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As I get set to open the 2011 Canadian Sponsorship Forum today, it is only fitting that a young man named Robert Wickens has become the first Canadian driver to land a job with an F1 team since Jacques Villeneuve. While he will only be on the track Sunday, due to an injury or other emergency, Wickens will test with the Red Bull team and be fully immersed in all of the weekend’s activities. Regardless, for the 22-year-old who is currently second in the FR 3.5 development series, it’s a great opportunity.

2011 marks the second year that the Grand Prix has been back in Canada and judging by the lack of hotel rooms and restaurant tables available, the excitement of race fans can only possibly be exceeded by Montreal tourism officials.
Wickens’ ascent and the F1 race top off a wild few days for the Canadian sports marketing and sponsorship scene.

Last week the Grey Cup 2012 festival was launched, in anticipation of the 100th Grey Cup. Typically, festivals don’t launch before the current year’s Grey Cup. But considering the magnitude of the 100th,
the league (and I assume the BC Lions), deemed it too important to hold off. I am sure lead partners Molson & Scotiabank are thrilled to get an extraordinary 17-month run-up to the 100th!

Speaking of the CFL, Steve Mazurak’s presentation at this week’s Marketing Magazine Sport Marketing Conference blew me away. The Riders are an incredible marketing success and Mazurak told the audience they sell more licensed merchandise than 50 per cent of the teams in the NFL. Rider Pride!

Speaking of Scotiabank, I love the ads they’re running during the Stanley Cup finals. A brilliant approach by a league sponsor to leverage the excitement of an individual team’s success (the Canucks), without official rights. Take a peak if you haven’t seen them yet. Scotia proved, during last year’s Olympics, that they have become masters at this. Some would call it an ambush, I consider it more of a gentle lawn mow than a full bushwhack!

There will soon be one more Canadian team for Scotiabank to get behind.
The return of the Winnipeg franchise is just one more sign of the incredible roll Canada has been on in the past couple of years.

It’s fashionable to give all the credit to the Olympics. They were certainly a seminal “marketing” moment for our national ego, but I think this surge is much more than sizzle. The meat of the matter has much more to do with the stability of our economy, when all around us is a mess. In the movie Too Big to Fail, now showing on The Movie Network, there is a great line where the British government tells the US government they won’t allow Barclay’s Bank to buy Lehman brothers because, “we don’t want your cancer.” Thankfully Canada avoided the financial ills that befell our U.S. neighbours. This is making Canada a pretty attractive place right now. Whether you are the NHL, Target, or FIFA.

Thanks to FIFA and the CSA, 2015 is looming large as one of the greatest years in Canadian sport. On top of the previously awarded Pan Am Games, Canada’s winning bid of the Women’s World Cup event will have far reaching benefits for our sport. Stadium construction could result. Personally I am hopeful that Halifax’s Atlantic Schooners will re-surface and give the CFL the coast-to-coast presence I would love to see.
Throw a Quebec City team in the mix and a wonderfully Canadian, imbalanced, eleven-team league, with six in the East and five in the West, would really drive the sport of football in this country.

Speaking of Quebec City, I think they’re next in line for an NHL franchise; certainly ahead of Hamilton or Waterloo, and Toronto as well. I was on the Andrew Krystal Show last week talking about this very topic. There is no question that the “416” could support another NHL team (or in some people’s opinions a real NHL team!); I just don’t see how that is going to happen. Too bad. Because to me, Toronto is on par with every other North American megaopolis that has the luxury of a Cubs-White Sox, Mets-Yankees, or Lakers-Clippers setup.

Okay, I have to head off to the track. Time to Rev Up My ROI!

Yes I’ve got it. It’s taken me weeks to admit it. But I’ve got Venus Envy.

What exactly is that you ask? Well let me explain. It’s a new form of jealousy. If we were kids at summer camp we might call it “Pee-pee Envy.” Usually among men it is found in locker rooms, driveways, and the workplace. But this form of jealousy isn’t about how many letters your Johnson can display. Nor is it about the horsepower under the hood of your shiny, logo adorning sports car. And it’s not about the size, location, or access to daylight that your cubicle or office enjoys.

Venus Envy is founded in the traditional male envy syndrome. You know the real word people. It rhymes with Venus, but this is a family blog. I can’t write such words. But you can. You can say it out loud. Or whisper it. Come on now, give me a “P. Diddy,” give me an “ET,” give me a… okay you get the point.

