A Good Walk

The 2016 Masters golf tournament was played this past weekend.

There were many fine shots, angst, gorgeous scenery, exciting moments and a nail-biting ending.

But I was in a bit of a fog whenever I tuned in to watch. And I know why.

On July 18th, 2015 our golden retriever Molly passed away after an almost fifteen year life with my wife and me. The British Open was being broadcast the weekend she left us behind on this planet and Sally was traveling. Molly was not her usual self and I knew she was coming to the end of her life.

It was almost surreal sitting beside her, watching golfers stride the course, hour after hour... my mind on Molly... running through so many memories with her.

One memory very vivid to me was a trip we took to Florida ten or more years ago. I took her for a walk at the end of the day along the golf course behind where we were staying.  All the players had passed and so we had the entire eleventh hole to ourselves.

I tossed Molly's tennis ball as far as I could and, as usual, she tore after it in a flash of golden fur.  At about fifty feet away, she appeared to slow, then disappeared from my view, only to reappear a moment later, in pursuit of the ball.

As I ran towards her I noticed the obstacle... a bunker about eight feet deep, hidden from my earlier viewpoint.

Clearly Molly had sized up that she could make the leap, and pressed on through the sand, in pursuit of her ball.

This was a defining characteristic of our golden girl. She was all in - all the time... and as a result, she lived a life of courage, exploration and... fun.

I know there is some disagreement over who first coined the phrase below (I'll go with Twain for now) -

Mark Twain: Golf is a good walk spoiled.    —The Saturday Evening Post

For me, I think I will leave that analysis to golfers... my favorite walk was with a sweet golden named Molly.  And I would say we likely took over ten thousand walks together during her lifetime.

Not one of them spoiled.

A Red Rose in The Hall… Thorns and all.

Ever enter a home and see a bouquet of roses displayed prominently in the entry hall?

Kind of makes you want to come in - welcomes you so to speak.

But when you enter 25 Main Street in Cooperstown, New York, you know before you cross the threshold, something special is missing… and that is the greatest hitter in the history of baseball, one Peter Edward Rose.

Not just any old garden variety rose this.

But a Rose that got to the bases with hits 4,256 times, the most in baseball history. A record unlikely to be broken.

Astounding.

Rose was also a Rookie of the Year,  an MVP and helped his team to win three World Series. Did I mention a forty-four game hitting streak? Sort of perfected the head first slide… garnering him the nickname, Charlie Hustle.

And hustle he did, all game, every game, for twenty-three years.

Pretty amazing athlete.

And he used some pretty poor judgement off the field. Seems Pete had a penchant for gambling. On games. team games. And as it turns out, BASEBALL games.

Flawed, like every human being.

Okay, I can hear the purists now… he disrespected the game.

What a crock. There are players in the Hall who disrespected the game, and in so doing, diminished hard earned records of players who went before. Give that one a rest.

Twenty-five years is a pretty stiff penalty to pay. But forever?

The other element of the story is how the rules (remember the rules that are so sacred) were manipulated to keep Pete out of the hall.

"In August 1989, three years after he retired as an active player, Rose agreed to permanent ineligibility from baseball amidst accusations that he gambled on baseball games while playing for and managing the Reds, including claims that he bet on his own team. In 1991, the Baseball Hall of Fame formally voted to ban those on the "permanently ineligible" list from induction, after previously excluding such players by informal agreement among voters."

The powers-that-be have spoken, and Charlie Hustle stays outside. Let's call it The Pete Rose rule.

He was wrong. He finally admitted it. He paid a price.

But he deserves, on his body of work… on the field, to be with the other greats. Why not let the entire body of 600 voters, sportswriters all, decide Pete's fate? All candidates require an overwhelming majority in order to enter the hall. Why not put it to a vote, unencumbered by bureaucrats.

In the United States of America, self-proclaimed as the world's greatest democracy… the man deserves a vote.

One of the best Reds ever… a Red Rose.

Thorns and all.

A Golden Life

Our golden retriever, Miss Molly, has been the cover girl for my blog by default.

I remember the day I set up this page to post some of my thoughts, for all the world to see, for good, bad or indifferent, as an aspiring writer, I thought - Why not get some stuff out there?

When the time came to choose a photo for the cover page, I chose a recent one of Miss M.  No focus groups, no long selection process, no reason other than… she's, well, Molly.

