By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

This can’t be for real, I thought, when I first saw it on the Internet today.  But it is.  And I can’t figure out whether it’s a stroke of marketing genius or a little piece of molded plastic delivered straight from the Gates of Hell.

The Atlanta Braves, at a June 9 game with the visiting Toronto Blue Jays, will hand out to the first 20,000 fans, a miniaturized replica of a baseball play that broke my heart 20 years ago, and from which I have yet to fully recover.

It was the seventh and deciding game of the 1992 National League Championship Series.  My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates had fought and clawed their way out of a three-games-to-none hole against the Braves to tie the series at 3-3.  The winner of this game, played in Atlanta, would go to the World Series.

The Bucs got out to an early lead in the game and held it until the bottom of the ninth inning, when the Braves loaded the bases.  With team owner Ted Turner and his then-wife Jane Fonda in the stands doing that asinine “Tomahawk Chop,” a pinch-hitting scrub, a nobody, named Francisco Cabrera lines a shot to shallow left field.  David Justice runs home from third to tie the game, followed by ex-Pirate Sid Bream, who started from second base and, to everyone’s shock, rounded third and headed home to try and win the game.

Bream’s reckless run to home plate was shocking for two reasons: 1) The Pirates’ left fielder was a pre-steroid-suspected Barry Bonds, a pretty damn good ballplayer, who fielded Cabrera’s hit and fired the ball toward home; and 2) Sid Bream was on the down side of his career, running on two splintery knees with very little speed.

What happened next…well, I don’t like to talk about it, but since I started this thing, I guess I have to finish it now.

Bonds’ throw from left field had no zip on it.  Bream’s legs did.  Pirates catcher Mike “Spanky” LaValliere reached out to grab the throw, but to do so, he couldn’t properly block the plate.  Bream, adrenaline surging to those two gimpy legs of his, slid in feet-first and beat the tag. 

Braves win.  Bucs lose.  And have been losing for 20 years since.

I can remember that moment with amazing clarity.  No one else was awake in my house by that time of night.  We had one toddler not even two years old yet, and a newborn only 10 days old.  My wife was, understandably, exhausted and sound asleep upstairs.  I schlepped up the steps, zombie-like.  Did I even turn off the TV?  Who knows?  Who cares?  Ten minutes ago, we were going to the World Series.  Now, we’re going nowhere and two decades later are still on that road.

My thought is that the Pirates should refuse to play any more games in Atlanta.  When the schedule comes out each year, just forfeit those games.  Stay home, be with the kids, catch up on your reading, guys.  The place is bad luck for the Bucs.  Last season, the entire city of Pittsburgh was alive with Bucco Fever, as the team was playing fabulous baseball.  They were even in first place in their division for a few days, which made the front page of the newspaper! 

Then they played in Atlanta.  A marathon 19-inning slugfest that ended with a botched play at home plate where the umpire called a Braves player safe when he clearly had been tagged out.  Georgia is bad karma, I’m telling you.

And it all started on a spooky night in October 1992. Why does that game still haunt Bucco fans like me, even today?  I mean, the Steelers have lost Super Bowls.  The Penguins have lost Stanley Cup finals.  When Villanova’s Scotty Reynolds scored the world’s easiest lay-up, untouched, in the NCAA Elite Eight to beat Pitt in the final seconds of that basketball game a few years ago, it hurt too.  But nothing like the lingering, festering, open-sore-like pain of Bream beating Bonds’ throw in 1992.  Why?

I have a theory.  It’s a problem that happens in any walk of life, any industry, any demographic, any geography, anytime or anywhere.  One side relaxed too soon, and the other side pounced on that momentary lapse.  When you come out on top in that situation, there’s no better feeling.  But when you’re the relaxer?  Let me testify, friends.  The bad taste never, ever, EVER goes away.

And now there’s a bobble-head souvenir to rub it in all over again.  Thanks, Atlanta!  Ain’t karma a bitch?

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

In the 1970s, on Pittsburgh’s Channel 4, a 30-minute cultural touchstone was beamed into homes every evening at 7 p.m.  Its name?  “Bowling for Dollars.”

