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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.

There is a romantic notion many of us have about opening our own bar, restaurant, or diner.

Somehow, we focus solely on the imagined glamour of proclaiming that the next round is on the house, or telling your friends you’ll hold a preferred table for them, or lining your walls with photos of you and celebrity diners.

It’s easy to forget about the fickleness of consumers, the challenges of getting liquor permits, the fragile support of bankers, the surprise visits by food critics and the unknown impact of weather. Let alone dealing with prima donna chefs, frustrated actresses-cum-waitresses and the dearth of people willing to wash dishes.

But still that dream persists. I think of it often when I pass an empty storefront that I think would make for a great pub. I would call it “Herschels,” as in Walker, my nickname. Or when I see a restaurant close for lack of service, I imagine investing in an up-and-coming maître d’ and unleashing his caring ways on my neighbours. Many a time when I taste a unique creation, my mind wanders to what spin I may put on it. Like a peanut butter and tomato sandwich. Seriously, try it. Sounds gross, but few things blend as well as a sweet red tamale and some salty Kraft PB.

Or when I see a restaurant close for lack of service, I imagine investing in an up-and-coming maître d’ and unleashing his caring ways on my neighbours. Many a time when I taste a unique creation, my mind wanders to what spin I may put on it. Like a peanut butter and tomato sandwich. Seriously, try it. Sounds gross, but few things blend as well as a sweet red tamale and some salty Kraft PB.

So it was with more than a small tweak of envy last weekend that I realized the hottest new diner in my ‘hood, Uncle Betty’s (will explain the name later!), is the brainchild of Toronto advertising maven Robert Lewocz and his wife Samara Melanson.
If you don’t know Robert, he’s a former partner in Aldo Cundari’s hot marketing shop and is now guiding the growth of Cheil, the former Samsung in-house agency, to new heights.

Robert and Samara got their inspiration from a simple, yet personal, need. They were tired of the lack of a great ice cream shop near their North Toronto home. Frustrated by the necessity of trucking blocks away to treat their kids… a solution in the form of an epiphany emerged to open their own shop.

But they didn’t stop there. They quickly realized that floating a full restaurant solely on dairy delights wasn’t going to be viable. So they sprung from cups and cones to hot dogs and grilled cheese.

Inspired by Robert’s mother-in-law – a single mother named Elizabeth, who was such a rock in her family at performing dual parent roles that over time, her kids, nieces and nephews nicknamed her “Uncle Betty” – a diner was born.

Uncle Betty’s is not your usual diner. It features a doughnut machine. All-beef hot dogs. A meatloaf to die for. Sunday brunch. All-day breakfast. And a licence to serve beer.

As well, it has an ownership duo who are living the dream. Robert isn’t about to leave advertising, but he was bussing tables, motivating the kitchen staff and doing the night deposits when I saw him on opening weekend. I couldn’t imagine keeping that pace up while also servicing clients.

There weren’t any celebrities when I was there. Although I heard that Johann Koss was there minutes before we arrived. Too bad we missed him; I could have gotten some advice for how to help build the brand of our new client at Speed Skating Canada.

But I don’t think Robert opened the place for the celebs or to buy a round for the crowd. Though I do think he opened it to hold a table for friends.

More precisely, those friends are his kids.

Congratulations to the Clarenville Caribous… your 2011 Allan Cup champions!

Unless you are from Clarenville, Newfoundland, you have probably been too immersed in the Stanley Cup playoffs to realize that one of the most important titles in hockey was recently contested in Kenora. Clarenville is only the second team from the Rock to win the Allan Cup, emblematic of Senior AAA hockey supremacy in this country.

First awarded jointly (it’s a long story as to why) to the Ottawa Cliffsides and Queen’s University in 1909, the Allan Cup has since become the prized possession of many a team from small town Canada. Surely you have heard of the Trail Smoke Eaters, the Toronto Granites, the Drumheller Miners, the Galt Hornets, or the Calgary Stampeders… of the hockey variety! How about the Ottawa Senators, who last won in 1949? The Truro Bearcats? Or the Lloydminster Border Kings? From Quebec, there have been powerhouses like the Saint-Georges Garaga, the Drummondville Eagles and the legendary Quebec Aces.