And Molly has been as constant as the Northern Star these past fourteen years.

Happy to be home? So Is Molly.

Working late in the office? Molly asleep under my desk.

Want to go for a walk? Molly too.

Answering the door late at night? You guessed it, Molly right there.

Driving from New York to British Columbia. Molly gets the whole backseat.

Feeling down? Molly with her head on your knee.

Lost a big deal? Molly with a shoe… C'mon boss, let's go out.

Simple fact is that Molly is always there

So what other image should grace my blog, but our golden girl?

When you open the dictionary to the word, 'loyalty', there is a photo of Molly… want to try, 'kind-hearted'... there she is... 'courageous', yup…

I'm writing a memoir to publish after Molly leaves us behind on this planet. It will be titled. 'A Golden Life'… and folks will think it is about Molly's life, her exploits, highlights, tough times, humorous moments. And to be sure, it will be all about Molly.

But the life she touched with gold -

Will be mine.

So… Why not be great?

I have a plaque in my office with a simple message - "When you feel like quitting, think about why you started."

So when I pick up the file I have been working on the past five years titled, "Flyers", I sometimes feel like quitting. After all, what could I possibly know about producing a major motion picture? And why would anyone want to pay to see a story about the Wright Brothers invention of the airplane anyway?

In September 2010, I was inspired to begin a project to produce a film about the Wright Brothers. Three elements contributed to my inspiration. First, I have always been fascinated with the history of these inventors who shared my family name. Second, my uncle Neil Paterson won the Academy Award for screenwriting the picture "Room at The Top" in 1959. And third, I am a lifelong film buff (okay, maybe not lifelong… probably didn't see my first film until I was about eight years of age… I think it may have been "Lassie Come Home").

I've traveled to Kitty Hawk, Dayton, Huffman Prairie, The Smithsonian and The Henry Ford in Dearborn researching the story on the ground and have read the majority of books about the Wright Brothers. I travelled to Hollywood to meet with representatives of major studios and met with directors and screenwriters in an effort to find someone who shares my passion for the project.

I have found a tie between Bill Gates and the wonderful story of the Wright accomplishment and discovered many links to other notable, successful individuals who are mesmerized by the sheer perseverance and creativity employed by two bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio.

And still no collaborators.

Yet.

That's the great thing about having a dream. You get to feel like quitting, and then you get to think about why you started.

And you get to ask -

Why not be great?

A LITTLE BIT OF MAGIC...

Do you believe… in magic?

I'm not talking about the sleight of hand kind… that is fun to watch, but not truly magical.  Real magic isn't deception, or an illusion created to fool one into 'thinking' something exceptional has occurred.

The kind of magic I am talking about is instantly recognizable by the person who experiences it… a magical evening, a magical performance… you get the idea.

So as we set off to engage with another new year, perhaps adopting the idea of a new canvas, spread out before us, waiting for us to add to our story, filled with color, shapes and texture - what will we paint?

Let's hope there is a wee bit of magic involved… to delight us.

"I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a little bit of magic waiting behind the morning." - J. B. Priestley

A Handshake And A Mission

This month of May 2012 marks the ninth anniversary of the loss of a visionary man, Mark Hume McCormack (1930 - 2003).

I was fortunate to meet Mark in 1986 and the man universally recognized for pioneering the modern sports marketing industry left an indelible impression on both my career and my life.

This column could very easily be filled with his myriad accomplishments.  Names like Jean Claude Killy, Wayne Gretzky, Bjorn Borg, Mohammad Ali, Jeff Gordon, Chris Evert and Arnold Palmer would be bantered around.  Hallowed places of sport such as Wimbledon, Augusta National, Yankee Stadium, St. Andrews, Madison Square Garden, Wembley and The Indianapolis Motor Speedway would surely be mentioned.

But that's not what makes Mark McCormack special to me.

It was his thirst to innovate, his desire to do things better.  It was his creative nature, his drive to be first tempered by a common touch.  And it was his love of and appreciation for competition that drove him always into new territory... a true pioneer in every sense of the word.

I love to tell the story of how IMG was born with a handshake between Mark McCormack and Arnold Palmer... it is one I continue to tell with pride today.

His company, IMG, was an audacious experiment.  His team of executives and staff were a collection of talented people, from all corners of the world, who could make the seemingly impossible possible.  And his energy and enthusiasm filled the halls of IMG offices from New York to London to Paris and Aukland to Johannesburg to Hong Kong.  For goodness sake, MHM, as we IMGer's affectionately referred to him, was well known in New Delhi, Hamburg and Kuala Lumpur.