Hosted by local legend Nick Perry – who later served time in prison for masterminding the infamous “6-6-6” Pennsylvania Lottery fix – “Bowling for Dollars” gave local yonkos a chance at some fabulous cash prizes based on how many pins they could knock down given two rolls of the ball.  Two strikes got you a hundred bucks, if memory serves, and the winnings sank dramatically from those towering heights.

Good old Nick proved a winning host, amiably chatting up each new bowler as they emerged from behind the cardboard-and-plywood set, giving them a chance to calm their nerves before approaching the two-lane, in-studio alley.  What a TV station was doing with a two-lane bowling alley inside the building is a mystery that may never be adequately solved, but I digress.

I saw a neighbor or two take a shot on the show, along with a high-school classmate once.  Yeah, they even let teenagers on.  I’m telling you, “Bowling for Dollars” was a happening.

But there was one contestant in particular whose five minutes of fame scorched themselves into my brain so deeply that I can still see it, all these years later.  Tony.  Tony from Munhall.

Nick Perry, hand-held microphone at the ready, announces Tony from Munhall, who proudly springs into view.  Now remember, this is circa 1976.  Tony from Munhall is the walking, talking embodiment of every 70s cliché imaginable.  He’s got the shades, even though the show obviously is taped indoors.  He’s got the lime green combination disco/leisure suit with the lapels big enough to attach to the back fins of a Cadillac.  He’s got the polyester shirt with the buttons open enough to show off his chest fuzz and about 15 gold necklaces.  He is oozing, radiating waves of cool, is Tony from Munhall.

At least in his own head, that is.

Nick, as was his style, asks whether Tony from Munhall would like to say hello to anyone out there in TV land.  Tony from Munhall cocks his head, adjusts his shades, lets his slicked-back hair reflect those hot studio lights for a moment, points his finger right into the lens and says, “You know it, Nicky.  I just want to say hi to all you cool cats and kitties out there.”

And the great moment arrives.  Tony from Munhall strides over to the lanes, white leather shoes and super-wide bellbottoms moving smoothly.  He nods to the tiny little bleachers where the live studio audience watched the proceedings, picks up his bowling ball, lines up his first toss….

…and promptly throws a gutter ball.

“Not to worry,” comes the calming voice of Nick Perry.  “You still can make some money with the next ball, Tony.”  His icy cool now starting to warm a bit, Tony from Munhall shakes off the miscue, waits for the ball return, picks up the devilish three-holed sphere again, lines himself up and sends it down the alley…

…and throws ANOTHER gutter ball.

All of us cool cats and kitties across Pittsburgh may still be laughing to this day.  I know I do, every time I think of it. 

Here’s a tip, friends.  Humility is a wonderful thing.  More people should try it.  Tis a far, far better thing to under-promise and over-deliver, instead of taking the opposite approach.  They say pride goeth before the fall.  Or, in this case, before TWO gutter balls.  Just ask Tony from Munhall, who learned it the hard way.  On live television.  Not cool.

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

One of the fatherly pearls of wisdom I’ve tried to pass on to my kids goes something like this: You know you’re an adult when you no longer permit what other people think to bother you.

So in that same spirit, I’ve decided it’s high time to reveal something I’ve not exactly hidden, but have not had the guts to just come out and say.  Here goes.

I really like Barry Manilow records.

There, it’s finally out on the table.  The air has at long last been cleared.  The secret no longer must be carried around like a bundle of shame strapped to my back.

And why should that be a source of shame, anyway?  Barry Manilow records have provided the soundtrack to some of the happiest times of my life.  Back in high school, we all liked those records.  I can remember long bus rides during marching band trips to Florida and other far-flung places, with scads of us belting out those songs at 70 miles an hour.  In college, when I met the girl who would become my wife, she had a Barry Manilow album that we played constantly as we fell in love.