So, take the traditional envy of jewels and combine it with the jewel of Canada, also known as Vancouver and what do you spell? Venus Envy!

Yes, today marks the time I have to confess my Venus Envy. I’ve had it all playoffs. It’s been leaked to a few friends. Several of my Vancouverite friends have been trying to win me over. But I have to admit it. This Canucks run is killing me! I am so jealous of Vancouver. I have Venus Envy!

And I don’t think I’m alone.

It’s just not fair. As it is, Vancouver has been kicking the rest of the country’s butt for a while.

It’s beautiful. The women are more beautiful.

They have mountains. Some less than thirty minutes away.

They have the Ocean. And beautiful parks to enjoy it.

They have Yaletown. Where my cute little VCR office is.

They have Whistler. With a fancy new road to get to it.

They had the Olympics. Plus the second most important hockey game ever played.

Now they have this. The Canucks. The 40th anniversary of the team once best known for icing a player named Orland Kurtenbach.

For years, they had the worst uniforms in the league. For years, they had the worst luck. For years, we laughed at them and waited for them to slide off into the ocean.

Now they have two Swedes and an American leading them on the charge to be Canada’s team.

Now they have the best record in hockey.

Now they have defeated the defending Stanley Cup Champions.

And, now they have enjoyed a fortnight of partying not seen since… hey, didn’t you just host the Olympics?!?!

So I have no clever messages today. No hidden meanings. No subliminal thoughts. No such wit.

Just a pure and simple confession for all the world to see. Left Coasters, I admit: I have Venus Envy.

What’s the next step in the process after “admitting I was powerless over my affliction and that my life was unmanageable?”

It’s going to be a Luongo road to recovery for me.

It was my wife’s birthday last week and I thought I had done everything right.

That wasn’t always the case. Back in the early ’90s when we first started dating, her having a May birthday was problematic. You see, back then the Leafs were actually playing hockey in mid-May. Now I know many of you would be too young to remember… but in ’93 the Buds came within a goal of making the Stanley Cup finals.

Not only were the playoff runs a challenge for me on her birthday, but I also went to about 28 weddings (all her accounting friends… who married other accountants… you can imagine the excitement!) during a three-year period. But back to the birthday story.

One year, I booked a romantic dinner reservation for the sweep-her-off-her-feet time of 5:30 p.m. That made her suspicious.
I think by 5:44 p.m. I had downed my meal, asked for the cheque, served her a cupcake with a candle and was ready to leap out the door. Somewhere in those 840 seconds she realized my true motivation wasn’t to take her to a candlelit lounge, or cut some tile at a club, or to sit by a glowing fire.
No, what was Pat Burnsing inside me was to see Gilmour, Clark, and Anderson don their armour for the true Game of Thrones.

But last week I was a much better birthday hubby. I had gone with the kids to Oddjects on the weekend to buy some planters and candle holders, for the boy’s gift to Mom. Before you snicker, you have to check this store out. It’s amazing and has already been a successful source for some Mother’s Day gifts and will be the destination for housewarming presents, dinner party thank-you’s, and perhaps a parting sendoff for Oprah.
Why Oprah?

Well I told you I have weird dreams, and last night I dreamt about Oprah. She showed up at a high school track event I was doing for Nike. She ended up running against the kids and somehow fell and got injured. Then she recovered and ran an exhibition 400-metre race. Then we all cried and she asked me to take her to lunch where my friend works. We got there as he was being fired, on HIS birthday. Then I pigged out on lemon meringue tarts and French fries, totally blowing the new diet I started May 15th and has helped me lose nine pounds so far. (Remember that when you see me at Forum!)

The losing nine pounds part is true. The rest was a dream. And I only had two glasses of wine last night!

So the kids gifted Mom with the Oddjects stuff in the morning. I had ordered flowers from Tidy’s to arrive at work, although they phoned that morning with some ordering issues, they arrived. We had dinner reservations booked for North 44 which is walking distance from our house. A babysitter was arranged and in my pocket, a handmade necklace I had bought in London when I was in the UK for SportAccord a month ago. By my event planner “anal-ity,” I was all over this birthday!