Ironically, the Allan Cup, donated by Sir H. Montagu Allan, Q.C., was created because of issues with teams cheating to win the Stanley Cup. While Lord Stanley’s mug was originally created to reward the best amateur teams in the country, rising gate receipts and team winnings created an environment where teams started paying players under the table. Thus, as the Stanley Cup drifted towards being the de facto professional crown, a void existed to reward truly amateur teams. Hence Sir Montagu’s donation filled an important void in Canadian hockey history.

Originally contested on a “challenge” basis, the Allan Cup championship reached its heyday in the middle of the century as Senior A hockey boomed across Canada. Many of you are probably too young to remember how good Senior A hockey was. But as a kid growing up in Simcoe County, the Orillia Terriers and their epic battles against the Barrie Flyers, the Galt Hornets and the Brantford Alexanders were a close second to me to the Leafs versus the Habs.

Back in the era of three stations on our black and white TV, the Orillia Terriers vividly kept a boy’s love for the sport alive. Originally known as the Orillia Pepsis (yep, we had a big bottling plant in town), they became the Terriers in ’69 and rose to become a powerhouse!

Between 1969 and 1973, the Terriers were a North American powerhouse and finally captured the Allan Cup in 1973. Our home side was led by Claire “The Milkman” Alexander. Alexander was not only our star defenceman, but he was also a local milkman. True story. He performed home delivery of cow products in the daytime and went to practice and played at night! He piled up 46 points in 41 games, which caught the attention of the Leafs. After a year in the minors, Alexander played 42 games with the Leafs in ’74-75, as a 29-year-old rookie.

Alongside Alexander was Jimmy Keon, brother of the Leafs’ Dave, and Blake Ball, who went on to be a star in the movie Slap Shot.
Behind Alexander was Louis Levasseur, our star goalie. Levasseur was my first goaltending hero – being a puck dodger myself – and he too went on to professional glory, winning WHA All-Star status with stops in Minnesota (with the Fighting Saints), Edmonton, Hartford and Quebec. He too has a Slap Shot connection, as he was apparently the inspiration for the Lemieux character.

But what I loved most about the Terriers was their uniforms. Their crest featured a beagle flying on a puck, his ears twisting in the wind! The Terriers had an identity that was both fun and feisty. If you have ever owned a beagle, you will know what I mean.

In the late ‘70s, the Terriers as I knew them folded. Much of Senior hockey suffered as Junior hockey rose in popularity, the NHL expanded again and again, the WHA grew, and more and more great amateurs were sucked off to play pro hockey. But for me, the decline of the Orillia Terriers was more symbolic. Somehow the team ownership agreed to outfit the club in discarded Maple Leafs uniforms. Well, you can imagine what happened to our fortune when we did that.

Bye bye Snoopy. Bye bye championships!

As Katarina Witt glided from my memories of the 1988 Calgary Olympics to a podium not thirty feet away, the 1,500 SportAccord delegates drew quiet in anticipation, awe and admiration. (And no, it was not because she was announcing a sequel to her 1998 Playboy appearance!)

Witt is currently heading the Munich 2018 bid team for the Winter Olympics, and was at SportAccord in London, England, this week to conduct a public presentation of their bid, along with key members of her bid team. Munich is up against Annecy (France) and Pyeongchang (Korea). Pyeongchang is bidding for a third time and were defeated by Vancouver for the 2010 games.

The SportAccord International Convention is the most important gathering in the world for sports federations. It’s a grueling six-day affair featuring 104 annual meetings of Olympic and non-Olympic federations, along with the spring Executive Board meetings for the IOC, networking sessions and panel discussions. It’s more geared to the business side of sports events than the marketing side, but where it really shines is the networking.