So, yeah, I liked Barry Manilow records.  Still do.  As I tool around in my car going to and from client meetings and other appointments, they’re still being played and sung along to.  Solo, of course.  That’s when everybody sounds best in the car – when no one else can hear you.  The looks from other drivers alongside me at red lights as I’m warbling along with “Looks Like We Made It” or “Weekend In New England” are priceless.  I just smile and wave, then get back to my vocals.

Plus, my offspring have not been blessed with a dominant Manilow gene, and will proffer no Barry in the car with me.  So I go it alone, and am very happy doing so.

Every time he’s come to Pittsburgh, my wife and I have attended his concerts.  The guy still sells out big arenas, so obviously we’re not alone.  His more recent CDs always sell very well, too.  He puts on a great live show, combining old fashioned showmanship with truly great musicianship.  For a guy who started life as Barry Pinkus from Brooklyn, eventually getting into show business as the piano player for Bette Midler as she performed at New York bath houses in the early 1970s, he’s done pretty well for himself.

And why?  How?  There’s one simple theory that I kind of like.  At one concert many years ago, the opening act was just about finished with his set.  As he began getting the crowd whipped up for the main event, he said something like, “I know why people like Barry Manilow – he actually sings real songs!”  Never heard any rappin’ during “Mandy,” after all.

He’s not afraid of some self-deprecation, either.  He was quoted some years ago as saying, “My songs are like anchovies. Some people love them, some people get nauseous.”

Thirty years from now, my grandchildren will be rolling their eyes as my kids wax nostalgic about Lady Gaga and Maroon 5, just as I do about Perry Como and Bobby Vinton with my folks.  That’s okay.  To each his own.  Musical tastes will always change and evolve with the generations.

So, all you fellow “Fanilows” (Manilow fans, for the uninitiated) out there, I urge you to stand up and be recognized!  Our guy may be getting a little long in the tooth, but hey, so are we.  He’s made some pretty good music that’s played a part in our lives, so why be shy about it?  Who cares what anybody else thinks.

“All the time, all the wasted time.  All the years, waiting for a sign.  To think I had it all, all the time.”  Yeah, I like Barry Manilow records.  What about it?

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

It’s no secret that people like lists.  David Letterman has been making a living off of his Top Ten list for 30 years.  Speechwriters know that if a presentation has a lively list, people can remember the information more accurately and for longer stretches of time.

But some lists are just ridiculous.  Like Time magazine’s “100 Most Influential People in the World,” which came out a few days ago.

Some names you would assume to be on such a list, like Barack Obama, Mitt Romney, Hillary Clinton, and others.  They would be conspicuous by their absence, so of course they’re part of the collection.

Then Time gets into some screwy logic, with people such as basketball professional Jeremy Lin, “Today” show host Matt Lauer, NFL backup quarterback Tim Tebow, and the pick of this particularly pathetic litter, Pippa Middleton, the sister of Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge and wife of Prince William of Great Britain.

Kate made the list, too.  At least she’s royalty.  But Pippa?  Pippa?!  A woman whose major contributions to the culture so far have been wearing a tight white dress that showed off her pert rear-end at the Royal Wedding, and waving a toy gun at the paparazzi recently?  Pippa?  I ask you, honestly, what kind of stuff they smokin’ at Time magazine these days?

I know that whenever I’m up against an ethical and moral conundrum, where none of my available options seems to offer a clear resolution, and I’m looking for a guiding light to influence me in a positive and inspirational way, the core question burning in my mind and heart is always:

What Would Pippa Do?

Check eBay.  Somebody, somewhere must be selling rubber bracelets with WWPD on them.  They just gotta.

Other head-scratchers on this “Most Influential” list include such luminaries as Kristen Wiig, who plays a smorgasbord of oddball characters on “Saturday Night Live,” marginally talented but astronomically (and profitably) hormonal “singer” Rihanna, and that muscle of missiles, North Korea’s young dictator-in-training, Kim Jong Un.

Yes, can’t you feel the influence these titans exude over all of us, the great unwashed and uneducated masses out here?  Yeah, right.  Other than Obama and Romney, simply because they both will be inescapable for the next seven months, I can’t think of a single person on this laughable list who I would even let cross my mind, much less influence anything I would ever do.

