By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

Bad stuff happens.  Some of it’s foreseeable, but most of the lousy breaks come at us unannounced, and before you know it the boat’s been swamped and you’re flailing in the water looking for dry land.

The BP oil rig explosion in the Gulf of Mexico caught the giant corporation off guard, and it’s been nearly two months with no clear end in sight to the gusher that’s despoiling aquatic life and soon much of the U.S. southern coastlands.

Having worked at companies that create environmental impacts, I believe BP when it says the last thing they wanted was to have this disaster happen – and that they are trying everything they can to stop it and clean it up.  Huge companies like that do care about their impact on the environment because it’s important to their ability to remain in business, to generate profits for their shareholders, to provide ongoing employment to their people, to pay taxes to local, state, and federal governments, and to supply products to their customers.  It has become sadly apparent, though, that BP has been plagued by good intentions and poor execution.

That’s why the messages being crafted and delivered by BP leaders has become so vital.  With each day the deep sea oil continues to pollute the Gulf, BP’s credibility becomes more strained.  If the company has any hope of holding on to its investors and its customers, we need to have some shred of faith in what it says – because we’re rapidly losing faith in what it does.

So when BP’s CEO Tony Hayward said on NBC last Sunday, as he began to offer an apology to residents of the Gulf region, “There’s no one who wants this thing over more than I do…I’d like my life back.” – the firestorm erupted.  Talk about the exact wrong message.  There has been loss of life, millions of gallons of crude oil washing up on previously pristine and highly valued resort destinations, promises and pledges and a deepening sense of disappointment and disaster.  And the CEO just wants his life back?

Hayward has since apologized, acknowledging the insensitivity and insulting tone of his verbal slip-up.  But the truest qualities of people come out most when the heat is on.  We may have gotten a glimpse into the heart of BP’s top man the other day, and it’s not the most reassuring view.

On the other hand, we saw the heart of another man who made a monumental mistake this week, but who shouldered the blame, expressed sincere remorse, and offered an example of accountability, fortitude, and gratitude for the forgiveness he received.  Major League Baseball umpire Jim Joyce called a runner safe at first base when he clearly was out on the replay.  That doesn’t sound so bad until you realize that the play would have been the final out of a perfect game as pitched by Detroit Tiger pitcher Armondo Galarraga – only the 21^st perfect game in baseball history.

Joyce was inconsolable after the game, realizing what his blown call meant to the pitcher and to the game.  He said, “I missed it, I missed it…I took a perfect game away from that kid over there who worked his ass off all night…This wasn’t just any call, this was a history call, and I kicked the s*** out of it…If I had been Galarraga I would have been the first one out there, but he didn’t say a word, not a word.”

Joyce still felt bad the next night, when he worked home plate.  In a classy moment, Galarraga brought the team’s starting lineup card out to the teary-eyed Joyce at home plate and shook his hand, showing there were no hard feelings. 

Grace or selfishness?  Class or self-pity?  Don’t tell me that messages delivered during bad moments don’t matter or can’t be helped.  The severity of the two instances couldn’t be farther apart, of course.  But if adversity brings out character, we saw two terrific examples this week.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

I don’t believe in coincidence.  I think everything happens for a reason, even though we may not realize it as it’s happening.  Instead, I believe in luck – as defined by that first century Roman gadfly Seneca, who said, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

Using Seneca’s definition, I would have to say that the luckiest man on the face of the earth – with apologies to Lou Gehrig in “Pride of the Yankees” – has to be one Richard Starkey of Liverpool, England.  You may know him by his stage name, Ringo Starr.

John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison had been playing rock-and-roll music together as the Quarrymen and eventually the Beatles for a couple of years since meeting as high schoolers.  They’d had a handful of drummers, the most recent a nice-enough chap by the name of Pete Best, whose Mum had helped book gigs for the boys.  But going into their first recording sessions, the lads heard that they’d have to use a studio-employed drummer.  Pete’s beats were lacking.  He had to go.