Mark was, quite simply, on a mission.  A mission to innovate.

He was legendary for some of his quirks.  He maintained a meticulous file of index cards on people and projects that he would fill with handwritten notes allowing him to keep track of details, large and small.  And he was forever preparing to-do lists on yellow note pads... and then knocking off the tasks one by one.

He was feared by some, admired by many and respected by all... but never ignored, underestimated and rarely, unknown.

What I like most about Mark was his dedication to IMG and the people that made up the company.  And what will stay with me forever is the way he steadfastly kept after his goals.

With a handshake and a mission.

Garage Band Music

I have heard it said that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.

If so, this week I am flattering Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and to some extent, Orville and Wilbur Wright.

As the warm spring sunlight banished the long, rainy and cold (did I say rainy?) pacific northwest winter, I packed up my office, lock stock and barrel, or more accurately, desk, lamp, computer and office decor and moved out to the garage.

What a feeling of freedom from the house I call home... to a remote, okay not too remote, location in the back corner of our yard.

There is something very empowering about working in your garage.  Let's set aside for a moment the fresh air when the door is thrown up to bring all of the beauty outside in.  And let's not even count the all too obvious benefits of filtered sunshine bringing your creative juices to their peak.

Let's instead focus on the just plain basic surroundings that inspire ideas.  The romance of the concept that anyone who is willing to imagine something new, can bring it to life, simply by trying again and again to make it so.

Perhaps the garage is the common denominator for the inventions of The Wright Brothers, Hewlett, Packard, Gates, Jobs, Page and Brin.  Maybe it's the image I have of the garage as a starting place, a cornerstone or could it be that there's just something cool about toiling away without splashy surroundings which is in and of itself motivating.

Whether the garage is on South Williams Street in Dayton, Addison Place in Paolo Alto, Crist Avenue in Los Altos... somewhere in Bremerton or on 32nd Place in Portland... I'm not sure it matters (although Los Altos probably trumps Dayton in January).

So with a equal parts optimism, inspiration, perspiration, dreams and, oh yeah, a measure of good fortune... we might just make a little music at The Wright Stuff!

Garage band style.

Those Who Cannot Hear The Music...

Must think the (Big) DANCEr MAD.

There is a good chance that many of the stars competing for the NCAA basketball championship this past four weeks don't know who Dr. James Naismith was. With all the conversation about possible Cinderella teams, the 'one-and-dones' from Kentucky and Duke's early departure from March Madness, his significance gets short shrift.

But of course my fellow Canadian Dr. Naismith invented the game of basketball one hundred and twenty one years ago. Naismith was first and foremost an innovator. He is also credited for inventing the first football helmet.

Naismith's invention of the game allowed for only passing, no dunking and focused on team play. He created the game to provide an indoor outlet for athletes who were forced inside during the long winters of the northeast USA.

In 1891 there is no way he could have envisioned the sport the way it is today with 300 million participating worldwide. It is unlikely he foresaw the enormous commercial circus that has now become March Madness. I like to think the game he designed was built more for a John named Wooden than one called Calipari... more for a John Stockton than a LeBron James. A game that builds character beyond the arena. A game that would develop leaders, rather than celebrity stars. And a game that could allow the genius of a Pistol Pete Maravich to fire the imagination of thousands of young fans.

For now, the Madness that was March actually concludes in Asylum April. This year the Kansas Jayhawks, the school Naismith first started into the sport made the final. The best team won, the losing team gave it all... and a most valuable player hoisted a trophy named after a man that, by those who could not hear the music... perhaps thought him Mad.

Madness Reigns

Every year during March Madness, fans scrutinize the teams records and fill in their brackets to predict the outcome of The Big Dance. I always try and find a dark horse that will differentiate my picks from others in my group.

But it's not just to win the pool (although bragging rights for twelve months are attractive), it's because inherently I (and I suspect many fans) love an underdog. We love David knocking off Goliath... the Little Engine That Could... so to speak.

For me, it's because I always expect to win, even against long odds, or uphill into the wind. And since I believe sport serves society by providing vivid examples of excellence, I need David to knock off Goliath sometimes.

That way we all can tilt against windmills with a little more confidence, knowing that once in a while... Madness Reigns!