The weird stuff didn’t start happening until about 2:00 p.m. I got a call asking me to be in a meeting at our Canadian Tire client for 3:00 p.m. CT headquarters are near my house so I told my wife I would just go home after the meeting and do email. “What?!,” she exclaimed, “Don’t you have work to do here (at the office)?” So I changed my plans and returned here at 5:00 p.m.

Around 6:30 p.m. I had enough, and even though I usually leave at 7:00 p.m. or so, decided it was time to get home, say hi to the kids and have a pop before dinner. So I started to waddle my way out of the office. We had given the staff the long weekend Friday off, so I wasn’t surprised so many folks were plowing through last minute tasks. But the office did seem overpopulated for that time of day.

About three people stopped me and asked me what I was doing for the long weekend. I am not Mr. Small-talk, so this proved painful. But the odd thing was that as I did, people started racing past me to leave. Okay – whatever.

Heading home for the arduous 11 minute commute, I decided to chat with my best friend about our drinking-night plans for Saturday. While I was on with him, my wife phoned about 87 times. Finally I picked up and was instructed to detour to friends of ours to pick up my eight-year-old from a play date.

Four minutes later I arrived at their door. Or what I thought was their door. My friends and son were there in body, but in reality I thought they were characters from The Stepford Wives. Everyone was so odd! Smiling absently. Casting furtive glances at one another. First my young guy, who is Mr. Organized, couldn’t find his shoes.
Then my friend, who is a doctor at Sick Kids, started telling me odd stories about his injured knee and his wife’s broken toe. Then he and his ten-year-old asked me if I knew a website for a local soccer league. Hey man, you’re saving kids’ lives all day and you have never heard of Google? When we escaped, my son ran right past my car, to get home.

Minutes later we were on our street, where in the middle of the road, searching frantically for something, was one of our digital team guys. I waved. He blanched. He saw my wife. She waved. He Usain Bolted inside. What is this? Desperate Housewives?
I thought it was odd he was in my house, but didn’t rush in with a gun. Instead I closed up the car, grabbed my dry cleaning and sauntered in to a couple of smiling kids who led me into the backroom.

The first oddity was Alex, our company videographer, staring his lens at me. The next was the glassware and rows of wine and champagne on the counters.
The oddest, were the 48 TrojanOners in my kitchen and family room.

Unable to comprehend, why 80% of my team were yelling “Surprise” and “Happy Birthday” to me, I pointed to my wife and half-whispered, “It is her birthday not mine.” Given that I had seen a message to that effect in the all-company weekly update, I was a bit surprised about their confusion.

Someone handed me a giant custom greeting card with “TrojanOne Seventeen” on the cover. (Sorry Fast Five creators). Then it was explained to me, in bits and pieces, that the team had decided to throw a surprise birthday party for me, for the company’s birthday (which is May 16th). And my wife had agreed to give up her birthday as it fell on the prime party night a long weekend eve. Still not understanding, I went upstairs to my room and took a deep breath.

Maybe they are just here for a quick drink and then we are still going out for dinner?
Maybe they meant it to be a party for Mrs. TrojanOne?
Maybe the digital guy really is playing the role of the Milkman?
Maybe I just don’t understand why my staff would want to spend part of their long weekend at this grumpy old man’s house?

After a few hours, several explanations, many refreshments, an awesome BBQ meal, two back flips by one of my staff (using an intern as a pommel horse), one noise complaint from a stupid-fart neighbour I had never seen out from his Mommy’s basement in eight years, a spontaneous invitation to an ex-employee who had met and started romancing his love while both working for T1, an amazing piece of lemon meringue pie from Flaky Tart, some straight from the bottle champagne chugging, three great staff speeches, an impromptu dance party on the back deck, and the escape – and return- of one gorgeous Cavapoo named Prince; I finally understood.

TrojanOne was born May 16th, 1994. Thanks to my team for an amazing Anniversary party. I was truly shocked and even more touched.

But really, my thanks to you and for all the folks that have worked here prior (that includes you Mark Grant) for enabling me to live a DREAM: Owning my own business. Being involved with the most amazing brands. Attending the most amazing events. Meeting the famous, not so famous, and even the infamous from every corner of this country.

I am way too lucky.

You are probably asking, why seventeen? Why celebrate that anniversary? Hey why not – with the Leafs as our team, we need something to cheer about in May!

I don’t know about you, but I have some weird dreams. I’m talking about the sleeping kind, not the career ambition kind.