Here’s a better list of the most influential people any of us should recognize.  Your parents and siblings.  Your closest friends.  Your pastor, rabbi, or spiritual leader.  God, Christ, Yahweh, Allah, or the supreme being you worship.  Those teachers who made a significant difference in your life through their talent, patience, encouragement, and belief in you.  Coaches, scout leaders, youth group volunteers, members of your local school board and local government, firefighters and police officers and emergency personnel.  Nurses and physicians.  Custodians, housekeeping staff, waiters and waitresses.  Mail carriers and newspaper deliverers.  The list could go on and on.

The most influential people in the world are the ones who guide your heart, who make you appreciate their sacrifice on your behalf, who inspire you to do the same for others.  Not some Korean megalomaniac or early-morning TV news reader or MTV video vamp.  And especially not Pippa.

Seriously…Pippa?!

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

On an episode of the old “Mary Tyler Moore” show, Mary and Rhoda stay up all night writing pre-emptive obituaries for use on the air when notable people would pass away.  The last one they write – while in a state of exhaustion and silliness – is for “Wee Willie Williams,” at 110 years of age, the oldest living citizen in Minneapolis, where the show was set.

It’s four in the morning by this time, and Mary and Rhoda start making up crazy facts about Wee Willie.  Things like, “His favorite hobbies were traveling, gardening, and breathing,” and “There were other citizens of Minneapolis who were older, but they happened to be dead,” and “His favorite game was ignoring people and staring into space, but the good news is he can play it even better now because he doesn’t have to worry about blinking.”

The next day Wee Willie actually does die, and to Mary’s horror, pompous anchorman Ted Baxter takes the obituary from Mary’s desk when she’s not there and reads it verbatim live during the newscast.  Even the dim-witted Ted knows this was a major faux pas, and strides into the newsroom, chiding Mary with, “What’s Wee Willie’s Mom gonna say?”

Poor Mary had fallen victim to the scourge of copywriters everywhere: Draft Drift.  The challenge of maintaining a consistently clean document through innumerable reviews by multiple individuals.

I’ve been on the tough end of this phenomenon scads of times over the years, and it never gets easier.  You can start to get a whiff of Draft Drift as the inflexible release date for a document approaches, and more people feel compelled to “help fix” it.  Knowing that responsibility for the final product will fall on you makes minimizing Draft Drift even more imperative.  A misspelled word, an incorrect statement, or the appearance of language removed during the review process that somehow survived until the final draft – all mean embarrassment, recriminations, and buckets of hot water that nobody welcomes.

Many years ago, I wrote a news release about my company, an electric utility, sending linemen and equipment to a sister utility that had suffered considerable damage due to severe weather.  All my facts were straight, there were solid quotes from the appropriate managers.  Just one little thing I missed, though.

The utility receiving our assistance was Niagara Mohawk.  In the news release, however, I had erroneously renamed it Niagra Mohawk.  Now that may not sound like such a bad thing to you, but to me, my bosses, their bosses, and their bosses, it sure was.  And appropriately so.  We fixed the release, retracted what had been sent out, and resent it with the proper spelling.  My next stop?  The woodshed.

Draft Drift can rear its ugly head in more complicated and serious situations, as well.  When writing sizeable documents like annual reports, sustainability reports, white papers, or large websites with multiple pages, many more cooks crowd into the copywriting kitchen.  Certain segments of the project will get reviewed by two, five, eight people, each suggesting revisions (some that even contradict each other) that must be distilled and synthesized by the writer to achieve consensus while maintaining the integrity and consistency of the intended message.

Keeping track of the master file during these whirlwinds may be a challenge, but it’s unavoidable.  Your reputation, your professional standing, even your job could be on the line.  She may have been able to “turn the world on with her smile,” but after Mary’s screw-up with Wee Willie’s obituary, her boss, Mr. Grant, had to let her go.  “You can take any liberty you want in any other area.  You can kid around all you want. But the news is sacred,” he told her.

