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.

My ticket told me that I was sitting in The Circle in the Square Theatre. The calendar told me it was December 29, 2010. My body told me I was 45 years old.

Lombardi on Broadway

But as I saw the “Lombardi” character emerge onstage to open the play bearing his name, I was emotionally transported.

Not just back to a time when Vince Lombardi patrolled the sidelines in Green Bay. But to a time when I was forming my passion for the greatest sport in the world. Lombardi was dead at this point, but I worshiped what he had done. Even though my favourite NFL team was (and is) the Steelers; even though my favourite player was (and still is) Gale Sayers – I loved what Lombardi stood for and what he achieved.

Lombardi on Broadway

Paul Brown went to 10 straight championship games (four in the old AAFC and six in the NFL), coaching the team he owned and christened. He did it with innovation and tactics. Chuck Knoll has won more Super Bowls than any other coach. He did it by massaging fragile psyches, balancing egos and embracing odd personalities. In different generations, George Halas and Don Shula are the only coaches to notch 300 victories.

Photo by Vernon J. Biever

But only Lombardi has won five NFL championships (I think, correct me if I am wrong) and he did it in just nine seasons with the Packers. He did it by taking the worst team in football in 1959 and, with the same core players, had them in the finals in two seasons and atop the podium in three. For me, it has always been about how he did it as much as what he did. There is a reason the Super Bowl trophy my Steelers are going to win (yet again) this year is named after him.

Lombardi understood people more than any coach who ever coached the game. He motivated them by making the “relentless pursuit of perfection” their goal. He fortified them by having them train harder than any pro coach would ever suggest. He convinced them by developing a single, powerful identity clothed in one offensive play – the PACKER SWEEP – that nobody could stop.

These three principles: never-ending pursuit of a goal, outworking others and creating overwhelming confidence – can work in any walk of life. Relationships. Friendships. Sports. Business.

Run To Daylight

For that, we owe Lombardi.

But as a youngster reading about Lombardi, I am doubtful (and hopeful) my reflections weren’t that deep. But, in some ways, they were. When I read Run to Daylight, I came to the realization that if I wanted something, all I had to do was work for it. I was incredibly insecure as a kid. This book gave me hope. It actually made me feel that it wasn’t about what you were born with. As an adult, I read When Pride Still Mattered by Pulitzer Prize winner David Maraniss. This isn’t a football book. It’s a book about what drives greatness in a reader.

When Pride Still Mattered

If you want to understand yourself better, if you want to understand how to overcome your own demons… read it. If you want to understand why every family in the world is a mess… read it.

The current Lombardi play on Broadway is based on this book. My wife was generous enough to sit through it with me. For her, it was Broadway – great acting by the Marie Lombardi character… and, I suspect, perhaps a curiosity to understand me better.

For me, it was time travel. Seeing that play took me from my present day love of the game back to

Lombardi - A New American Play

the years when I would watch Condredge Holloway, Tommy Clements and later J.C. Watts guide my beloved (Ottawa) Rough Riders to Grey Cup titles and injustice (see offensive pass interference penalty on Tony Gabriel, circa 1981, I believe). It took me back to Franco Harris and Rocky Bleier. It took me back to Herschel (which is my nickname) Walker at Georgia and to the (almost) Toronto Northmen of the WFL. It took me to Johnnie Walton and the Boston Breakers of the USFL.

It took me back to being four-foot-nothing in grade nine. Struggling with being short. Struggling with not being a great football player, wrestler, or clarinet player. It took me back to wearing velour and living in the shadow of my dad – the hero teacher at my school – and older sister who I thought was perfect… as did the rest of my freaking hometown!

Football and my heroes like Lombardi let a little boy escape. It gave me confidence. It gave me pride.

That’s why I coach. Because of what the game can do to help little men become young men.

J.C. Watts, Condredge Holloway, Tom Clements

That’s why I melted when Dan Lauria as Lombardi strolled across the stage and the rest of the crowd applauded. My throat closed, my eyes followed. The tears came flowing out at an embarrassing pace. I wanted to go up onstage and hug him. This ghost. This myth. This guardian angle. This hero. My secret friend. My made-up pal.

