Author: MH3

At the heart of who you are as a person, you will find what truly motivates you.

Is it happiness or sadness? Is it good times or bad? Is it success or failure?

Don’t rush to answer this question. You need to be honest with yourself… truly honest. Think hard about what genuinely motivates you to create change.

My suspicion is that your initial response will be that you believe you are motivated by passion, by achievement, and by belonging. That you are an eternal optimist. A glass-almost-full kind of person.

I don’t believe you have dug deep enough if that is your answer. Try again.

When you dig deep, and truly understand yourself, you start to expose the rawness of what truly inspires you. It is an exercise worth doing, andI believe it is a powerful practice for you when developing your next marketing campaign. (Hopefully, I didn’t lose you with that sharp left turn).

Last week I opened the Infopresse RDV Sponsorship and Event conference addressing this topic. My talk, titled From The Edge of Darkness, is my take on how pain, tension, and suffering can be powerful fodder for the best storytelling.

First of all, I believe a marketing story should do three things: it should Entertain, Educate, and Inspire. The Inspiration is crucial, as it will lead to action.

To create a great story you need many components. You need a heroine faced with a significant challenge. You need stories about how that heroine battled adversity. You need a triumphant moment when they succeed or fail. Then, you need to wrap it all up in a neat and tidy package.

But how do you communicate that great story? I believe that in order to tell a powerful story, you must first know and understand your own. Next, you need to understand the pain and challenges of the person who you are telling that story on behalf of. Lastly, you need to understand what is troubling your audience.

This requires a new approach to briefing, creating, and producing.

Your brief needs to talk about the true pain your audience faces. Why do you care how old they are or how much they make? Wouldn’t you rather know what it is they fear?

Once you know that, it is time to talk about the tensions between your audience and the brand. The first step is to take some time to understand the pain of your coauthors, both personally and professionally. Adding self-discovery to the process will spark new thinking. With the pot now stirred, mine the tension that exists between all the parties – You. The brand. The audience. The brand owner. The agencies and partners. The consumers. The distribution channels.

Finally, it is time to write your story. It should be a movie script. Full stop. Writing a movie script, and sticking to that principle, will ensure you tell a great story. Not just an ad with a nice twist.

Consumers today want brands and companies to operate with a purpose in everything they do. Marketers today claim to be responding to this demand. I have my doubts.

Marketers today claim to be creating authentic content. The words that comprise that sentence disprove this claim.

Marketers today claim to be in touch with what consumers needs. Yet they shy away from things that truly matter.

“Believe in something. Even if it means sacrificing everything. Just Do It.”

I don’t have to show you the NIKE Colin Kaepernick creative to secure your agreement that this was a story truly written from the Edge of Darkness.

There is nothing more powerful than a story well told.

I borrowed this quote from USC football coach Clay Helton as the title for my blog this week.

Today it has multiple meanings for me. It applies so well to many aspects of my life: To my volunteer football coaching. To my role as an entrepreneur. To my role as an investor in a startup. To my new role as a not-for-profit board member. To my role as a boss conducting performance reviews.

Coaching. Managing. Leading. They are roles that are so subject to criticism these days, it’s become an epidemic. I am puzzled as to why.

People need to be held accountable to standards. However, they like to complain if they perceive being micromanaged. They like to complain if they feel their boss is too hard on them. They like to complain if their boss changes their mind.

Why all the complaints?

Perhaps the boss is micromanaging as a result of your demonstration that you’re not yet ready to lead. Perhaps business circumstances have changed, meaning that direction and strategy need to follow suit. Perhaps your boss isn’t being hard on you, but merely raising expectations because they believe you have the talent to do more.

While people like to complain about being managed, lead, or coached, they are also quick to seek out “mentorship”. Everyone wants a mentor these days. An older advisor. A soul mate. A pal.

Mentorship today has become a cop out. It’s a place where people can seek feedback that they can pick and choose from, based on what suits their liking. Sure, the best coaching, managing, or leading includes mentorship. Being a good mentor is as simple as being a good listener. Equally as vital for a good boss. A bad mentor, and a bad boss, doesn’t listen or hear your point of view.

But make no mistake, being a good listener doesn’t mean your boss is always going to agree with you. They usually have information, experience, or insights that you don’t. So let’s stop being so offended when they set a direction or a course of action. Very few bosses are picking a course of action to be intentionally stupid or mean, as you no doubt have accused them of behind their back.

Today I borrow Coach Helton’s words to reframe the discussion. Instead of finding a reason to complain, you should be grateful that your boss, coach, leader, manager is taking the time to provide you direction. To me, nothing could be worse than being ignored.