So is the integrity of your employer’s or your client’s written documents.  Mark each version with a date and time code as part of the actual file name.  Make clear to the people reviewing files where revisions should be sent, and insist that they use Track Changes when they do their markup.  Print out every set of revisions and mark who provided them.  Maintain the master file and denote it as such. Remove as many variables as possible, so as to never fall victim to Draft Drift.

And never try to write anything important in the middle of the night with Rhoda.  She’s trouble.

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

Fair warning!  Feeling a little cranky, gang, so here’s my question.  It’s a simple question, I believe, borne of years spent in silent frustration.

Would it kill them to put more tables and chairs in Starbucks?

Every time I’m in one of those chic, trendy coffeehouses to meet a client or friend, as I wait in line to order my “Grande black iced tea with two Splendas,” I’m constantly scanning the place, trying to spot an available table to grab once my order is up.

[Blog Intermission: Doesn’t “grande” translate into grand?  Big?  Impressive?  If so, then we all are being supremely ripped off.  Just sayin’.]

As the “barista” constructs my drink (who knew iced tea was so complicated?), I join my fellow “guests” in an unspoken yet undeniable game of mental jujitsu, boring holes into the craniums of seated lethargic lollygaggers with a stare, as if to ship a bulletin via ESP stating, “Okay, Skippy.  Time to close up the laptop and get some sun.  You’re looking a little pale, and I need that seat, so beat it.”

This strategy has never been known to work, by the way, but we all do it anyway.  Come on, admit it.

When a Starbucks Squatter finally does get up and ship out, my first impulse is to vault over the napkin-and-sugar station, knock over anybody foolish enough to get in the way, and grab that precious 16-square-feet of real estate.  But really, people.  This is Starbucks.  And there are rules about such things here, don’t you know.

The level of pretense in a Starbucks has a way of forcing people to behave in unnaturally and unintuitively cool ways.  Nobody rocks the boat in Starbucks.  We’re just here to sip our soy chai/Tall/fru-fru/la-dee-freakin-da/this-costs-as-much-as-a gallon-of-gas cappuccino, plan our next stop to Whole Foods for an all-organic range-free dinner with our friends the professors from the university, before topping off the Prius on the way home while listening to our Sting or Melissa Etheridge CDs.

I’d love, just once, to see some loud mouth barrel in there, give the cashier a hard time at maximum volume about the silly terminology for the drinks, and demand a hot dog and a grilled cheese.  And then light up a cigarette.  They’d have a collective stroke behind the steamer.

As a writer, I’m always looking for metaphors.  Colorful ways to convey information and ideas that haven’t been used or overused.  Starbucks may well be one of those interesting metaphors.  Try these on for size.

1) Life isn’t fair.  So, it’s difficult to find a seat in Starbucks.

2) Life is a series of compromises.  So, to get what you want in Starbucks, you need to use their stupid names for things.

3) Life means adapting sometimes.  So, you go along with the imposed pretentiousness to conduct your business, then climb back in the used car with the not-so-great mileage and return to the real world.  With maybe a quick stop at the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way for good measure.

Does Starbucks imitate life?  Oh, I don’t know.  Told you I was feeling a little cranky.  I just want to find a friggin’ seat in the place, and I wish something I’m forced to call “Grande” didn’t have so much damn ice in it and lasted more than five sips.  You’re a reasonable person.  I put it to you – is that really too much to ask? 

Thanks for letting me vent.  Or, Venti.  Whatever.

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

This would be a special day, so I wore my best suit and favorite tie.  On this day, I would be meeting a personal hero.  I didn’t want to let him down, after all he did for me and my family.

Standing amid a group of other professionals in a special section of the Pittsburgh International Airport, each of us shined up and looking our best, we waited for this man to arrive.  The air fairly crackled with electricity in anticipation.  I looked down one of the concourses, and saw him approach.

The creases of his khaki pants fluttering in the wake of his rapid stride, his small, neat black bow tie bobbing jauntily around his wrinkled neck, and his wire-rimmed glasses bouncing atop his nose, he presented quite the picture.  The picture of a man completely at home in his own skin.  And a man who could make you feel the same way about yourself.