And then, just weeks before their first major live performance in September 1962 – the one that rocketed them to stardom – the Beatles poached Ringo from a band led by Rory Storm, whoever that was.  Instantly, the serendipitous Mr. Starkey punched a ticket to ride the gravy train to musical, cultural, and financial heights few have experienced.

But was it luck alone?  No, it was preparation (Ringo was clearly a better, more experienced drummer who could come up with unusual and distinct rhythmic approaches) coupled with opportunity (the boys needed a replacement in a hurry).

What does all this have to do with leadership communication?  Plenty.  In fact, it has everything to do with it.

Identifying and articulating a vision provides the foundation for leadership communication.  But what happens when challenges, competitors, disasters, distractions, detractors, and various other forms of negative influencers converge?  Leaders need to be prepared in these instances, too. 

For example, is BP simply having a run of bad luck?  What about Toyota a few months ago?  No, they were not properly prepared to react when the opportunity arose to openly, honestly, and courageously address their respective crises.  Just ask their CEOs whether they’re feeling lucky lately.

Handling crises may be the most visible and tangible example of preparation meeting opportunity in leadership communications, but it’s hardly the only one.  How about seizing the imagination of the marketplace to elevate a product or image?  Think of Lady Gaga’s musical training at Julliard (yes, it’s true) meeting her avant-garde sense of fashion and performance art.  Or how about demonstrating patience and competence that outlasts less well-seasoned competitors?  Think of IBM still standing, still growing, still relevant after Commodore, Compaq, Atari and so many other computing companies wilted in the competitive heat.

I believe in luck.  Maybe more accurately, I believe in making your own luck through preparation that can capitalize on opportunities as they arise.  Hey, if nothing else, it sure worked for Ringo – the luckiest man on earth.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

By now, you’ve probably heard about the embarrassing faux pas committed by NBC’s Ann Curry, whose commencement address last week to Wheaton College in Massachusetts included kudos to famous alumni such as the Rev. Billy Graham, former House Speaker Dennis Hastert and horror movie director Wes Craven – the only problem being that those folks attended Wheaton College in Illinois.

To her credit, Curry posted an apology on the college’s website, saying, ““I am mortified by my mistake, and can only hope the purity of my motive, to find a way to connect with the graduates and to encourage them to a life of service, will allow you to forgive me.”

But the most disturbing aspect of this episode – to me, anyway – came when the school posted a video of Curry’s address but edited out the parts where she cited the erroneous alumni names.

Wheaton College – please – drag yourself into the ‘90s!  What in the world were those administrators thinking?  Imagine the president, the trustee chairman, and head of public relations hunkered down in the Situation Room, deep within the bowels of the main administration building.  Did the dialogue sound like this?

President: “We have a problem here, boys.  A terrible, terrible problem.”

Trustee: “Oh, it’s a stinker, all right.”

PR Guy: “What problem?  That thing with Curry getting her names mixed up?”

President: “Well, what else?!”

Trustee: “Oh, this is quite a pickle.”

President: “We have to erase any evidence that it ever happened!”

Trustee: “Erasing’s good.”

PR Guy: “You’re kidding, of course.”

President: “I most certainly am not kidding!  This never happened!  We must expunge all record of it and you are to deny it to the media.”

Trustee: “No one can ever know.”

President: “No one will ever know.”

PR Guy: “There were hundreds of graduates and their parents there – each with cell phones and video recorders!  It was probably on YouTube before Curry sat down!”

President (hands over his ears): “Lalalalalalala!  I can’t hear you!”

There are no secrets any longer.  Everyone is a potential journalist – muckraking, perhaps, but still a journalist.  Embarrassing, unethical, even illegal behavior captured via camera phone or pocket video camera blankets the planet in seconds.  YouTube is a wondrous thing, but its power must be respected.

Those in leadership positions must never assume that they can control any part of what they say or do in public – or even in private.  Anything and everything is a heartbeat away from becoming public knowledge.  And once it’s online, it’s eternal.