Lombardi. He is football.

I have a poster that adorns my office wall with a portrait of Lombardi in his stoic pose. Half-smile, half-grimace on his face. Neat black suit, hands folded gently behind his back. The text of the poster is Lombardi’s famous speech – What It Takes to Be Number One. The poster stands next to my door and I am sure that many an intern has wondered what I am staring at. My eyes lost in Lombardi’s. My lips mouthing every word. My right hand clenched in the tense fist I make when I’m absorbed by something. This speech is an invincible spirit raiser for any occasion. I have copied it here for you. Read it. Keep it. Read it again in a week. And the week after, and… What It Takes to Be Number One Vince Lombardi Winning is not a sometimes thing; it’s an all the time thing. You don’t win once in a while; you don’t do things right once in a while; you do them right all the time. Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing. There is no room for second place. There is only one place in my game, and that’s first place. I have finished second twice in my time at Green Bay, and I don’t ever want to finish second again. There is a second place bowl game, but it is a game for losers played by losers. It is and always has been an American zeal to be first in anything we do, and to win, and to win, and to win. Every time a football player goes to ply his trade he’s got to play from the ground up – from the soles of his feet right up to his head. Every inch of him has to play. Some guys play with their heads. That’s O.K. you’ve got to be smart to be number one in any business. But more importantly, you’ve got to play with your heart, with every fiber of your body. If you’re lucky enough to find a guy with a lot of head and a lot of heart, he’s never going to come off the field second. Running a football team is no different than running any other kind of organization – an army, a political party or a business. The principles are the same. The object is to win – to beat the other guy. Maybe that sounds hard or cruel. I don’t think it is. It is a reality of life that men are competitive and the most competitive games draw the most competitive men. That’s why they are there – to compete. To know the rules and objectives when they get in the game. The object is to win fairly, squarely, by the rules – but to win. And in truth, I’ve never known a man worth his salt who in the long run, deep down in his heart didn’t appreciate the grind, the discipline. There is something in good men that really yearns for discipline and the harsh reality of head to head combat. I don’t say these things because I believe in the “brute” nature of man or that men must be brutalized to be combative. I believe in God, and I believe in human decency. But I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour – his greatest fulfillment to all he holds dear – is that moment when he has to work his heart out in a good cause and he’s exhausted on the field of battle – victorious. - Vince Lombardi

Lucas Spata, just 35 years old, of the Vancouver Canucks marketing team is losing his three-year battle with micro cell cancer. He is presently in a hospice in Vancouver and soon he will leave behind a young widow and a three-year-old son.

His family faces an emotional battle and a financial one. But many people have stepped forward, including the Canucks organization, to help.

Lucas is a good friend of a good friend of mine, which is why I decided to help spread the appeal for more help. He is a valuable contributor to our industry. Most of you don’t know him. Personally, I’ve only met him once, but his story is a tragic reminder of how fortunate many of us are.

Take a moment to read his story and send some support. It doesn’t have to be money. While donations are needed, so is support, including just telling others and sharing his story.

Read on about Lucas — I’m sure you will touched by his unbelievable concern for others, despite knowing his own fate is sealed.

www.spatafamily.com

Sensing there was some MOmentum building in our office for this MOvember thing, I wanted to check out how the rest of our team was doing.

Our Calgary team, who are sporting the IDA moniker for Integrated Duster Activations, struck a pose on Day One that has them off and facing to some big fundraising goals. One of our interns has already raised two hundred and ten MOllars! Meow!

That would put her in second place the Toronto office, where one of our mo’s is already at $300 mones.

So, at the risk of being left behind in the must, I realized I had to seize the day and start MOwing some lawns. So here MOes.

Let’s start with the basics. We all know that 1 in 6 Canadian men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetimes. Last year, one of those was my father.

Unlike his son, my dad isn’t keen on publicity. (Guess the rumours of my being adopted are true!). But I have to brag a little.