He bounded directly toward the gaggle of grown-ups, flashed that familiar smile…and walked right past us.  The air went out of the room for a moment, until we realized what he had in mind all along.  He went straight for the kids, who had gathered there to see him, as well.

Immediately, he squatted down to speak with them at their level, and the hugs began.  Little one after little one lunged at this skinny 60-something, their eyes wide, not with fear or apprehension – but with a hearty feeling of friendship and love.

Fred Rogers – “Mister Rogers,” he of the famous PBS television “Neighborhood” – had come to visit. 

These recollections came to me because March 20 marked what would have been his 80^th birthday.  Fred Rogers passed away in 2003, and the world’s been a little sadder ever since, if you ask me.

I was at the airport that day as part of my company’s sponsorship of an interactive display for children based on his children’s program, which was produced at Pittsburgh’s public television station.  We had organized an unveiling of the display at its permanent home within the airport, complete with corporate big-wigs, local political leaders, the works.

But none of those high-falutin’ executives and power brokers could hold a candle to Fred Rogers’ ability to command attention, respect, and admiration.  That gentle voice and manner he displayed on television was no act.  Fred Rogers, an ordained minister, once said that the space between a TV screen and a child was sacred ground, and he worked his entire adult life to fill that space with holiness, comfort, and peace.  He shared that same grace in his personal interactions, as well. 

As a special bonus to my work related to the airport display project, Fred invited me and my then-preschooler daughter to the local PBS studio to watch a taping of a “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” episode.  We were one of a number of kids and parents there that day, as you could well imagine.

My little girl brought a small doll she carried with her everywhere.  Mister Rogers stooped down to meet her and asked what her doll’s name was.  “Boy,” she whispered, glancing up at me for a quick “just-making-sure-you’re-still-there-Dad” check.  “That’s a very nice name,” said Mister Rogers.  “I’ll bet Boy goes with you lots of places, doesn’t he?”  She nodded and started to smile.  “I’m glad you’re here today with Boy.”  Then he smiled at both of us and went on to make friends with the next little family down the line.

I had the chance to visit Fred Rogers in his office sometime later for another purpose, and in the space where he wrote innumerable personal notes of encouragement to his young viewers, and where he interacted with friends and visitors who wanted to learn from his unique brand of wisdom, after we had conducted our business he made a request that no one else had ever done, before or since.

He asked me to pray with him.

It’s tough to pinpoint people who you know, absolutely know, in your mind and heart and bones, are filled with grace and are headed straight to heaven when their time comes.  But I sure knew one, even if only for a short time.  Happy Birthday, Fred.  We’d all love to be your neighbor again in your new neighborhood.

Copyright 2012 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com  www.totalprotraining.com

Somewhere across Denmark, 300 Danes are still fuming.

Seems the Danish state lottery made a slight boo-boo this week, wherein 300 winners of the “Keno” game received official letters informing them that they each had won 28 billion kroner, which would be equivalent to about $5 billion. 

28 billion kroner.  Each.  With notification arriving on official state letterhead.  Signed by some officially designated official.

Then they received another notice, telling them that – whoops! – there appeared to be a little hitch in those first jackpot announcements.  How did that pesky word “billion” get in there?  Gosh, folks, we’re awful sorry, but it turns out you won a little less than that.  Actually, a lot less than that.  Hope there are no hard feelings.  Go Denmark!

Which brings us to the not-very-sexy-but-more-important-than-air topic of proofreading in effective communications.

Some people love to proofread copy, most don’t.  But when the proverbial horse is out of the barn and your mistake-laden prose has been released to an unsuspecting public, that’s when most writers finally get religion and pay more attention to proofreading.

Once, a fellow reporter in a newsroom where we both worked asked me to take a look at his resume.  He had his eye on bigger, lusher, greener pastures, and – he admitted later – had already sent the resume to the editor at the plum job he coveted so dearly.  Why he asked me to read his resume, I eventually surmised, was to get some reflected glory from my sure-to-be-stellar review.