Love,

Mh3

Hello.

I am not sure how many of you know what today is?

It’s our birthday! Yep, the T1 Agency is twenty-four years old today! Let me say that in Canadian, we are Two-Four.

On May 16th, 1994 I had hair, a beagle named Buddy, an office in my home, a bad suit, a Macintosh Duo computer, a car phone, a CompuServe email address with an empty address book, a business card with an embossed Trojan head as a logo, a green BMW, a large mortgage, a staff phone directory of one, and a blank client list.

Today, thanks to you, I have no hair, a Cavapoo named Prince, a 10,000 square foot office, a trying too hard t-shirt, an iPad, an iPhone X, a LinkedIn account with 10 569 connections, a Trojan-less brand, a black BMW, a real liquidity ratio, a staff directory of dozens, and a blue-chip client list.

But in reality I have much more than that. I have everything I ever dreamed of. I love what I do, who I do it for and who I do it with.

Saying my baby is twenty-four years old, doesn’t make me feel old.
It doesn’t make feel dated.
It doesn’t make me feel finished.
It makes me hungrier than ever.
To be clear I plan to see this enterprise through go at least it’s golden anniversary.
That’s right, twenty-four down, twenty-six to go.

I was once a short, yappy, too cocky, adopted halfbreed from Orillia who brought a pissed off with everyone personality to everything he did.

Today, I am not much different.

Except I have channeled my pissiness into passion, my cockiness into confidence, my yaps into questions, and my shortness into fatness.

For that I have all of you whom I have worked with along the way to thank. You taught me more than I have ever, or will ever, give you credit for!

Mh24

I’ve come under the magical spell of Thailand and its people.

Magic is an overused expression. But I use it today to best describe my recent seven-day business trek to Bangkok. The city, the people, the sights, the sounds, the culture swept me away.

I am not here to write a travel blog. I want to share with you some reflections on a way of life that gave me time to pause. Time to pause and think about my own conduct as a human being.

I loved the way Thai people communicated in the most simple forms. Hello. Good Morning. Thank-you. Please. Handing over your check. I have become addicted to the poetic bow and clasping of hands that accompany the greetings. Men say “sah wah dee khrap” with a short and sharp finish and women say “sah wah dee khaa….” in a drawn-out manner.

This greeting is not said quickly or taken lightly. It’s ceremonial. It’s purposeful. It’s intentional. It makes me embarrassed in the way I mumble hi or grunt good morning. Often to the most important people in my life. For people in Thailand, hello feels like it means much more.

It was hard for me not to feel reflective in Thailand. No, I am not about to become Buddhist, but the public and powerful way that Thai people worship was nothing short of addictive to me. Thai people pray and reflect in gorgeous temples, in parks, at street corners, and shopping malls. Everywhere one turned was a shrine, many of them the size of hot dog stands, others statuesque. Opportunities to light oils and candles, or places flowers or other decorations are a part of their daily life.

I have to admit sitting on a bench outside of one temple and just being overwhelmed. I knew nothing of the prayers being shared by the people on the mats. There was no way for me to interpret the conversation of the monks walking past me. The symbols and emblems did not provide any signals to me. Yet I knew I was somewhere else other than inside my flesh and bones. At least for a moment.

The power of the pause is sometimes foreign to me. To pause and listen to the world around me. Not just the endless voices. Knowing there is something more substantial to hear. Maybe I am dreaming, or have been fooled by none other than myself. But I don’t know. There is something to be said for a spate of reflection.

I know the moment of Thailand I saw, was somewhat illusional. I was a tourist in a land that while it is still reinventing their economy, places an exceptionally high level of importance on tourism. The service levels were amazing. But more importantly, people everywhere seemed in great spirits. The buzz and energy of their street markets, floating markets, and food markets was undeniable. It’s such a unique way of life, that isn’t feasible in cold weather North American markets, but I wish it was. Just walking through the markets in the mornings and watching families walk and feed their children breakfast at the same time was a joy.

I also know the moment of time I was in Thailand was magical. I was there during their New Year’s celebrations, it is now 2561 BE (Buddhist Era) in Thailand. They take New Year’s in Thailand very seriously. Days of partying, water gun fights, and spending time with family are enjoyed. Water gun fights? Yes, the Songkran Festival is a nationwide water fight. For decades, people have been equipping themselves with buckets, water balloons, and massive blasters to douse each other in the happiest organic event you will ever see. It happens all over the country and Bangkok has several massive events, one covering over 5km on a single street!

