I woke up Tuesday to this e-mail header:
Are you OK?????
Body of message:
I’m so sorry. Let me know if there's anything I can do.
Nine e-mails and several hallway conversations later, all with same gist -- condolences, concern and that tip-toe thing people do when they fear you are about to fall apart -- I picked up this voice mail on my cell phone:
Oh, sweetie, I know how hard this is. I’m here if you need to talk.
All this because Brett Favre announced his retirement.
While the talk-jocks dance on the grave of the Green Bay Packers, I mourn the loss of a real-time inspiration of how to work, play, lead and live. And the loss of a prime-time model who, if we paid attention, could teach us how to save newspapers -- or at least how to do kick-ass journalism even when our ass Is being kicked.
My creds for that claim: Thirty five years as a newspaper reporter and editor. More important, 55 years in a family that owns season tickets to the Packers. (No, we're not selling.)
I grew up 20 minutes from Lambeau Field – Packer Stadium back then. Once a year, usually for the last game of the season when my mother was smart enough to stay home, my father would bundle me in blankets, swoosh the snow off Seats 18 and 19, Section 16, Row 30, and ply me with hot chocolate through four frigid quarters. He would blush as Cherry Starr (quarterback Bart’s wife) floated by in her ethereal beauty and mink coat, hand me the binoculars to watch Paul Hornung blast through the line and, in gruff Wisconsin style, point out
things that matter.Things like teamwork. Drive. Coming from behind. Getting up after you’re knocked down. Showing up to play no matter how fierce the blizzard.
Fast forward through four decades of education, world travel, feminism, journalism -- and some really lousy years for the Packers. I'm sitting at a college sports bar last fall, talking with an aspiring young editor on the challenges of running a newsroom. The Packers are on TV. I nod toward the screen, where Brett Favre had just been sacked.
There, I say. Most everything you need to know is right there.
Huh? he said.
And so I found myself channeling my father, trying to introduce my young friend (not a knowledgeable sports fan) to Things That Matter. He scribbled on a bar coaster as Brett threw poetry and madness, and as I tried to connect the dots from football field to newsroom.
A few days later I asked my friend if he had kept the bar coaster. I figured it might make a column on leadership someday.
That day came Tuesday.
So as we wail about the sorry state of the newspaper industry, and stew about how to lead discouraged staffs through discouraging times, I offer a few tips, taken straight from the playbook of Brett Favre, as first scribbled on a bar coaster:
1. Favre loved the job. He brought joy to work every day and let it show. He dared to grin on the field and whoop when whooping was called for and get knocked down and pop back up laughing. There was almost always a smile behind the bars of his helmet, even when he was losing.
Editors: When was the last time you worked with unabashed joy, or made the job fun? In today’s troubled newsrooms, imagine the transformative power that would have.
2. He gave everything he had in the moment. Athletes have a term for it: Leave it all on the field.
Editors: What would happen in your newsroom if everyone (starting with you) gave all to the work in front of them, then carried no baggage home. People would produce more, stress less and maybe stay married. You can’t solve the news industry crisis tomorrow, so quit gnawing at it and go chase some stories.
3. He accepted the demands of leadership. He owned the calls he made even – or especially – when the results were disastrous.
Editors: Your staff needs you to listen hard, then decide. If a decision turns out wrong, accept it, own it – then make another one. Dither on your own time.
4. He didn’t make excuses or lay blame – even when he had due cause.
Editors: How much juice is wasted trying to suss out who below, around or above you keeps you from doing your best? Keep your eye on the prize, which is what you can get done – not what someone else hasn’t.
5. He took big risks. He threw more what-the-hell passes (and interceptions) than anyone in the history of the league, and more touchdowns. When things got hard, he got bold.
Editors: There has never been a more troubled time in our industry. Do you respond with fear and caution – or dare to do your most courageous and creative journalism ever? Are you willing to succeed by daring to fail?
6. He knew how to call an audible. When the script failed, he improvised.
Editors: Are you clinging to the way it’s always been done, or are you open to a bold new move or idea that meets the demands of the moment?
7. He expected the best from people and trusted them to bring it. When a teammate messed up, he didn’t give up on him. Instead, he was the first to pick him off the field, pat his fanny and say: “Next time.”
Editors: How many of your staffers have you written off as too limited or too much trouble? What if instead you let them know you counted on them to deliver – and then refused to accept any less? It takes effort and energy and consistency on your part. Guess what:? That’s the job. (You can skip the fanny pat.)
8. He wasn’t afraid to be real – on the field or off. When he got addicted to pain pills, he fessed up. When his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, he admitted his fear. When his father died, he cried. When he finally decided to retire, he didn’t spout some blather about more time with the family, or pursuing other interests. He just said it like it was: "I’m tired."
Editors: Do your staffers know the real you, and do you know them? Do you lead with humanity and humility, or do you present yourself as guarded and above-it-all? It’s hard to follow people we don’t know, or people who make us feel inferior because they pretend to be perfect.
9. He created an extraordinary team from questionable talent. (Or, as we say in Wisconsin, he danced with them that brung 'im.) This past year, he led the youngest and least-tested team in the league to One Song Shy of the Big Dance. He didn't let an iffy roster or a small market limit his ambitions or expectations.
Editors: Do you believe the crew you have can play above its head – or are you scouting around for a few ringers to bail you out? Do you measure your dreams by the experience of your staff or the size of your budget? Brett Favre in Green Bay proves that masthead is not destiny, and you don’t buy a Pulitzer. You earn excellence with faith in your team, commitment to your community and a lot of hard work.
10. He consulted with his coaches and gave credit to his team. In return they give him trust and loyalty.
Editors: 'Nuff said.
11. He inspired hope. He never played like a game was lost, no matter how little time was left on the clock.
Editors: If there's been a time we needed hope in our newsrooms, it's now. So you might be sold tomorrow. Or lose 10 reporters. But what’s the point in folding today? The best thing we can do to help journalism have a tomorrow is by doing the best journalism we can today.
They were playing taps on the radio in northeastern Wisconsin Tuesday morning. I’d rather Favre’s legacy be played to reveille – a call to action, and a reminder to bring joy and daring to the job. Maybe they can play it to a polka beat.
"One other note: There is money to be made in...