My dad is the greatest man on earth.

He taught high school for a hundred years in Orillia, and was the most popular teacher in school. His class was machine shop, but his lessons were about life. He took kids to our cottage, took them on canoe trips, and took them to personal heights they would never have reached without him. He loved his students like they were his children, and as an immature youth, I was actually jealous of that.

On a teacher’s salary, he was the richest man in town. He had a warmth that everyone felt and bought winter boots for kids who couldn’t afford them. He treated everyone like a king, especially the janitors because he knew a school couldn’t exist without them.

As a father, he taught me to rake every leaf on the lawn, clear every snowflake from the driveway, and capture every speck of dirt in the garage. At 45, I’m still enthusiastically trying to meet his standards. As a husband, he has made my mother’s life magical for 53 years and they will never be apart.

I’m dedicating my involvement in Movember to my dad. When we were kids, my friends called him “Sugar Ron” because he used to be a boxer. (Google Sugar Ray Leonard if you don’t get the point!). Well, he’s still a fighter! He’s knocking the crap out of PC!

Please join me in raising awareness about Prostate Cancer and support Movember. Join a team, donate to me or my team at movember.com/mospace/770320/, or support someone else’s team.

Do it for you dad, your granddad, your dad-in-law, future dads, and all the other dads that give us our Mojo!

Mo Harrison

So for this week, I’ll make it quick.

My underdog football team got waxed in our semi-finals game. The maligned QB turned hero receiver was injured on the 3rd play of the game and never returned. Boo hoo.

Record numbers turned out for the Toronto election and proved to me that I really don’t know anything about my fellow citizens. Yes, Rob Ford is now my mayor. Yes, my bike is for sale. Yes, my house is as well. At least my friend won the council seat for my ward.

Yes, it’s true I once went out on Halloween as a TV. (So long ago, it must have been a black & white set. Make your “coloured” jokes now people!). Problem was, I couldn’t walk and hold my candy bag at the same time. I went home distraught and my sister dressed me up as a girl. It was the best Halloween I ever had. Thanks sis. (Keep your comments to yourself).

After seven years as TrojanOne, we are rebranding November 1st. That’s right, we need a new name for the month as we support Prostate Cancer Canada’s “Movember.” We’ve got a team of fertile growers ready to take you on. Sign up your own team. Its going to be fun. I’m sure we all know someone who has been afflicted. We don’t have a logo yet, but our (temporary) new name is MojanOne. Look out! My Dad was diagnosed in February 2009, did his treatments last spring, and is doing very well! Go Pappa! Me and the Mojans will do you proud!

Happy Halloween.

Then you have to tackle a returner off a missed field goal, or following a punt, in their end zone.

How do you make the playoffs when you didn’t win a single regular season game? Well, first you have to be grateful that you play in a high school league where everybody makes the playoffs.

How do you knock your opponent from the first round of the playoffs for the first time in their school history when you haven’t scored a single point on offence all year? Well, first you have to have thirty-two school age players who have perseverance and character beyond their years.

How do you not get fired after coaching your team to a winless and near-scoreless season? Well, first you have to leverage the fact you are a volunteer. So you can’t be fired. But you can be asked to leave.

Secondly, you need to thank those thirty-two aforementioned teens.

Enough with the questions game. Let me get to the fact. If you haven’t heard by now that I coach high school football as a volunteer, then you have successfully ignored my blogs and my overly crowded speaking schedule for… fifteen years! My team is the Lawrence Park Panthers and I have been toiling the sidelines as Head Coach of the seniors since 1999. And, no, I am not running for Mayor of Toronto.

This year, I expected big things. My seniors won the City Tier II championship last season. The upcoming juniors won the Tier I city championship. It all added up to a season with great potential for 2010!

The challenge was we had no quarterback. And at all levels of football, you must have a quarterback to win. Or at least compete.

So, game after game, we lost. None ridiculously badly. Some were quite close. But when you can’t score, you can’t win. And we didn’t score. Not one single point (on offence). So for a guy who prides himself on his crazy no-huddle, hurry up, don’t punt on 3rd down offence… I was losing my mind.