I’m sure Curry was sincere in her apology, and she deserves credit for admitting the sloppy research and taking responsibility.  If only more high-profile people had the same instincts.  The difference was that she knew that coming clean quickly was the only option – because her job is reporting on the follies of people who foolishly think they can still control events in this rapid-fire media world.  The leaders at Wheaton College have much to learn from their commencement speaker, mistakes and all.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

Look, opinions are like belly-buttons – everybody’s got one.  Especially when it comes to managerial techniques.  Loyal readers of this blog know that we try to concentrate on helping leaders do their jobs better by understanding and implementing solid communications practices.

So in that spirit, this week a Business Week article written by workplace consultant Liz Ryan caught my eye.  Ryan lists a few less-than-stellar strategies deployed by far too many managers that only serve to drive great talent away.   Two of Ryan’s more potent observations hit home with me.  Excerpts from her article are seen below, followed by my reflections.

Here’s the first:

If you want to drive talented people away, don’t tell them when they shine.

Fear of a high-self-esteem employee is prevalent among average-grade corporate leadership teams. Look how hard it is for so many managers to say, “Hey Bob, you did a great job today.” Whatever the reason for silence, leaders who can’t say, “Thanks—good going!” can plan on bidding farewell to their most able team members in short order.

Sad but true.  We’ve all experienced this, I would guess.  You complete a complex project with many moving parts; multiple constituencies to involve, engage, and motivate; and performance metrics to meet or exceed – and you do it – but with one minor aspect that perhaps didn’t come off flawlessly, or that caused some self-important jerk to rat you out to the boss.

And that’s all the boss remembers – the 0.1 percent that didn’t work, not the 99.9 percent that did.

I once had a supervisor confront me with: “You know what your problem is?”  “I have many problems,” I replied. “Which one is bothering you right now?”  Then he unloaded this gem on me: “You have an irrational need for external praise!”  My retort?  “That’s because I don’t get any praise internally.”  Not a month later, I had shaken the dust of that dysfunctional place off my feet, launched my independent consultancy, and have never looked back.

Here’s another great observation by Ryan:

If you prefer a team of C-list players, keep employees in the dark.

Sharp knowledge workers want to know what’s going on in their organizations, beyond their departmental silos. They want some visibility into the company’s plans and their own career mobility. Leaders who can’t stand to shine a light on their firms’ goals, strategies, and systems are all but guaranteed to spend a lot of money running ads on Monster.com.

This is basic PR 101.  People will fill in the blanks, connect the dots, paint the picture, play the music – whatever cliché you like best – whether they have the correct and complete information or not.  Isn’t it better to provide them with the right information, so that everyone’s operating from the same playbook?  Duh. 

I suppose insecure managers twist the old chestnut that “Knowledge Is Power” into such a pretzel that only by hoarding information do they believe they can retain their power.  But guess what, Sherlock?  When your staff underperforms based on your sorry communication record, who looks bad?  (Psst!  The correct answer is: You.)  Double duh.

Employees resent being treated like mushrooms – constantly kept in the dark, as dung is dumped on them.  That’s why some studies suggest that, as the economic recovery continues, the best people will be heading for the exits seeking greener pastures.   And nowhere will this be more true than where they unfortunately labor under the thumbs of managers who can’t, or won’t, communicate effectively.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com] 

In the film “Amadeus,” the Emperor of Austria, having enjoyed the public debut of one of Mozart’s masterpieces, mulls over what he’s just heard and offers this sterling bit of musical insight: “There are too many notes.” 

Can you imagine?  This overstuffed, overpowdered dandy telling the greatest musical genius in history that his composition has “too many notes?”  Mozart, nonplussed, bows to the buffoon.  His livelihood is on the line, after all.  But that doesn’t mean he has to listen to such absurd, insulting advice.

The brotherhood and sisterhood of writers has to occasionally deal with lesser lights giving them free advice on their craft, as well.  Anyone who thinks he or she can survive as a professional writer without taking a verbal thrashing every now and then is living in Wonderland.  If a writer isn’t born with a thick skin, he or she had better develop one in a hurry.

Two personal stories illustrate both sides of this particular coin.  In the first, we travel back to the summer of 1981 and the newsroom of the late, great Pittsburgh Press newspaper, where I spent 10 weeks as a cub reporter intern on the way toward earning my bachelor’s degree in journalism – and where I met Henry.