If you are a community that wishes to host a major sporting event, a firm that wants to help build or manage said event, or a federation looking for more government and hosting support… this is the place to be.

Fortunately for Canadian organizations, the 2012 SportAccord will be hosted in Quebec City. Although I have to tell you, being in London this week was pretty bloody fun.

The buzz in London, as you can imagine, is all about the 2012 Games. The regeneration of the impoverished east side of London through Games infrastructure is a guarantee of lasting legacy.

The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, welcomed all SportAccord delegates by announcing that because they are almost done all the venues, he feels it is important to call a “snap Olympics.” So guess what? The 2012 games could actually be happening in a few weeks! Of course he was kidding. But given what Harper has done to us… it’s not really that funny.

Mayor Johnson is beyond funny. He suggested that if we couldn’t do a snap Olympics, there should be a politics Olympics. He thought Dick Cheney would be a star in the shooting events and Colonel Gaddafi should try the “high jump.”

The SportAccord Chair, a politician by the name of Lord Digby Jones Kt (yes, we are in England), was no bore himself, recounting the time he gave a political speech to an audience of one. When he asked the chap if he could skip the Q&A and just go home, the fellow begged him not to leave, because he, in fact, was the next speaker up on the dais!

But Lord Jones said something that struck me to the core. He talked about how in his business life and political life, he has been privileged to be in positions to make a difference in people’s lives. But in sport, he felt we had an opportunity to make the difference in people’s lives. He beseeched us all, members of the business, sport and political communities, to do whatever we could to provide that difference to young people. His words were to the effect that it is our duty to give every young athlete the opportunity to try their best, to train their hardest, to lay it all on the line to win. And that, win or lose, victory would be found through that opportunity to compete. Not just participate, but compete with all the resources imaginable.

This message has been incorporated in the theme for this year’s conference, which is Sport Matters.

It is clear to me that this message has not been lost on the Chair of the 2012 Games, Lord Sebastian Coe, holder of two Olympic golds and two Olympic silvers. He emphasized that these London Games would be a failure if they in fact were not England’s Games. That may be familiar messaging to Canadians, but Coe cited that he isn’t just talking about “cheering.” He talked about how the London Games have been striving to create youth sports programs. So school children that have never been in a boat are now competing at the highest levels of rowing. He talked of their “20-12” program that is striving to engage 12 million youth in sports, in 20 impoverished countries around the world by Games time. To date, they have reached 10.6 million, and will easily surpass their goal. This global legacy program is so exciting that the Rio 2016 OCOG have now picked up this program and the IOC is considering embedding it through future Games.

The efforts of these organizations should not be lost upon us as lessons for our projects and marketing programs. Yes, selling cases and generating media are critical. But we cannot forget. Sport Matters. In fact Music Matters, Saving Lives Matters, Volunteering Matters. If we create programs that are all about the marketing and forget what matters, our credibility will be shot.

Embed that expression into your next brief: (Blank) Matters. Engrain it into your next client recommendation. Express it in your next sponsorship pitch. Encourage your stakeholders to discover it.

Sport Matters.

A friend of mine and her husband were kind enough to loan us their new condo in Estero for March break. It’s in a breathtaking place called Pelican Sound, mere minutes from the Ft. Myers airport, yet miles away from anywhere.

Behind the gates of Pelican Sound are 1,300 condos, townhomes, coach houses and carriage homes nestled around two golf courses, a half-dozen pools, a cluster of tennis courts and a boat launch. However, what they don’t put on the brochure is the real treasure of the place. The barbecue stations.

Every pool has one. Six high-powered butane miracle machines. They may appear pedestrian as they stand in neat rows, shaded by brush, with a patio table in between. But their power is undeniable. No forewarning could have had me prepared for their might.

It was Day 1 of our stay (if you count arrival day as Day 0. If not, call it Day 2. Please use whatever holiday vernacular best suits you). On Day 1, we did our annual Target pilgrimage in the morning. The boys love that store, almost filling a shopping cart with Shaun White clothing and other bargains.