Then I read the thing.  It did not have many errors, but there were a few words not spelled correctly, and had some punctuation missing.  Have you ever seen a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon that’s begun to deflate halfway down Broadway?  That’s what this guy’s face looked like when I pointed out the flaws in his brilliant career opus.

The best professor I ever had taught Basic Journalistic Writing, among many other great courses.  He had one hard-and-fast rule, regardless of which class he may have been teaching at the time.  Misspellings of any kind resulted in a grade lowered by one letter, and misspellings of proper nouns – even one – meant you failed that assignment.  F.  No questions asked, no ground given, no appeals possible.  The guy was consistent, insistent, persistent – and still is, as he continues his labors in the college classroom today.  The students over the years who took his lessons to heart continue to stand apart in the workaday world, because they know the basics of solid writing.  I think of him all the time, muttering a silent “Thanks, Randy,” as I go about my business of writing for clients.

An old boss of mine once told me, “There’s no such thing as good writing.  There is only good rewriting,” and he was right.  Just as in most disciplines, one can always improve upon the product, the craft, the skill, and level of professionalism.

Part of that constant process of sharpening one’s sword in communications requires careful attention to proofreading.  Because, when your name’s on something, it had better be right.

Just ask those 300 angry and disappointed Danes, and the lottery official whose name they’ll be seeing in their nightmares the rest of their lives.

Copyright 2012 Transverse Park Productions, LLC

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

The weather around here for the Ides of March today was off-the-charts gorgeous.  Sunny, upper 70s, warm and comfortable.  An unbelievable blessing.  So we decided as a family it was time for Dad to fire up the grill and cook some burgers.

With the summer outdoor furniture still in storage, a lone patio chair became my home base.  While the burgers began sizzling, I pulled out my iPhone and called up one of my all-time favorite movies, “Moonstruck,” with Cher and Nicolas Cage, back when Nicolas Cage was still an actual actor appearing in actual films.

Sitting out there, chuckling and enjoying the story, checking on the food every few minutes, a thought came to mind that set me back for a few seconds:  If my grandparents were alive today, they would not believe what I’m able to do.  Heck, when I was kid, it would have blown my mind, too.

The fact that I could instantly watch a movie of my choosing and completely under my control, with a crystal clear picture and sound, on a device held in my hand?  Even George Jetson would be impressed with that.  Yet we take such things for granted anymore.

Growing up, once a favorite movie had ended its run in the local theater – with a single screen; no multiplexes back then – the best you could hope for, if you wanted to see it again, was to wait for it to appear on the “Rege Cordic Sunday Afternoon Movie,” or during some obscure late-night programming slot on one of the three channels available.  Sure, Disney might roll one of its animated classics around into theaters every seven or eight years, and we were grateful for that, but versus the immediate gratification of songs, movies, and TV shows on iTunes?

Pshaw.  No contest, Bub.

But here’s my point, beyond the nostalgic notions presented here.  I believe having to wait for things made us better people.  It taught patience, tolerance, and true appreciation for those special treats.  When you happened to unexpectedly catch a favorite film on a sleepy Sunday afternoon on TV, the discovery became all the sweeter.  You could really savor the experience, because you knew it wouldn’t come around again for quite a while.

Those lessons spilled into adulthood, too.  The old chestnut says, “Anything worth having is worth waiting for,” and that eternal lesson got proven over and over.  Long nights in the college library, deciphering the Dewey decimal system, locating armfuls of books, reading and reading and reading to find passages supporting your thesis.  Searching for that first job out of college, sending resumes, waiting for replies, sweating through interviews.  On the job, still learning, working hard and hoping for that cherished 3% raise.  And in a hundred other instances where waiting simply came with the territory.

But what happens today?  College students, who can’t find information in five seconds using Google or Yahoo search engines, simply e-mail their librarian, who finds and e-mails the info back to them.  That’s when the librarian isn’t locating the actual books and having them delivered to the student’s dorm room, mind you. 