Henry was a real newspaperman.  Think “Lou Grant.”  He’d covered the big stories, he’d proven his chops hundreds of times over, and now he ran this major metro’s city desk.  And he didn’t suffer substandard work lightly, especially from a carpetbagging bunch of greenhorn college kids like me.  As one of my first big assignments, I was sent to cover the discovery of a missing person’s corpse one late-June afternoon, and gutlessly danced around the police boundaries, trying to capture just enough information to file the story for the final editions that evening.

After returning to the newsroom and writing the story, I sent it to Henry for proofing.  What happened next will be forever seared into my brain.  He lit into me in front of 25 other reporters in the open newsroom, loudly peppering me with questions about the story for which I had no answers, challenging me on the structure of the story, screaming that I had completely missed the lead (the opening paragraph that presents the most important information), and generally calling into question my presence in his newsroom.

But then, as my equilibrium slowly began to return and the room stopped spinning, he pointed me back to my desk and sent a message privately to my computer screen, instructing me on who to call for the missing information.  Yet I didn’t feel insulted.  I felt like the greenhorn college kid I was, a novice reporter who had just learned a valuable real-life/real-time lesson unlike anything my professors had ever taught me in a classroom – and one that’s remained with me for nearly 30 years.

The second example, however, turned out differently.  While working at a company top-heavy with engineers, I was summoned to one such engineer’s office to collect comments on a relatively minor article for the employee magazine.  After unleashing his red marker all over the draft, he finally looked at me and said, “You know, Tim, I’m an engineer.  See those degrees on the wall?  I had to really work hard for them.  My job takes a lot of intelligence and skill.  But, let’s face it – anybody can write.”

I’m no Mozart, Lord knows, but I knew that I knew more about writing than this guy ever would.  So I simply replied, “Are there any factual errors?”  When he said that there were not, I stood up, said, “Well then, I’ll consider this draft approved,” and walked out.

A tough hide comes with the territory.  Writers know this.  But there’s a difference between being asked to accept constructive, respectful criticism and being subjected to cold, offensive insults.  I and my fellow writers are professionals too, and deserve to be treated as such.  See that degree on the wall?

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

There ain’t no such thing as a sure thing.  One very painful afternoon in a hotel ballroom proved that to me.

Back when I was part of the internal communications staff at a major corporation, my duties included organizing an annual luncheon to kick off the region’s U.S. Savings Bond sales campaign.  This entailed a number of tasks, with securing a dynamite keynote speaker being the most important.

Working with my company’s on-call public relations agency, we brainstormed ideas concerning what we wanted in our keynoter.  This person needed to exude energy, to feel passionately about things, and most of all, had to establish and maintain a level of interest among a room full of 250 people after they’ve consumed a midday chicken-and-mashed potatoes meal.

Lucky for us, we found the perfect guy.  A sure thing.  A lock.  You can figure out where this story is headed from here.

This fellow was one of the assistant coaches for our town’s NFL team.  His antics during each week’s game had become legendary.  He ran the length of the field, it seemed, each time his players took to the gridiron.  He jumped in the air.  He hugged his guys, he shouted and celebrated along with them.  He had an electricity about him that appeared to be contagious.  He’d be a powerhouse speaker.  Or so we thought.

We called the team and booked him for the big date, sight unseen.  Hence, I refer to this episode as one of my Legendary Rookie Mistakes.

The day of the luncheon, I greeted our keynote speaker before the event began, thanking him in advance for his help.  He acknowledged my greeting, but something looked a little off.  His eyes darted like little black pinballs.  He looked a tad sweaty.  His suit hung from his frame uncomfortably.  None of this bothered me at the time, unfortunately.  My Stink-O-Meter should have been shrieking, as it would today.  But when you’re a rookie, well, that’s what makes you a rookie.

My company’s top dog served as the emcee, and once all the opening pleasantries had been taken care of, lunch was served.  My cohort from the PR agency and I glanced at each other, silently patting ourselves on the back for the spectacularness to come.  At last, the moment arrived.  The emcee read the introduction I had written for the keynoter, building expectations that not even Tony Robbins, Bill Clinton, and Knute Rockne – put together – could meet.  Looking back, it really was unfair to everyone in the room.