It wasn’t just the QB’s fault.  I have never been around a team with more injuries. Every single game we had 4-5 starters out. One Sunday we lost two of our players. In a house league hockey game. Playing against each other. Racing for the puck in the corner. Two linemen!

One of them has been injured so many times that I have nicknamed him “Teacup.” Because he is always cracking.

Not only are we injured all the time, we don’t like to block. We have one kid who runs around with his hands tucked under his armpits like he is a baby duckling. He runs past defenders. Away from defenders. Anywhere he can go. That would be fine if he had the ball. But he’s a lineman. I asked him one night during film session if he was like the guy on the Skittles commercial. Afraid to touch anything in case it turns into candy. So you can imagine that I now call this kid “Skittles.”

Every day I would show up at practice and expect some kids to quit. Or someone to punch me for my teasing nicknames. (Time for a more motivational approach). But out there they would be.

Teacup would be on crutches. Skittles running around looking for candy. Another kid with a concussion hanging out in his hockey jacket waiting to be cleared. My star running back in civvies due to a bum leg. My emerging runningback practicing with a cast on his arm.

But they weren’t quitting. No one quit. It was so strange. In sixteen years of coaching I have had other winless teams. And usually after Thanksgiving you not only lose games, you lose players. Teens like to win.

But not this group. No one quit. Each week we would go out for dinner the night before games. We would watch film of our latest disaster. We would tell jokes. Howl at ourselves on screen. Players would mimic my crackly voice shouting at them on the field. Linemen would fill up on French fries (sorry parents).

Then, this Tuesday, my winless warriors marched into our first playoff game. We were strangely confident. I moved our star RB, who was now healed, to QB. We moved some receivers to DB. We took a 5’6” kid who couldn’t get off the bench for two years and put him at defensive end. And for two hours we had magic.

The receivers cum DB’s were smacking everything in sight! Our 5’6” defensive end (who also happens to be a nationally ranked junior squash player) treated the opponents like they were a two-dot yellow ball. He pounded them left, right and center. Our offence rolled up and down the field. We didn’t score cause we fumbled twice in the red zone and turned it over on downs two other times. But boy did we march!

The new QB went “Peyton Manning” on me and waved off my play calls and called his own. And they worked. For a 45 year-old control freak coach (I don’t even let my players read the routes; they are given a prime receiver every play… for those of you who know what that means), to be SHUSHED by a 16 year-old in front of your whole team and their whole team and all the parents… can you imagine how I felt???

I felt GREAT!!! These kids were showing me their mettle. Finally, I witnessed the hearts of champions they played with last year.

With 40 seconds to go, up by that narrow 1-0 margin, and a crucial 3rd & 4th, we were faced with a decision. I asked my young Manning if he wanted to throw for it. He didn’t answer until he trotted back to the huddle, called the play and hurled the ball downfield. It wasn’t the prettiest pass. It wasn’t a duck either. It was more of a hot air balloon.

It hung in the air forever. It mesmerized every player and coach on both teams. The referees couldn’t move. The fans couldn’t breath. The stick crew were cemented in place.

One of my receivers and two defenders were in position. My guy was the shortest. But magically he climbed the ladder like he was reaching for the pearly gates.

Confidently, he guided the ball into his hands as his legs, the ground, and two defenders all collided with him.

Unbelievably, they both fell off him as he spun towards the opponent’s end zone. Triumphantly, he crosses the goal line into the heavenly Promised Land that had avoided us all season.

Unfortunately, this blog isn’t entitled Secretariat. And I’m not a writer for Disney. The fairy tale ending isn’t really to be.

Just kidding. My receiver stepped out of bounds, oh so slightly, just a few yards from the goal line. But the good news is we had a first down. The better news is we won the game. The amazing news is we are going to the semifinals.

So how do you win a football game 1-0? Well you trust the kid who had been your bad QB all year to make the clinching third down catch. Yes, you guessed it, that’s the kid who made the great catch.