No wonder that when young people today actually land a job, they’re dumbfounded, offended, and insulted that things don’t happen lickety-split at their command.  That yes, Virginia, you do have to wait for things.  You can’t be texting in front of customers.  You do need to actually speak to other humans, whether by phone or – horrors! – in person.

I’ve seen articles stating that the pendulum has swung as far as it’s going to go regarding acceptance of instant-access electronics as the norm for personal interaction, and that we’re trending back toward more person-to-person communication.  I sure hope so.

It may take a little longer to truly connect with another person.  It might be a little sloppy sometimes, even.  But just like stumbling onto a great movie after the 11 o’clock news, man, is it worth it.

Copyright 2012 Transverse Park Productions, LLC

By Tim Hayes www.timhayesconsulting.com www.totalprotraining.com

“Life isn’t fair,” said Mr. Cooper, our high school sophomore English teacher.  It was his standard comeback when you received an essay with a grade you didn’t like, or when the class would go off on a tangent about the injustice of current events.

Decades later, I’ve caught myself telling my own kids those very same words, and the memory of Mr. Cooper comes flashing back into vivid living color.  Of course, he was right back then, and he’d still be right today.

But that doesn’t mean we have to passively accept the notion that “life isn’t fair.”  All that does – or all that should do – is define the terms of engagement.  In the world of leadership communication, that means knowing that there will opposition to any position you take, so preparation in anticipating and overcoming it evens the odds.

Think of the killer question ahead of time, the one you’d rather not have to answer, and have a credible answer ready anyway.  Build into your remarks explanations of as many points of contention as possible, thereby heading off your critics.  When you don’t know, say so, but promise to get an answer quickly.  Strong opposition to what you believe as true, good, and credible may not be fair, but if you’re ready to defend it, you’ve at least evened things out. 

Then there are times when the unfairness of life can just go off the rails completely, and a rational response becomes a super-human, Herculean, gargantuan challenge.  Like an infamous called third strike at a community league baseball game a few years ago.

I had rushed home from a day of seeing clients to make it to the last half of my son’s game.  If they won, they’d make it to the playoffs, which is a big deal for a bunch of 5^th and 6^th grade guys.  The coach of the other team was one of these boorish, pushy, loud knuckleheads who thinks he’s constantly playing the seventh game of the World Series.  His son was pitching, and by some fluke of scheduling (yeah, right), his other, older, son was umpiring behind home plate.

As the game progressed, I could see ahead to a scenario where my son could end up at bat with two outs in the final inning, the game on his shoulders.  Sometimes I wish I weren’t so good at seeing ahead, because that’s precisely what happened.  We were down by one run with two outs, one runner on base, and my kid walking up to home plate.

He fouled one off, strike one.  He took a couple outside, two balls and one strike.  He swung and missed, two and two.  Next came a brush-back, high and inside, full count.

“Please, God, let this be a hit or a ball, but let him get on base,” I whispered from the little set of bleachers off the third-base line.  What happened next could have straightened even Mr. Cooper’s curly blond hair.  In the annals of life not being fair, this one goes into the Hall of Fame.

The pitch came in low.  So low, in fact, that it hit the dirt in front of home plate.  In FRONT, mind you.  It even kicked up a cloud of dirt into the air, almost to prove the point without a doubt.  My kid saw it and didn’t swing, naturally.  Everybody saw it!  How could you possibly miss it? Ball four, right?  Batter take your base, right?

“Strike three!” called the ump.  And I thought I would jump out of my skin in anger and shock.  In full impress-the-client regalia, suit, tie, wing-tip shoes, the whole deal, I shot off of those bleachers, ran up to that punk umpire and shouted things that would make my mother say she’d never met me.  Our team’s coaches had to pull me away before there was an all-out bench-clearing brouhaha right there in our idyllic little neighborhood playground.

What did I say before about adults being boorish, pushy, loud knuckleheads?  Well, at least our side had one that day, too.  I guess that made it fair.

Copyright 2012 Transverse Park Productions, LLC