Dad’s not immune either, picking up a few things, and my parents (Target novices) were over the moon with the place. As great as it will be that Target will soon put Zellers out of its misery, the Canadian arrival of this retailing nirvana will eliminate one commercial treat of our Florida travels.

But I sentimentalize!

After Target, we decided to grab a quick lunch at some place called Hemingway’s in the Coconut Mall. In no way to be confused with Hemis in Yorkville. Disaster did not take long to strike.

My 10 year old slammed the bathroom door on my eight year old’s hand, by accident, but we soon had a busted thumb to deal with.

Rest assured the rest of the day was filled with pharmacy visits, icing of the hand, painkillers and a much-too-delayed trip to the walk-in clinic the next day.

The good news: it wasn’t broken. The bad news: he couldn’t go swimming, play tennis, go biking for a week. Great start to the vacay!

Faced with an uncertain game plan, I trundled off to the BBQs that eve to grill up some ingredients for a little Mexican din din.

Finding an empty grill, I noticed the other two chefs-in-residence understood some of the nuances I didn’t. First, I had no beer. What type of spatulant was I? Further, I had no snacks. No nachos. No dip. No chips. No pretzels. It was very clear to the others that I was either:

A. A BBQ virgin.
B. A Pelican Sound virgin.
C. Hired help for the white woman who kept showing up and telling me what to do.
D. All of the above and too stupid to tell my wife that I could manage the meat.

Embarrassed, I tried to avoid eye contact until I could slip back up to the condo and return with a cold one.

Feeling much more at ease, I was able to make eye contact with the other grillers. Taking a swig, my confidence was restored, especially when I unveiled my tortilla chips and salsa. Before long, I was deeply immersed in a pattern of conversation that repeated itself the other five nights that I hung out with the other BBQ boys.

“Where are you from?” Chicago, Toronto, Ottawa, Oakville, St. Louis, Detroit…

“How long you down for?” We are for a week…until the beginning of April…we have to go home tomorrow…we live here year round now.

“Do you have a place here?” We borrowed from friends…we are renting from a neighbour…we leased from a guy trying to sell.

It never lasted long, we rarely got past first names, but it was a 20-minute ritual that became the highlight of my day. If I headed to the pit and no smoke was billowing, I would be sad to the point of considering a kitchen delay. But invariably someone would show up and off we would go down the get-to-know-you-in-a-hurry expressway.

The conversations took a couple of unique twists. I met a guy who had just had a knee replacement and was lined up for another. His scar made me realize, I’m a wimp. Met some Ohio State fans who were convinced they were going to win the NCAA men’s basketball crown. I even met the father of one my employees. Now that’s a small world.

The best person I met was “Ohio.” When I first saw Ohio, I knew there was something different about him. I didn’t notice the halo at first, but there it was, glistening and bright just a few inches above his bald 60-something noggin of a head.

Yes, I met an angel at the BBQ pit. It’s true!

When Ohio saw my youngster’s thumb (he came to visit Dad in the BBQ pit to see why I was so happy), his sympathy resulted in a suggestion that made our trip. Ohio the angel said, “Take him to Flippers, that will cheer him up.”

So we did.

Flippers is at Lovers Key Resort, a non-descript tower next to a bridge just off Hickory Island. It’s a wisp of a restaurant, all outdoors, holding only 60 people. It’s probably like a thousand other places in the south. A charming, bleached blond, rapidly aging bartender. Who makes a mean Hurricane. A harried bald host, who probably came down from Syracuse for spring break in 1975 and forgot to leave. Chatty patrons gathered at the few bar stools all patiently waiting for their name to be called. A sunset that suggested we’d see dolphins dancing in the surf.

Flippers was everything the angel said it would be. I can still smell the Mahi off my pate mixed with the salt of the sea.

On your next vacation, look for the hallowed grounds of the BBQ. It is heaven. I’ve met an angel to prove it.