Quite often my dreams are very real, but with a twist. Sometimes they mirror real life. Once I had the same dream 44 times in a night, but that was while I was in Peru and in the throes of altitude sickness.

There is this one dream that I have where the University of Guelph informs me I am two credits short of my degree. This is followed by a ridiculous goose chase where I hunt all over campus for some information about the two courses. The only certainty is that the final exams for each are to be written within days and I don’t know the course code, the prof, or the textbook.

Yes, that is odd. My confession to all of you is that I have had this dream for years and really, would it matter one bit that the 10” x 14” piece of paper in the corner in my office suddenly vanished?

Every year a few weeks before the Forum, I have a similar dream. Only this one has a couple of twists.

In one, I sleep through the first day of the Forum. Given my social habits, this one probably doesn’t seem that far fetched. But what is odd is that nobody knows what room I am in to come wake me up. In fact my room, in the dream, feels somewhat like a submerged marine chamber. I feel like I am floating around it weightlessly, while every word I mutter has a decidedly David Hasselhoff-like quality to it. To understand the effect, try uttering these words form the bottom of your intestines while you keep your lips in a jellyfish like formation: “Get. Out. Of. The. Water.” Say it again – “Get. Out. Of. The. Water.”

As my nostrils fill with brine and the countdown to the Forum begins, my staff huddle and determine their game plan. Should they announce that aliens captured Mark? Should they pretend this was all planned and I am making a royal appearance at some mysterious moment? Perhaps rising from beneath the stage like a 70s electro pop star?

Or should they send out a search party… preferably starting with all the Starbucks that are ten-minute walk form the hotel? Or better yet, the last three bars where I was seen doing trays of Jägerbombs?

It wouldn’t be long before Justin from my team would brush off his Leafs gear and take center stage. He would probably introduce a panel of Trojan team members who would issue a courteous apology and then move onto the meat of the conference.

Speaker after speaker; like Andrew Shibata from RBC and Shari Willerton from the Shaw Festival or Chuck Philips from Cocoon Branding; could weave me into their speech, “So did you hear the one about the fat bald guy who missed his most important event of the year?”

Arrogantly I would be hoping that this would happen in every speech that day. Why else would Chris Armstrong, Rick Burton, and Colin Campbell talk about the value of endorsers in sponsorships if they couldn’t make some crack about, “make sure he shows up for the photo shoot!”

Or Dave Thomas, who is going to expertly talk about social media, should clearly tweet about the missing conference chairperson.

And if Adam Garone is going to enthrall and inspire you with his tale on how he created Movember, then surely he must reflect on how much the campaign will miss my Ted Lange impersonation this fall.

But this probably won’t happen. The Forum will role along without me, while I drown in my own ego. Trapped in some Neverland hoping that J.M. Barrie will at least write me into the sequel.

Of course, the alternative to all this self-pity while the rest of you enjoy the Forum, is to tell you about the other panic dream I have. In that one, I take the stage to open the conference having forgotten something very important. My pants… and my gitch!

While it wouldn’t take long for the Sûreté du Québec to take me away on trumped up charges (if you get my drift), I am comforted by the knowledge that I would probably get off (no pun attempted here folks), for lack of evidence.

Of all the sports that my little monsters (ages 8 and 10) play, I think soccer is my favourite. The incredible weather that graced opening weekend of the North Toronto Soccer Club spring league, just added to this sentiment.

The guys play everything that moves, including piano. Squash, tennis, snowboarding (used to be skiing), tackle football (used to be flag), track, boxing, swimming, curling, flag rugby, hockey, basketball and even chess. City leagues, school teams, our local sports club and Northern Ontario ski hills, have all cashed our cheques to allow a wee Harrison to perform as a wanna-be point guard, Olympian, goalie, Grand Master, flyweight, skip, prop, defensive back, quarterback, right wing, left wing and even a standing long jumper. Long jumper?

Thankfully my guys don’t need to be sitting in front of a screen to be entertained. (But let’s be clear; between the iPods, Macbooks, Xbox Kinect, Wii and cell phones; they have plenty of screens).

There have been some great moments. Some exciting chess tournaments with upset victories. An unexpected fourth place in a regional track meet. The topper was probably a runaway victory for the Grade 5 City Flag Rugby title! But most of the time, my guys are just regular kids playing sports, going from one house league to the next. Enjoying the games, not always the practices. Working hard and chasing loose pucks. Talking on the bench and making new friends. Wondering which Mom brought snacks and is she a health nut or did she bring something sweet?