I addressed my team after the game and looked into the eyes of a one-time maligned QB, now tuned hero receiver. They were big red saucers as he was bawling his eyes out. A season of frustration was replaced by a memory to last a lifetime of single leaping play.

For him and me.

Oh, there was a disastrous tumble down Blackcomb Mountain in 1989, when my best friend Rosie tricked me into doing a double black diamond. “Just tuck,” he said, “you’ll be fine.” One death cookie later and I’ve been dealing with neck issues everyday for the past twenty-one years.

Then there was the time my wife tried to kill me in Peru.

Several days of high altitude trekking led me to being carried down a mountain by several undersized farmers. The high altitude sickness had me so messed up, I had some crazy dreams about trying to save Martin Luther King’s life mixed with regular conscious outbursts to all those around me. My travel companions were convinced they hadn’t let all the prisoners escape, so my accusations became confirmation that I had lost my cheese.

More recently, I jumped into a live drill with the high school football team I coach… also known as the Lawrence Park Panthers… 2009 Tier II city champions (mandatory plug!). Pretending I actually knew something about playing the sport, I challenged my kids to get tougher in a particular session. A disgruntled DB, surnamed Dong, responded appropriately by putting his helmet through my face, which resulted in several stitches on the inside of my mouth to sew up the resultant hole. I remember sitting at Sunnybrook Hospital that night, missing an eagerly anticipated Monday Night Football game, telling myself how stupid I was. Or am.

It was back to Sunnybrook for another visit last Thursday night. The fun started on match point, about 9:45 PM, at my squash club. Mh3 was up two games to one, 10-9 in the fourth, with an easy backhand down the wall to win the match.

As I went to plant my right foot for the crucial shot a little voice said, “STOP!” Oh I wish I could have.

I’m not sure if the explosion in my knee started before I planted my foot or on the way down. Either way, the detonator went off, and my knee disintegrated.

Torn MCL. Torn ACL. Torn muscles. Bruised tibia. Meniscus stew.

Foot, ankle, knee, leg, butt, all disappeared below me as I collapsed like a toy soldier at the flick of a boys finger. My soon to be deaf opponent was in more shock than I was, as I screamed like a hungry baby. Between wails of “I broke my leg,” “Call 911,” and a few F bombs I prepared to pass out. (Now I’m being dramatic).

While consciousness was never actually lost, a hundred thousand thoughts flashed through my mind. Ranging from the absurd (why didn’t I win this damn match a point earlier); to the ridiculous (what if I get a blood clot and have a stroke like my high school drafting teacher did after a ski injury); to the petty (there goes my trip to Las Vegas for the NHL Awards). Before I got too out of control Randy and Paul showed up… my friendly paramedics. (Names disguised for legal reasons).

These two guys quickly reassure me that: A. I still had two legs; B. My leg was not broken; C. Yes I was too fat to be playing squash. (JK).

After being loaded up on the stretcher, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy, and paraded past wedding guests from the club’s ballroom, it was off to the ambulance. I phoned my wife on the way who somehow thought I said I was driving to the hospital because I had a sore knee and I would be home in an hour.

Fast forward twelve hours later and I am getting the good news from the surgeon. My X-rays gave him, quote, “the heebie jeebies,” and he whisked me off for a CT scan. Upon my return, he outlined a program of four weeks of phsyio, icing, and rehab to get the swelling down… so they could determine what type of knife work will be required to rebuild the Six-Thousand Dollar Man.

So, drawing inspiration from my beloved hero Gale Sayers (hence the “3” in MH3 for those who keep asking… Google his autobiography if you are still unsure); I am off to rebuilding my wheel and attempting a comeback.

The summer that was to be: a new tennis ladder, hiking in Provance with my kids, and a week in cowboy boots at Stampede; has quickly been replaced by my drill sergeant phsyio therapist, a collection of walkers, canes, and crutches littering our house, and a newfound ability to slide down any set of stairs on my arse.

It may be a year before I am back on the court. But it could be worse! Maybe it will give me time to start that book I’ve always dreamt of writing.

