It Wasn't Pretty

"It wasn't pretty, but we pulled it off."

Too many years ago, in a hotel lobby bar, one of my early mentors Tom Dombroski said that to me loudly as he drained his 4th shot of Stolichnaya.

It was the end of our third day with almost no sleep. Earlier, we had delivered a sales record breaking promotion for a new client who ended the day saying, "Nice job, boys. Come in tomorrow and we'll talk about you handling all our business."

And Tom was right. It wasn't pretty. But we somehow pulled it off. And the client only saw the pretty stuff.

 

 

That took a sack full of guts ...

Perhaps the most dramatic, and anticipated moment of the Olympic Opening Ceremony is the arrival of the Olympic torch and the lighting of the Olympic flame. 

And perhaps the most emotional and inspiring arrival/lighting occurred in 1996 in Atlanta.

For the Atlanta Olympics, the torch arrived in the United States 84 days before the start of the games (together with the 16 days of competition to add up to a symbolic 100 days) and traveled more than 16,000 miles. An estimated 3.5 billion people around the world, along with the assembled athletes watched the journey of the flame, curious who the final torch bearer would be.
 
The final runner, four-time discus gold-medal winner Al Oerter, arrives outside the stadium to ignite the torch held by three-time heavyweight world champion boxer Evander Holyfield who enters the stadium joined by Greek runner Voula Patoulidou.
 
The two of them carry the torch around the stadium track and pass the torch to US four-time gold medal winner swimmer Janet Evans.
 
As Beethoven`s "Ode to Joy" is played, Evans takes her lap around the track towards the long ramp leading up to the top of the stadium.
 
The cheers from the capacity crowd crescendo.
 
All eyes are on Evans as she climbs the ramp.
 
Then, as she reaches the top of the stadium they are treated to a surprise.
 

Waiting for her is Muhammad Ali. The Greatest
 
The crowd gasps and then joins together in a tumultuous roar.
 

The heavyweight boxing gold medalist at the 1960 Olympics in Rome and regarded by many to be the greatest professional heavyweight boxing champion of all time, Ali is one of the most recognizable sports figures worldwide.
 
Evans touches her torch to Ali`s, igniting it.
 
Ali holds the Olympic torch unsteadily in his right hand while his left shakes uncontrollably with the symptoms of Parkinson's disease. He raises the flame and is met with supportive cheers.

Watching Muhammad Ali proudly hold the Olympic torch, despite his crippling ailment, stands as a great moment in sport, Olympics and beyond. The world was inspired by a man recognized as a great fighter during his boxing days as he continued to fight, this time his crippling ailment.
 
US President Bill Clinton, who was there to open the Olympic Games said, “That took a sack full of guts ... and it's taken a lot of courage to continue to go out, to be seen...he wasn't self-conscious. He's something special.”
 
The dignity of the man was consummate – never relinquishing ideals for money or fame, Ali was the people’s champion – the underdog in sport and life.
 
“They didn’t tell me who would light the flame, but when I saw it was you, I cried,” said Clinton.
 
He wasn’t the only one.

That's Right, Kid

Grown ups love telling children, "You can be anything you want to be." 

When I was very young I thought that this meant I could become a dog ... that's what I wanted to be. 

When I got a bit older, I wanted to be my dad. 

And I sort of wanted to be Tommy Bowman. He was a neighborhood kid who was cool before any of us knew what cool was.

Then Spiderman. He was cooler than Tommy Bowman.

As we grew up, adult relatives and teachers kept drilling the mantra into our developing grey matter, "You can be anything you want to be."

And they usually added suggestions: "A doctor. A lawyer. President of the United States."

I'm not sure if adults still use "President of the United States" as an aspirational goal. That might've ended with Nixon. Or some of the more recent chuckleheads to hold the position.

Anyway, it was kinda reassuring as I hit my teens. "You can be anything you want to be." There's comfort in knowing you have control over your future. 