So, why soccer?

I don’t know. Maybe because it coincides with good weather, getting outdoors and reintroducing yourself to neighbors you haven’t seen since the Christmas drop-in six doors down.

Maybe its because you get so close to the game, you can practically touch your kids when they play. Maybe it’s because the parents seem more social than in other sports. Maybe it’s because when we play, there are always eight to 10 games happening at once, making every Saturday morning and Tuesday evening a sort of community festival. Heck, it might even be because my Starbucks somehow tastes better sitting outside in a folding chair.

Like a lot of parents, I also appreciate the volunteer coaches. Who can’t appreciate someone who is going to take care of your little gaffer for an hour and not charge you 10 bucks? But seriously, coaching kids this age is one part babysitter, one part sports instructor and one part parent for an hour.

Admiration aside, I didn’t want to be one – a soccer coach, that is.

I’ve coached my son in flag football for two years and we didn’t do so well. He played great but I over complicated things. It was hard to remember these girls and boys were eight and nine and not the near-men I coach in high school football. But a few weeks ago, the desperate cry for help went out from our soccer association. Not enough coaches. Player registration is up. Volunteerism…not so much.

I considered it the first time, but then realized: I know nothing about soccer! The only time I coached a game was a dire emergency two years ago when my then six-year-old’s team had all three helmsman away on the same night. While we did break a multiple game-losing streak with an 8-1 slaughter, I think the fact I also played goalie for our guys, may have had something to do with it. (Kidding!)

So I ignored the plea…

Until it went out again the week before the season was to start. “No coaches, no teams folks. Need your help.” So I sent out an email and my virtual hand. Voilà! I am a coach. An assistant on my ten-year-old’s team. But a coach nonetheless.

Needless to say I was nervous. These kids are 10. It wont take them long to figure me out! I barely know a free kick from a pitch. Why do they call it a pitch anyway?

I arrived a bit later than I wanted on Sunday for Day 1, Game 1 of the grand experiment. Feigning confidence I introduced myself to the headman and asked him what I could do. Staring straight at him with all the concentration in the world, I tried to comprehend his comments. He talked about our game plan, what style we should play, and how we should evaluate the players. My focused brow must have had him convinced I was taking it all in.

Truth be told, I was actually staring at his jersey. There it was in front of me, right before my greedy eyes. The real reason I was coaching. The jersey! I didn’t know it until just then. In fact, I felt a bit guilty. I was just like the kids, I wanted the jersey.

Our team is sponsored by Nestle, some brand called Milo. Given they are supporting us and the business I am in, I had better figure out what Milo was. We are Team Germany (most of our divisions use countries as team names). Our opponent was also Milo. I think companies must have bought whole divisions. Funny given my profession, I don’t know. But at the big field there were lots of unsuspecting kids helping Tim Hortons, BMO (disclosure: my client), Pizza Pizza, Public Mobile, Nestle and a host of other national brands and some local outlets market, their brands.

Back to the jersey. After the briefing from my HC we started handing out uniforms. Kids asked for their favourite numbers. One told us he could only play if he wore 14. Well 14 was gone, and last I checked he was doing just fine wearing 2 or 8 or some other number. But who am I to judge? All the while, I kept hoping and praying I too would get a jersey. I was sure that in the past all the coaches got jerseys. I needed this!

How else could I command my young squad of Zidanes and Messis? Authority needed to be bestowed upon me.

At long last the HC must have picked up on my vibe. Or perhaps my sweat-provoking anxiety. He opened up another bag and presented me with my colours. How proud I was. All 230lbs of me swelled (not a pretty sight on a sunny day), as I donned the black jersey. Smack across my hefty left boob were the five letters I so craved. C-O-A-C-H. Oh what pride.

I was now part of the team. Part of the squad. I was now included. I was a part of the team.

This year soccer just got a little more rewarding.

Last week, Ottawa was the site of the Canadian Sport Tourism Alliance’s annual Sport Events Congress. In eleven short years this event has mushroomed to almost 400 delegates, representing many aspects of the sport tourism industry including: hotel chains, municipal and provincial sport tourism departments, event promoters, and national sports organizations. They are part of a multi-billion dollar industry that really doesn’t get its fair share of attention by politicians, economists, and industry pundits.