Our man took the podium and, God bless him, dived in.  Forty-five excruciating minutes later, he finished.  The room held an atmosphere of stunned relief, odd bewilderment, and simmering anger – almost like, “We’re so unbelievably glad that’s over and we survived it, but we’d like to stay just a few minutes longer and strangle whoever picked this guy as keynote speaker.”

Not to exaggerate, mind you.

The big lesson learned that day?  Trust your gut, but verify what it’s telling you.  We should have insisted on tapes of our candidate making presentations at other venues.  We should have done our homework a lot better.  All the things I know to do today.  Cause there ain’t no such thing as a sure thing.  Your Stink-O-Meter knows.  Listen to it.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com]

Each morning, as the sun tried to push through the watery cloudiness that stubbornly enveloped the sloping hills of Indiana, Pennsylvania, Dr. Willis Pratt stepped out of his flat and went for a stroll.

Usually with a member of the maintenance crew in tow, Dr. Pratt made his way across the campus of Indiana University of Pennsylvania – or IUP, my alma mater, and the school where he served as president from the mid-1940s through the late ’60s – each dawn.  He’d point out places where a sidewalk may have begun to crack, or some hedges needed trimming, or a fresh coat of paint or spit-shine would make a building look a bit better.  The maintenance fellow would take diligent notes and those projects would help fill his day.

But Dr. Pratt knew something else was happening as he took his daily walk through his beloved university.  He would stop and talk with students on their way to their early morning classes.  He got to know their names and their aspirations, and vice versa.  He shared his love of the school, its grounds, and its people on a one-to-one basis.  He became the tangible personification of IUP, and the genuine affection and respect he received from the student body turned into lasting support for the university as those students became alumni.

And all because he steadfastly went for a morning walk every day.   How different from so many of today’s leaders, who take private elevators to their top-floor corner offices, who are never – ever – seen simply strolling the hallways and cafeterias of their buildings, and who seemingly abhor the prospect of actually engaging in casual conversation with their employees that’s not scripted or pre-scheduled eight weeks in advance.

Some years ago, the Corporate Communications Department of the large company where I was working asked me to coordinate a series of “walking tours” for the CEO, where he would visit with a work group, chat with their employees, share his vision for the corporation, and generate some needed rapport with the frontline troops, as it were.  As feared, however, these visits morphed from their stated team-building intent into high-stress, high-stakes inspections and tests of how well the department being visited could ramp up an impressive show-and-tell for the Big Cheese.  Instead of groups clamoring to be included on the list, they sprinted in the opposite direction and looked for a place to hide.  Not exactly the outcome we were shooting for.

It quickly became apparent that you can’t schedule spontaneity or demand an open spirit of dialogue and idea sharing.  The “walking tours” met an early demise and were never resurrected.  The lines of communication in the best organizations encompass both verbal and non-verbal channels, and we learned that our enterprise wasn’t there quite yet. 

In contrast, the students at IUP all those years ago knew Dr. Pratt.  They saw him every day.  They knew he wanted to be a part of their collegiate lives.  He wasn’t holed up in his office, appearing only for pre-staged photo ops or scripted presentations.  They knew they could talk with him, whether in the Oak Grove at the center of campus, in his office in the main administration building, or at his on-campus home.

Can the leaders we know today say the same?  Yes, security and safety are legitimate concerns.  A CEO is a high-value asset that must be protected.  But protecting doesn’t have to mean precluding.  Engendering trust and esprit de corps forms the foundation for effective leadership communication.  And one of the best ways to achieve that as a leader is to simply permit yourself to be seen and approachable on a regular basis.  Just like Dr. Pratt.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes [www.timhayesconsulting.com] 

Over the course of nearly 20 years in corporate and government communications, and 10 years as an independent consultant, I’ve been in the room many times when the Big Idea gets hatched.

“We need to change the culture of this organization!”  “We’re going to do things differently around here to serve our customers better!”  “Our employees will embrace this change and behave differently from now on!”