Granted, at the time, all I really wanted to do was find girls who would have sex with me, but it was nice to know that I could end up being anything I wanted to be.

It took me until my mid-twenties to figure out the second part of that phrase. The part the grown ups had never mentioned. The part that matters. 

 

The part I started telling my kids when they hit double-digits. 10-years-old. 

Damned if I was gonna let it sneak up on them, like it did on their old man. 

"You can be anything you want to be ... if you are willing to commit to the level necessary to attain that goal."

Today is the opening day of the Summer Olympics.

There are lots of people who want to compete in the Olympic games.

Not everybody is willing to pay the price.

A Timely Reminder from the Past

Leo Burnett's reminder to his ad agency to strive for excellence by putting the client and the creative first may have been delivered in 1967, but the message is just as relevant today as it was then ... maybe more so.

On December 1, 1967, Leo Burnett officially retired from the ad agency he built, offering these remarks: 

Somewhere along the line, after I’m finally off the premises, you – or your successors – may want to take my name off the premises, too.

You may want to call yourselves "Twain, Rogers, Sawyer and Finn, Inc." … Or "Ajax Advertising" or Something.

That will certainly be okay with me – if it’s good for you.

But let me tell you when I might demand that you take my name off the door:

That will be the day when you spend more time trying to make money and less time making advertising – our kind of advertising.

When you forget that the sheer fun of ad-making and the lift you get out of it – the creative climate of the place – should be as important as money to the very special breed of writers and artists and business professionals who compose this company of ours – and make it tick.

When you lose that restless feeling that nothing you do is ever quite good enough.

When you lose your itch to do the job well for its own sake – regardless of the client, or the money, or the effort it takes.

When you lose your passion for thoroughness…your hatred of loose ends.

When you stop reaching for the manner, the overtones, the marriage of words and pictures that produces the fresh, the memorable, and the believable effect.

When you stop rededicating yourselves every day to the idea that better advertising is what the Leo Burnett Company is all about.

When you are no longer what Thoreau called "a corporation with a conscience" – which means to me, a corporation of conscientious men and women.

When you begin to compromise your integrity – which has always been the heart’s blood – the very guts of this agency.

When you stoop to convenient expediency and rationalize yourselves into acts of opportunism – for the sake of a fast buck.

When you show the slightest sign of crudeness, inappropriateness or smart-aleckness – and you lose that subtle sense of the fitness of things.

When your main interest becomes a matter of size just to be big – rather than good, hard, wonderful work.

When your outlook narrows down to the number of windows – from zero to five – in the walls of your office.

When you lose your humility and become big-shot weisenheimers…a little too big for your boots.

When the apples come down to being just apples for eating (or for polishing) – no longer a part of our tone – our personality.

When you disapprove of something, and start tearing the hell out of the man who did it rather than the work itself.

When you stop building on strong and vital ideas, and start a routine production line.

When you start believing that, in the interest of efficiency, a creative spirit and the urge to create can be delegated and administered, and forget that they can only be nurtured, stimulated, and inspired.

When you start giving lip service to this being a "creative agency" and stop really being one.

Finally, when you lose your respect for the lonely man – the man at his typewriter or his drawing board or behind his camera or just scribbling notes with one of our big black pencils – or working all night on a media plan. When you forget that the lonely man – and thank God for him – has made the agency we now have – possible. When you forget he’s the man who, because he is reaching harder, sometimes actually gets hold of – for a moment – one of those hot, unreachable stars.

THAT, boys and girls, is when I shall insist you take my name off the door.

And by golly, it will be taken off the door.

Even if I have to materialize long enough some night to rub it out myself – on every one of your floors.

And before I de-materialize again, I will paint out that star-reaching symbol, too. And burn all the stationery. And tear up a few ads in passing. And throw every god-damned apple down the elevator shafts. You just won’t know the place, the next morning. You’ll have to find another name.