The Sport Events Congress is like a singles event. It matches events with hosts and hosts with events. It creates partnerships and new relationships. It educates. It provides sharing of best practices. It inspires.

One group that it inspired was the town of Brantford. Several years ago they attended the CSTA event and witnessed the success of the World Pond Hockey Championships held in Plaster Rock, New Brunswick every year. The first event of its kind was launched in 2002 hosting 40 competing teams from Canada’s east coast. The WPHC has since grown tremendously, now featuring over 120 teams from across the globe.

The Brantford team, led by Pat Shewchuk, went home energized and motivated to create something they could utilize to shine a light on the Telephone City.

It didn’t take much brainstorming to recognize the opportunity lay at their feet in the city’s role as hometown of one of the greatest sportsmen Canada has produced.

You might be thinking of the GREAT ONE, # 99, and recent birthday boy – Wayne Gretzky! But no, I’m actually referring to the GREATEST, Wayne’s Dad, Walter.

Ask anyone in Brantford and they will tell you that nobody does more for the community than Walter Gretzky. Recipient of the Order of Canada, he is a tireless ambassador for the city. So naturally, creating an event that celebrates Walter was an easy choice. And soon, the Walter Gretzky Street Hockey Tournament was born.

From its humble beginnings as a small-scale, non-profit, charitable event with less than 30 competing teams in 2006, the Walter Gretzky Street Hockey tournament has grown with tremendous force. With help from film director and actor, Kevin Smith (Jay & Silent Bob), who fielded a team and played as a goalie, in 2009 the tournament saw 94 teams.

Its greatest accomplishment, however, was the staggering 205 teams and 2,096 participants who joined forces and steered the City of Brantford to a Guinness World Record for ‘Largest Street Hockey Tournament’ in 2010.

The success of this event resulted in Brantford being awarded a “President’s Award” during the CSTA Prestige Awards luncheon held to recognize the outstanding events, sponsors, and stakeholders in the sport tourism industry. Brantford celebrated their win by inviting Gretzky senior to attend the entire conference.

Walter did more than attend. He stole the show! Literally.

When I first spotted him at the Wednesday social, my birthright flaw of being a chronic skeptic tricked me into not believing it was him. So imagine my surprise and delight when he descended upon me, and several of my clients from Speed Skating Canada and Volleyball Canada, during the Thursday lunch. Didn’t even cross my mind that this was the funniest man on earth.

He probably won’t love me for publicly busting him on this, but Walter Gretzky has more Leaf jokes than the Leafs have wins. A quick sample:

“So I went on tour with General Hiller and the Stanley Cup in Afghanistan. I learnt then, that the Taliban were closer to capturing the cup than the Leafs.”

“Why won’t the NHL give Hamilton an NHL team? Because then Toronto will want one!”

“Where is the Red Light District in Toronto? Behind the Leaf’s net.”

Beyond joking about the buds, this is a man who motivates, entertains, and engages people at a mile a minute. One of my staffers asked for an autograph and wound up with a half-dozen. Walter volunteered one for her parents, one for her boyfriend, one for her sibling…well you get the idea. It was clear that every time he pens his John Hancock a burst of pride erupts from his twinkling eyeballs!

Clearly being Wayne’s Dad brings its benefits. But as Canadians, we have all heard and readily accept the tremendous role that Walter had in the development of the Great One. But unlike the stereotype parent of a prodigy, this is a man who feels like Canada has done well by him and not the other way around. In his acceptance remarks for the Prestige Awards, Walter talked about how much he wished his parents could have been there to see them.

Walter’s Dad was an immigrant from Grodno, Belarus and his mother from the Ukraine. When they came to Canada they were classified as “DPs” – Displaced Persons. Through their hard work and the acceptance of a strong community, they built the foundation for a strong family life. Clearly the fruits of their hard work can be seen in the genealogy of Walter and his offspring.

Today Walter Gretzky is 72 years old. He was recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He talked about it openly, showing me how sometimes his left hand shakes uncontrollably. But he doesn’t share this news for pity or remorse. He tells you these things because he loves to report on the magical, mystery tour of life as Walter Gretzky.

My opportunity to meet him in Ottawa was incredibly serendipitous and a memory I will have forever. Walter Gretzky is truly THE GREATEST.