The spraying of water is also symbolic in Thai culture. The water represents respect, blessings, purification and a fresh start. In essence – magic.

Last night I had the honour of attending an amazing party in honour of Maggie Hermant. All funerals should be like this.

Four hundred people stuffed into a Rogers Center suite. Where else would Maggie want her party? Hockey beaming from a dozen screens. Sports jerseys of all variety being worn in honour. Normal food served as per her wishes. An incredibly wide swath of family, friends, friends who were as close as family, work associates, clients, and old classmates. Included in that group were her grief stricken parents.

Maggie was a good friend of our agency and just a few weeks ago she was visiting our office to talk about the next phase in her career. As she was leaving, and I was arriving, we had a brief chat. She was beaming, as always. Quick with some sport highlight, not surprisingly. Behind her was the warm wake she always generated.

Now she is gone.

I left her celebration selfishly wishing that I knew her better. While I accuse myself of being selfish, it’s a a criticism I’m very willing to wear. Maggie was that type of gal. The speeches and memorials to her proved that. The party was organized around the start of the hockey game so the attendees could sing Oh Canada and witness the puck drop. Both of which were crucial to Maggie’s live hockey ritual.

Of course last night’s hockey games were the unfortunate stage of another memorial. Tribute after tribute was being conducted for the Humboldt bus tragedy. You couldn’t help but feel the additional heaviness of this national moment being brought to bear on Maggie’s moment. Magically they complemented one another. As the broadcast showed the powerful unity of the NHL player jerseys all bearing the Broncos name on their backs, the solidarity of the many Ohio State (her alma mater) jerseys at Maggie’s night was equally impactful. There was no question that the moment of silence requested on Hockey Night in Canada, and honoured by us live, was the soundtrack for paying our respects to the junior hockey team while also reliving our individual Maggie moments.

There was a moment early in the evening that I wish Maggie could have witnessed. As the broadcast went to an unexpected commercial, Maggie’s younger sister (and emcee for the evening) realized that there would be a gap in the presentations. Quickly she asked the gathering to sing one of Maggie’s favourite songs. The theme to Hockey Night in Canada. The orginal, and only, one.

The words were not past her lips before the song broke out at full volume. Everyone, even the non-sport fans, knew the tune. So amazing to me. We have an entire nation raised on a song. A sports song. Our true national anthem. There may be nothing more Canadian. A close second may be riding the team bus to a hockey game.

I think we belted that song out to celebrate Maggie, mourn the loss of members of our hockey family, and remind ourselves that when times are painful we are part of a bigger team than perhaps we ever realized.

RIP Maggie

Twenty years ago I got extreme altitude sickness while hiking in Peru with my wife. Thankfully she was there to advocate for me with our guides because if I had been on my own, the odds are high that I would never have made it. I was so loopy that I was unable to explain to our guides, who spoke very little English, that my lungs were filling with fluid and my brain was losing functionality.

Being saved from major illness or worse is not what this blog is about. It’s about the fiftieth anniversary of the slaying of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr on April 4, 1968, in Memphis, Tennessee. The connection? A dream that I had over and over the first night that the altitude sickness was really impacting me in Peru.

That dream, which I feel like I had dozens of times that night, was short and bizarre. In the dream, I burst into the rooming house where King’s assassin James Earl Ray was staying. Each and every time I am a split second too late to stop the fatal shot from being fired. The countless repetitions of this dream almost drove me insane that night.

I’m reminded of this odd moment in my life as I consider the tragic half century marking of Dr. King’s death. Why would a Canadian, who has never truly felt the pain of serious racism, be dreaming about an assassination that can’t be undone? Was there something significant in my dream, or was it a fluke?

Dr. King had a dream that almost everyone in the world has heard parts of. His dream was to end racism. His dream was for people to not be judged by the colour of their skin. His dream was to end bitterness and hatred. His dream was for society to follow the idea that all men are created equal.

The world is killing the dream.

I fear that if Dr. King were alive today it may have killed him as well.

In Canada, we have unarmed indigenous kids being killed by white men who are being acquitted on grounds that it was an accident. Did the gun get loaded by accident?

Across Europe, we have countries closing their doors to Syrian families who are being forced to leave a country they don’t really want to leave, but a convoluted and unwinnable civil war has left them no choice.

In Burma, rape, murder, and arson are being utilized to chase out unwanted minorities.

Don’t even get me started on the United States. “The land of the free”.

“The land of the free” where a professional football team thinks it is okay to use a nickname that at one point literally meant the scalped head of a Native American. Oh, and by the way, the reward for each carcass was $200, about the price of a good seat in the stadium.

