It was February, 1994. I had left the opening ceremony at the Lillehammer, Norway, Winter Olympic Games to join Phil Crosby at a Quality Conference in Kingston, Jamaica.

The audience consisted of the key decision makers in Jamaica. Phil Crosby was in rare form.

"Zero defects!" he thundered from the lectern, "there is no other way".

Most of us knew Jamaica. Not much seemed to work on that day: Brown-outs, traffic signals, my credit card at the hotel.

A question came from the audience: "Where do we start in Jamaica?"

Phil Crosby: "Sir! Did you put on your socks this morning?"

"Yes." "Zero defects!" The audience member brightened a bit. At least he could get his socks on.

"Did you arrive at work?"

"Yes".

"Zero defects!" Crosby was on a roll. He was charming the socks off of everybody.

The audience member was living a life of perfection. The problem seemed to be how to translate this to the brown-outs, traffic signals and my credit card.

It was my turn.

I asked Phil Crosby: "Would you like to take out all the variation in your marriage?"

His wife was sitting front row and center. She shook her head vigorously.

Crosby was momentarily befuddled.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"The perfect marriage would have no defects in any of its aspects. Innovation, change, and experimentation are all loaded with potential defects."

The MC went to a break. Phil Crosby and I had a meeting of minds. Mr. Crosby, who passed away some 7 years later, was one of the dominant figures in the Quality field.

I suppose I reacted a bit to a process the true goal of which, as Martin Seligman 1 says, is zero. Most of us would like to strive for a positive number. But that would be "on the other side" of zero.

That's where you find innovation, and change, and Yankee ingenuity.

The night before, I had witnessed the splendor of an Olympic Opening Ceremony.

We had been engaged in the planning of the Winter Olympic Games, and I knew how hard everyone had worked to run a zero defects event. One of the highlights of the Opening Ceremony was a skier jumping into the night with an Olympic torch blazing.

It was a hazardous athletic task, and required both courage and precision. It was the kind of jump that it would take to win Olympic gold.

The day before the ceremony the designated jumper fell and was too injured to participate in the festivities. The reserve skier didn't have much time to prepare.

An opening ceremony proceeds along a track that gradually builds towards a dramatic event. This event is always the same - the lighting of the Olympic torch.

None of us will ever forget Muhammad Ali trying to control his Parkinson's disease at the Atlanta Olympics, as he lifted his trembling torch towards the giant flame in waiting.

On the top of the hill at Lillehammer was a white clad skier with his Olympic torch in hand. The hill had a lit track, but nothing but darkness awaited him after he pushed off from the jump itself.

He set off. The audience held its breath. It was an act of uncommon courage.

Starting to soar, all that we could see was the torch flying through the darkness. We knew there were aerodynamic forces at work that could topple the skier and send him head first into the hill. That was exactly what had happened the night before.

He landed flawlessly. He turned beautifully in front of a line of dignitaries, spraying them with the newly fallen snow. He handed the torch to Crown Prince Haakon Magnus of Norway, who sprinted up the VIP stand and lit the torch.

Behind the stand, a wall of flame rose. It was the start of the fireworks that now seemed to celebrate the courage of the young skier who was to become a symbol for the Lillehammer Games.

Acts of courage, innovation, and change lift the human spirit and move us forward. It is an act that is fraught with challenges and hazards. No one knows what will happen - we all hold our breaths. We all know that if it works, we shall cross that invisible line to the other side of zero.