I’ve got a title already in mind… can you guess?

But the best celebration I attended wasn’t to be found on any online event calendar… in any newspaper listing… or promoted on any local radio station. Largely because it was a neighbourhood street party that has been happening for over fifteen years at undisclosed location in North Toronto.

Friends, neighbours, former neighbours, near-neighbours, and friends of all of the above gathered en masse for this annual tradition of making fun… even if all the appropriate forms and paperwork hadn’t been filled out. (Perhaps I was jeopardizing my career by attending?!)

The party was held on a little street that benefits from being a cross between two streets that really provide little in the way of a shortcut for daily commuters, Because of that setup…the folks who live here benefit from having a relatively safe arena for their kids to skateboard, bike, play street hockey, or just stand around and chat. It made for the perfect environment for this party.

Any doubts I possessed that the festivities would be low key were squashed as I tried to find parking on one the adjoining crescents. Fist off the place was jammed. I am a bit of an exaggerator, so lets go with 400 people. But if you told me it was 700 I would believe you. At both ends of the street, makeshift signage blocked vehicle entrance as the street was filled with lawn chairs, food stands, and screaming children. A local family restaurant had donated hot dogs and while the lineup for the freebies was long, at least six people mentioned the “donation” to me on an unsolicited basis. Talk about great brand building.

Various parent volunteers had put ice cream, drinks, and face painting in place. The six dads behind the pyrotechnics had designed a staging area for the fireworks. Mother Nature cooperated with an incredible evening.

Someone brought me a beer… who knew we could drink on the street? It was probably the best tasting beer I had all week. Oh the liberty of not confirming to our ridiculous liquor laws for just a few moments!

After a couple of hours of mayhem, the crowd settled in for the show. A powerful home stereo, and some speakers on the lawn, provided the perfect symphonic backdrop. A barrage of roman candles, comets, and bombshells filled the dark evening sky. For a bunch of amateurs it was pretty impressive.

Parents kept one eye on the sky and another on their children. These dads knew what they were doing, for nothing landed out of the safety zone. Outside of a few burning embers on a pair of houses. This hint of arson was attributed to a local roofing company trying to drum up business.

As the main show ended, the kids were encouraged to get sparklers. Soon the street was aglow with dozens and dozens of sparkers. This was probably the only time I was truly nervous.

It seemed every tween boy somehow felt that lighting a girl on fire was an approved mating ritual. Needless to say, the young women didn’t agree and caught between this mindless form of fencing were a few terrified tots. Thankfully none were mine.

In the end nobody died or fried, so I guess all is fair in love and war. Even when you are twelve.

As the sparklers petered out and the firework smoke cleared, a dozen neighbours grabbed brooms and garbage pails, cleaning up the street faster than it had been (illegally) closed. I hustled my kid’s home for a now overdue bedtime. But I would not have been upset if the event had lasted a few more hours.

The agency geek in me of course kicked in as I started thinking… why don’t more marketers get involved in “unorganized” events? If I brought this to your desk tomorrow, would you chase me away? Does everything we do have to line up to a cost per sample measurement?

In this social media crazed world… where an unbranded viral video (or video that went viral) which reaches X thousand consumers is deemed a “success”… why can’t a viral event be worthy of consideration?

Think of how much more cost effective your sampling would be. How much more authenticate the brand experience would be. How much more word of mouth you could create, by letting your events go viral.

So I am not advocating we all break civic ordinances and ignore appropriate permitting and safety procedures, I do think a little spontaneity in our event world could generate significant ROI.

In fact, my exposure to Paralympians really only began a few years ago when we started planning to have the 2010 Canadian Sponsorship Forum in Whistler, during the Games.

But over the past few months I have been gradually becoming more immersed in the incredible story of Brian McKeever. Even more so recently when I opened my Globe & Mail to see the full-page Vitamin Water ad triumphing his accomplishments. Only then I realized Brian McKeever would be one of the biggest stories of the year.

What he has accomplished is unbelievable.

A former junior national cross-country ski team star, McKeever was diagnosed at 19 with Stargardt’s disease. In just two years he became legally blind.