“The land of the free” where people want to fly the flag that represents the enslavement of four million of my ancestors.

‘The land of the free” unless you’re a Dreamer which means you’re one of nearly a million young people brought to America by your parents, albeit illegally, who are now being threatened with deportation. That’s right young lady, you were brought here at two years old by your parents, but now despite your university degree, your good job, your loving partner, and your cute puppy – we want you to leave because you seem like a threat.

I do believe in signs, symbolism, messages, and yes even my dreams. Though I can’t explain that night in Peru, or why when I sat down to reflect on MLK why this memory came flooding back. For whatever the reason, I know there is a reason. So with that to consider, I leave you with three thoughts:

I wonder what it will take for the world to fulfill Dr. King’s dreams.
I wonder if our children will live in a world where they can fulfill their dreams.
I wonder what part of you, me, or even a perfect stranger can play in that most important calling.

Do you have a dream?

The pride in his eyes told the story in full. The eyes belonged to a man whom I had just met at fabled Croke Park in Dublin. Home to decades of Irish history, much of it of the sporting nature, but sadly not all. Here this man and I were randomly introduced at halftime of the All Ireland Gaelic Athletic Association Hurling Club Championships.

The pride in his eyes became a personal highlight reel. This all came about when I asked if he had ever competed at Croke Park. The accompanying smile and voice quickly told me the story of how he and his mates captured two All Ireland medals in years gone by. Two Gaelic Athletic Association championships that mean more to an Irish sportsman than I could ever have imagined. Triumphs that were years in the making and many more years in the retelling. He remarked to his adult daughter that these wins came before her time on earth. A reminder that his telling of the story wasn’t just for this Canadian stranger.

The pride in his eyes provided a tour through a unique sporting history. The Gaelic Athletic Association administers two sports – Gaelic Football and Hurling. The games are played and coached exclusively by amateurs, players even at the highest of levels are not compensated for their playing. Founded in 1884 by a group of Irishmen who realized the importance of making organized sports more accessible to the masses, the GAA brought a revival of traditional and indigenous sports to Ireland. Today there are over 2,200 clubs in 32 counties in Ireland. With the GAA being deep-rooted in Irish tradition and pride, it’s not unusual to witness a sold-out crowd of 82,300 at Croke Park for the All Ireland Finals.

The pride in his eyes grew during the course of the day. It was the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, a religious holiday in which Irish people come together and commemorate the death of the patron saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick. In Rugby, the Irish team had just trounced England at Twickenham to win the Grand Slam 24-15. Now that the professionals had made their country proud, the focus was squarely on the amateurs playing for national titles. The hurling featured a back and forth game between Cuala and Na Piarsaigh. With absolutely no time on the clock, the man’s side (Cuala) was down by three. But a foul from Colm Cronin, put Sean Moran on the line to attempt a goal, his success sent the game into overtime. In overtime, David Treacy scored a long point from a free, which tied the game again. In a tradition I have never seen before, the game wasn’t sent to penalty shots but rather a second game was scheduled to break the deadlock.

The pride in his eyes was pure Ireland. A country that has overcome oppression, famine, terrorism, and civil war. A country that is cautiously recovering from economic disasters. A country that today, is as welcoming as you could imagine and as optimistic as any. A country that cheers on its amateurs with the same voracity as its pros.

The pride in his eyes will always be remembered by mine.

Admittedly this blog is a bit preachy. I apologize in advance.

A day after returning from PyeongChang I don’t know whether I am jet-lagged, asleep, or chock full of adrenaline. What I do know is that I am emotionally quick-triggered (no I wasn’t crying watching Virtue & Moir skate to the Hip’s Long Time Running), already nostalgic about my trip, and eternally inspired. The 2018 Winter Olympics were nothing like I expected them to be at all. In fact, I don’t think they were what many people expected.

Every Olympic Games follows a similar news cycle. The drama of bidding and the subsequent elation of winning for the host country. The controversy over costs and taxpayer money as venues start being constructed. Security fears, logistical concerns, construction delays. Every Games has it. But in many ways PyeongChang had even more lead-up drama including the military threat of North Korea, the ban of the Russian NOC due to drug scandals, the absence of National Hockey league players in men’s hockey.

The region itself was also under attack. The host towns were deemed too small and lacking in decent accommodation, restaurants, and hospitality venues. The time zones were going to make for poor television ratings in North America. The local apathy and economy would lead to poor ticket sales. I almost fell into the doom and gloom trap that caused me to skip Sochi and Rio, but a random conversation with the COC’s Chris Overholt changed my mind.