All noble, even necessary, ideals.  Fortunes are made and lost on how well those lofty goals are met.  Yet without one key ingredient, you might as well declare, “We’re flying to the moon tomorrow in a magic Yugo!” because the level of credibility and sustainability would be just about the same.

Culture change – asking employees to think and act in sometimes radically different ways forevermore – is hard.  People don’t like to think about it, let alone be told they’ve got to do it, starting on Monday.  As one curmudgeonly friend of mine (a longtime veteran at a former employer that shall remain nameless) used to say, when a new Employee Program Du Jour would roll around:  “This too shall pass.”

I was in my early 30s then, and even at that relatively tender professional age, I found his eye-rolling, sigh-laden, wizened sense of resignation, summed up in that simple sentence, alarmingly cynical and negative.  What hurt, though, was the fact that either my co-workers in Corporate Communications – or worse, I – had helped develop the very messages being met with such scoffing resistance.  What hurt more was that he was, all too often, correct.

Yet I also have seen culture change actually embraced and executed well within organizations.  It can work, and when it does it creates profound and positive improvement.  Employee satisfaction rises, which paves the way for greater customer satisfaction, which leads to increased loyalty, higher sales and revenues, stronger financial performance, and a complete win for all parties involved.  A rising tide indeed lifts all boats. But again, when it comes to these types of initiatives, one key ingredient must be perpetually present, personally promoted, and powerfully perceived.

All the expert communications support available won’t cut it without this single ingredient.  There are precious few ways to force this ingredient to present itself – it must come organically to have any real or lasting impact.

So, what is this essential ingredient?  It is the belief, commitment, involvement, and engagement – truly held, honestly promoted, credibly demonstrated, and enthusiastically shared – by the very top leaders of the organization.  Employees can smell a lack of sincerity a mile away, and while they may have an “Employee of the Month” smile pasted across their faces, on the inside they’re thinking, “This too shall pass.”

Where I’ve seen culture change take root and lead to growth and success, leaders have done their jobs and provided leadership.  They have spent the mental energy to realize that their organizations can – and should, and must – do better.  They are the ones who spearhead the charge, gathering research and documentation to understand the situation and then pushing and prodding their teams to help identify fresh ways to make it better.  They carry the message forward, with purpose, confidence, and clarity.  They lead the change by living the change.  They tolerate no B.S., especially from the person they see in the mirror.

To be leader requires having followers.  To gather followers, one must offer a clear vision and be willing to actively participate in its execution.  Expertly developed communication, driven by clear and consistent messaging delivered in ways that employees accept, provides the undergirding to a leader’s culture change initiative. 

But the initiative’s ultimate success or failure – whether it too shall pass, or whether it shall remain and truly become embedded in the culture of the organization – rests with how strongly employees believe that their leaders believe what’s being said.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes

When my oldest daughter was in elementary school, she played soccer with the area youth league.  One year I was pressed into service as her team’s assistant coach, which really wasn’t all that big of a deal, if it hadn’t been for one parent. 

One famous parent.  One famous parent who also coached football, albeit the American version. You may have heard of him.  His name was Bill Cowher.  And this was circa 1998-99, while he was Head Coach of the NFL’s Pittsburgh Steelers, before he became an in-studio analyst for CBS Sports.

Yeah, THAT Bill Cowher.  The Jaw.  The intense, driven, in-your-face, Super Bowl-winning motivator whose icy stare could burn through sheet metal.  Yes, this was the lunatic who would stand on the sidelines while I was trying to get a bunch of silly, unfocused third-grade girls to run soccer plays.  No pressure there, right?

But you want to know something?  For as wild, severe, and passionate as Coach Cowher appeared on Sunday afternoon as he led my beloved Steelers, he was just another Dad on Saturday morning watching his little girl play soccer.  He never said a word to me or the other coach about the games.  People gave him his space, waited in line and chatted with him at the refreshment stand, helped him unload bottled waters and sliced oranges from his car when it was his family’s turn to bring snacks.  “Hey, Bill, how ya doin’?”