When I first read this I thought about all the things I experienced as a 19 year old. As a 20 year. As a 21 year old. To think that McKeever went from star athlete to blind during that period, really hit home.

But obviously it did not slow him down. He began training first for Paralympic events and then able-bodied events. In no time he reached the pinnacle of the Paralympic podium, winning gold four times between the 2002 and 2006 Games.

He didn’t stop there. He not only became the first Canadian athlete with a disability to compete in able-bodied race, he finished 24th in the World Championships!!!

I couldn’t imagine being the 24th best at anything in the world. Let alone to be doing it with such a disadvantage.

Now he has gone on to an even higher accomplishment, becoming the first winter athlete ever to qualify for both the Olympics and Paralympics. In my mind that alone should make him the top story in Canadian athletics for the year.

The Olympics gets a ton of exposure, at times dwarfing the Paralympics. The accomplishments of this Canmore Alberta native will be an unbelievable boost to the Paralympic movement.

My friend Henry at the Canadian Paralympic Committee told me that Paralympians eat INSURMOUNTABLE for breakfast. From what I have learned of Brian McKeever, he may eat INSURMOUNATBLE for breakfast, lunch and dinner!

Unlike many of you, not much of my work world takes me outside of Canada. But this past week I had the business trip of a lifetime, when fulfilling an invitation to be a speaker at the 29th annual International Fundraising Congress in Holland.  An event that attracts nine hundred delegates from over seventy countries. Seventy! That alone is unbelievable.

I met people from Cameroon trying to raise money to fight AIDS, which is afflicting 30% of the population under thirty-five. I met people from Spain trying to educate the world on how to eradicate poverty. I met people from Germany building homes for teens that have been incarcerated. I met people from Brazil trying to fund heritage festivals in communities that can barely feed themselves.  I met people from France who protect patients who are abused or mistreated in hospitals or in home care.

Given the opportunity to talk one on one with a wide cross section of delegates, a new breed of individual was presented to me. They are the serial humanitarians. I don’t mean that in any way negative. These people travel the globe. Continent to continent. Country to country. Challenge to challenge. They work for organizations you know such as UNICEF, and for bodies you may never have heard of such as Rote Nasen Clowndoctors  (Red Nose Clown Doctors). These people have seen things I will never see.

They have built houses in India.
They have held dying hands in Burma.
They have rescued flood victims in Sri Lanka.

They protect animals in Denmark.
They stop hunger in Germany.
The help farmers in Italy.

My role for three days was to conduct a six-hour Masterclass on writing cause marketing proposals and two workshops on corporate sponsorship.  At least that’s what it said on paper, and is what I set out to do.

Over the course of my sessions, my role underwent a metamorphosis. I became a coach, a cheerleader, and advocate. Many of these people really didn’t understand how valuable their organizations could truly be to a corporate sponsor. They were brave enough to face adversity in the jungles, slums, and ghettos of countries I have never heard of. Yet an MBA toting marketer, backed by a big corporate logo, made them wilt.

But once we talked about the equity that lay within their organizations, the stories that they could help sponsors tell, the manners in which they could engage their followers in a movement, the information they could access which proves their impact, and the ability they all possessed to build the careers of their individual champions at their corporate partners… you could see the light go on.

Together we brainstormed ways to price a global cause marketing relationship; identified data that could uncover the issues most important to consumers in their home country; and schemed opportunities to generate substantive media coverage.

Magically, it became a brainstorming attended by people from dozens of countries, with incredibly different backgrounds, religions, ideals, and beliefs.

I fly home with a business card stack of new contacts. Many of who have asked for me to send them templates. They think that I have something to teach them. But they taught me. They have opened my eyes to the power that exists within these organizations. The drive. The determination. The commitment.

They taught me there is a big, wide world out there.  I’m embarrassed by how little I really knew.

It won’t take long for me to expose some of my clients to these opportunities. I humbly feel enriched by the opportunity to get out of my tiny, and chilly, Canadian sandbox.