A quick backstory. Back to being spoiled. I was lucky enough to attend London 2012 and when I left I vowed to attend every Olympic Games from thereon out. Threats of terrorism, safety, and travel issues convinced me not to attend the 2014 and 2016 games. Yet, after both, I felt a serious pang of regret. My thoughts about maybe attending Korea were turned positive when Chris said to me, without bias, that Korea was going to be great. So on February 8th I booked flights. On February 10th I booked hotels. On February 17th my family and I hopped on an AC061 for a smooth thirteen-hour direct flight.

What awaited us I cannot describe. Korea wasn’t at all what I expected. We spent two days in Seoul, before spending five days in Gangneung and PyeongChang. The architecture sucked, the streets were dirty. The food awful in some places. The taxi drivers useless. The mountain bus shuttles frustrating. The lack of English speakers almost insurmountable. A complete dearth of information about local events and attractions.

Yet I loved every minute of it.

First of all, the place is fascinating. Seoul’s streets crawl with amazing pedestrian markets, food stands, street performers, and people watchers. Its restaurants are lively, boisterous and energetic. Its homage to its past is as clear as its focus on the future.

The Olympic host region provided more eternal memories. Both venue clusters were outstanding. Every sports facility and fan venue was monumental yet amazing. None seemed to be fiscally inappropriate yet all had a grandeur. The host towns may have lacked the old world charm of Europe, or the breathtaking beauty of Whistler or Rio, but there was something infectious about their modesty.

The theme of the games was Passion. Connected. As much as the technology was meant to be the connection fuel, that was the exclusive domain of the people. While many ticketed events had poor crowds, the live sites and public festival areas were jammed with Koreans. They lapped up everything they could and reveled at the fact that the world was on their front step. They lined up for hours to buy merchandise, get mascot pictures, trade pins, and participate in amazing activations by The North Face, Samsung, and Jesus. Yes, there was a lot of ambush marketing by religious groups everywhere you turned!

The Canadian in me was proud to wear Red & White. As we walked the less beaten paths of the towns, many locals smiled at us, bowed, said hello, or in the case of one young seven-year-old Korean, shared all fifteen English words she had in her vocabulary. Which was fifteen more than I know in Korean!

Team Canada didn’t miss these Olympics. They fulfilled their Be Olympic motto to the max. Record-setting medal performances. Dealing with death threats. Hockey teams holding their heads high, even if their medal results were lower than they hoped for. An amazing Canada Olympic House venue became our home away from home. Yes, it served Poutine and S’mores! It was impossible to go more than five feet without seeing a friendly face.

I feel bad for the PyeongChang organizers. There should have been more people there. We found a brand new hotel in walking distance to Olympic Park for a reasonable price. I have never felt safer in a foreign country. The politeness of store staff was punctuated by their literally saying Ahn-nyoung-hee Ga-sae-yo (goodbye) to you every time you left. Once we started to discover the nice pockets of town we found delightful coffee shops, parks, and restaurants. But many people I talked to missed those gems.

I feel bad for the athletes, support staff, trainers, doctors, federation staff, and coaches. They deserved more fans in the stands. They deserved more cheers for a lifetime of work. They deserved more support. They deserved it right then and there.

Being Olympic isn’t just about competing. It’s about sponsoring, watching, cheering, and acting. It’s about recognizing that everybody in a country plays a part in our athletes’ success. It’s about getting your children involved in sports. It’s about getting yourself off the couch and committing to fitness. It’s about supporting the brands, government agencies, governing bodies, and donors that fund all levels of amateur sport in this country.

Being Olympic is about attending your local university sports varsity games or volunteering at a community ringette tournament. It’s about demanding the media provide more diverse coverage on a year-round basis. It’s about inviting our governments to get out of the propaganda business and fund more programs that will create a healthier and happier society.

You don’t have to travel to an Olympic Games to Be Olympic. But I wish more Canadians had gone to Gangneung. The people there wanted to show off their region. They invested heavily and deserved your financial support. It’s a challenged region economically and what little I could do to help, makes me feel good.

The Olympic Games are working hard to get back to the original ideals of the movement and that feels good. Its only two years away before Tokyo. Let’s go everybody! Start planning now. I am happy to be your ringleader.

Let’s get into the groove today. You can still travel to the Paralympics in PyeongChang or show your support online and by watching the broadcasts. There are many many other upcoming domestic and international sporting events that need your love. If we could do one thing together, as a nation, it would be to fill the stands and jam the airwaves every time our young athletes compete.

If we do that together, then our country will truly Be Olympic.