One story I heard about Coach Cowher and his wife, Kaye, some years later helped explain this seeming dichotomy.  Bill and Kaye both played sports at North Carolina State, where they first met as students.  As Cowher moved on to the NFL as a player, assistant coach, and eventually head coach, he and Kaye made a pact.  They promised each other that after any major event – whether winning the Super Bowl, or losing it (both of which Cowher did while coaching the Steelers), or anything in between – the celebration or the despair could only last 24 hours.  No exceptions. 

You could set off fireworks, turn cartwheels, and pop champagne corks all you wanted, but for 24 hours only.  You could throw rocks at empty beer cans or shout at life’s indignities and unfairness until your throat was hoarse, but for 24 hours only.  After the earth made one twirl on its axis, though, it was time to move on and get back to work.

After I heard about that agreement, it really made a lot of sense to me.  It can take a long time and lot of hard work to get to a moment of truth.  If you succeed, of course it’s right and proper and deserving to celebrate.  Conversely, if you fail, it’s okay to feel bad and lick your wounds.  Either way, you’ve earned as much. 

But the Cowhers were on to something really smart.  Neither the highs nor the lows can or should last indefinitely.  Nobody likes an insufferable braggart or an unrelenting downer.

I can see this principle holding just as true in business, politics, academics, entertainment, or any other field you can think of, as it does in sports.  I’ve had days of pure joy and pride in having accomplished something terrific, and I’ve had days I’d rather never think about again, thank you very much.

As with most things, it’s a matter of keeping it all in balance.  That’s how the willful, forceful man who had led other willful, forceful men to two Super Bowls kept his cool on those dewy mornings watching our kids chase that crazy soccer ball around.  It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten.  Thanks, Coach.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting

By Tim Hayes

www.timhayesconsulting.com

Okay, so everybody’s seen the weird black-and-white, creepy fatherly voiceover, mea culpa, brand-defending commercial starring the world’s most famous serial adulterer, Mr. Eldrick Woods.  And most people have formed an opinion about it by now, if they care at all.

Here’s mine:  Shut up and golf already.

Self-styled brand guru Donnie Deutsch gushed on the Today Show last week about what a brave choice Nike made in confronting the issue head-on, and how the 30-second spot did such a courageous, brilliant job in protecting the Nike brand.  But honestly, who doesn’t know that this guy royally screwed up?  (No pun intended.)  Who wouldn’t agree that his late father would have kicked his rear end had this happened while he was still around?  Who could argue that ol’ Tiger suffered from a prolonged – and epically so – lapse of judgment?

So we need a sneaker manufacturer to rehash all of this?  And not just any sneaker manufacturer, but one that’s been swatting away rumors of third-world sweatshop labor practices for years.  Pot, meet kettle.  What’s going on here?

There’s a school of thought that believes using Tiger’s dad’s voice is a skin-crawl-inducing little treat, as well.  As we hear Earl Woods scolding his errant son from the Great Beyond, we see the ginned-up shame in poor Tiger’s big puppy-dog eyes.  Please. We get it.  All the emoting, oy!  Plus, I’ve seen better acting at my kids’ elementary school Thanksgiving pageants.

Let me play caddy for a moment.  Hey, Big Guy, here’s the lie on this hole: You’re a great golfer but a lousy husband.  We’re glad you got some help, we’re glad you owned up to your colossal and costly collapse of conscience, and we hope things work out for you and your family. It looks like you’re learning to control your temper and be more gracious to your fans while on the course, and we’re happy about that, too.

But for Pete’s sake, can we stop the apology tour yet?  You’ve taken care of the communications requirements by finally telling the truth and expressing remorse.  Your most loyal sponsor has piled on with its slightly uncomfortable and off-putting commercial that gently spanks you for being a bad boy before letting you back on the playground with the other kids.  Your role model days are on ice for a while, but we shouldn’t put you (or any athlete) on that high of a pedestal in the first place, so we’ll take the rap on that. 

And so, now that everybody’s gone to confession and done their penance, there’s really only one thing left to say.  Tiger, please, just shut up and play.

Copyright 2010 Tim Hayes Consulting