anything he wants. Despite his perception, there has never been a better time to be average. Today, everyday Americans have more tools at their disposal than at any other time in history. I'll buy this. If you're not willing to do the heavy lifting, it's difficult to get ahead. Always has been. Besides, I'm not talking about getting ahead. I'm talking about taking a shot at your dreams—about getting the life you want.

It's unfortunate that regular folks who take a shot at their dreams are perceived (by regular Joes) to hold certain super-regular ingredients. These ordinary people and their super-regular ingredients, or qualities, are believed to be somehow different than the rest of the Joes in the thundering throng. It's because the throng has grown to be a segregator. The throng collectively discriminates against the powerful, wealthy, accomplished, and even super-regulars. I can't say that I understand, because the everyday dreams of everyday folks are ever so similar—and within reach. It's just that some, like me, have figured ways to take a shot at them.

I work those everyday dreams into every day of my life. It's what I do and who I've become. I don't possess super-regular qualities—as you'll come to find out. What I do possess, are high expectations, an extraordinary work ethic, and guts—a lot of guts.

The second of four children, I was raised in row houses in the tough blue-collar neighborhoods of Southwest Philly and Folcroft. My old neighborhood, like most, was teeming with little kids. I believed, just like every other child in the neighborhood, that dreams came true for kids like us—regardless of the lack of proof that surrounded us. I don't think it ever crossed our minds that we were ordinary kids born into a blue-collar existence any more than the kids in those big houses on rolling hills considered their white-collar privilege. We were just little kids with big dreams.

I don't know what happened to that guy who was talking to me at the book signing, but he was surely someone who lost touch with the big dreamer from the old neighborhood. I have had the unique fortune, though certainly not the unique opportunity, to have spent more than three decades hunting down each of my ideas, and have experienced firsthand that dreams can come true for all of us who have an expectation and the mettle to see them through. Whether you're the son of a plumber or the daughter of a hairdresser, you can only get the life you dream if you have the guts to take a shot at it.

I want to help you do that. And I think I can.

Because when you boil it down, we're all the same, average everyday American dreamers—all wonderful shlubs, the whole lot of us. If there's anything that separates us, it's what each of us is willing, or not willing, to do to get what we want. Not whether you're born in or out of privilege, or whether you're one of an infinitesimal number of people on the planet blessed with some indescribable influence or element like the X factor. Divine Design makes possible the potential for everyone, ordinary or otherwise, to meet extraordinary expectations—provided, and only provided you're willing to execute the extraordinary effort required to generate the opportunity high expectations bait. This is what the Z factor is all about—it's about influence—about acquiring power over what you want. Z is the extraordinary effort ordinary people generate that produce quantitative results guaranteed to outperform the abstraction in phenomenon like the mystical X factor or the Law of Attraction. Z is your ballsy [ball-zee] quotient—your ZQ. You don't have to have experience to get your Z on. But you do have to Get Ballzee and apply certain fundamentals and execute on the extraordinary effort that makes up your Z Factor.

Oh yeah, 6–0, we beat the Bulldogs.

2

Dream Big

Z-2

Take a Shot

My breath heavy, my mouth dry, each beat of my heart like a hammer against my chest. This is it. Run straight. Don't weave. Forty yards out stood my judge and jury, a man and his stopwatch. Breathe. Breathe. I shook out my legs, loosened my shoulders and neck. Five blue-chip Division I football prospects had already run and paid me no mind. It was just me, the man, and the watch. I glanced down and chuckled uneasily at the sight of my black cleats planted in the end-zone turf. I was the only guy there—probably anywhere—wearing black spikes in those days. They were all I could afford. Lifting my face skyward, I closed my eyes and pictured myself streaking past the watch. Then, squaring my shoulders, I arched forward and reached for the goal line when suddenly something important occurred to me. Shuffling three yards over onto the wide, painted sideline, I thought, This'll help me run straight. The man down field glanced at the watch before moving to accommodate my shift. I took another deep breath. Reaching for the painted grass, my head still, my body coiled, I was ready.

This was it. One shot. The man with the watch was Jim Royer, pro personnel director for the New York Jets. Years of preparation, thousands of 40-yard dashes, miles of