35 of the best and brightest of Toronto’s marketing personnel showed that their skills were not limited to knocking out flawless executions, but also knocking down pins! The crowd was treated to pizza, chicken wings and Labatt 50 brewski’s.

Big Ben McConnachie proved that he could throw down strikes and didn’t SPARE much as his score was high enough to earn him the top bowler prize of the night.

Overall a fun night out of good laughs, spirited competition and really tacky shoes!

I realize I’m pretty spoiled. Rarely am I standing in lines, fighting for a place to pee, or sitting on a bleacher.

Typically my tickets read Chairman’s Lounge, Owner’s Suite, SkyBox, VIP Box, Premium Seat, blah, blah.
Like many of you in this business my monthly schedule becomes highlighted by my collection of used event lanyards in my desk. I really need to throw these away.

Beyond the nice seats, free booze, limited access restrooms, and hit or miss food selections… the best part of these seats are the people. First and foremost my hosts, and then other industry people, and then the random people you meet. I can count dozens of industry colleagues that I originally met at an event.

This year I’ve developed a new habit at these events. I’ve become a groupie. And I am somewhat ashamed.

I didn’t used to be a groupie. Outside of eating dinner next to Courtney Cox and Jennifer Aniston one night in Chicago, so long ago that Courtney was the bigger celebrity than Jennifer. (Remember those days? Hard to believe!). That night I was a major groupie.

But something has happened to me. My groupie gene has suddenly emerged from the depths of my fat cells. Somewhere this 227-pound, balding, middle-aged man has become a groupie.

In 2010 I have leapt over tables, pushed aside children, and cut off hard working volunteers for all sorts of pictures, handshakes, and maybe even soon an autograph request. Although I haven’t gone there yet.

Al Michaels. Richard Branson. Chris Collinsworth. Alexandre Bilodeau. Seth Grodin. Stephen Harper. Donovan Bailey. You name them… I’m posing with them.

What has happened to me? Why am I posing for pictures that I spray out to my family and friends and then forget about in two days? Do I really think my poor Mom wants to see me with a goofy grin on my face, while some famous person recoils from the grip of my arm and the aroma of a man who definitely needed another pass of his Old Spice stick??

I don’t know.

On Sunday at the Honda Indy (Toronto version), I had another opportunity. I was seated in a box right at the Start/Finish line, courtesy of the race owners (Green Savoree), and also right behind the pit of Dario Franchitti. Better known as Mr. Ashley Judd.

You have to understand the very front row of our suite was VVIP “reserved” for a movie star, according to the catering staff. So when Ms. Judd appeared in her husband’s pit… my mind was racing. Could it be? Would it be? Was I about to snuggle up for a Blackberry close-up, with the number one fan of Kentucky Wildcats basketball? I couldn’t wait to tell her that I was at the 1997 Final Four in Indianapolis. I saw her there too. I was only 280 rows behind her. Do you think 13 years later she would remember?

You’ve probably guessed I have a little Ashley Judd crush going. It probably coloured my thinking on Sunday.

So instead of the race, I got on the Ashley watch. She was wearing a sun hat (remarkably like one my wife has) and a green summer dress that matched her husbands paint scheme for the race.

She entered the pit and grabbed a race control radio. I thought this is perfect, when she meets me, she can tell her husband about it! Or not.

Then she sat on some tires. Two pit guys made small talk with her.

One offered a bottle of water. She declined. Another offered a swig from his energy drink. She had a dry heave.

Then she got up and surveyed the pits. Hmm… was she looking for the stairs up to the suites so she could sit next to me?

She moved three feet under the canopy to check the monitors. What IS the delay?

Then some important people came by. Two got hugs, one got a cheek kiss. I still hadn’t gotten my picture. Frustrating.

The race began. Hey Ashley your husband is moving. You should too. Like up here!

The race had a yellow flag. Hey friend, Dario can’t do anything right now but drive in circles, why don’t we talk about my injured knee if you’re bored?

The drivers got to pit. Ashley didn’t help with anything. Maybe she isn’t as happy with her man she seems. Then again those pit guys move pretty quick.

The race resumed. Hubby was in second. I’m sure she would have a better view from our suite. She has to be hungry, the skinny little thing.

The laps ticked away. Every click of the lap counter excited the race fans looking forward to a big finish. I was scheming new schemes at every lap.

Oh boy. Two laps to go. I give up. Took a picture of her back. I didn’t think screaming “Stella” at this point would have gone over well with my hosts. I emailed it to my best friend. Too ashamed to share with my family. He replied I was a loser.

He’s got it wrong. I’m a groupie.

Love them. Always have. When I was a kid it was our beagles, Duke and Sparky, and then a lab named Baron. He was a black beauty.

So gorgeous he was once kidnapped near our cottage outside of Dorset. As we searched frantically for him at the boat launch on our last day of vacation, all of my family members felt ensuing panic. He never strayed. Finally we spotted him in a boat speeding across the lake, clearly not in a voluntary manner.

As we shouted loudly for him to escape the villains and jump out of the boat (which he eventually did), my then little brother cried to my parents: ” Why couldn’t it have been Mark?!” (No wonder we don’t speak today!)

My first dog as an adult was another beagle. Buddy.

Buddy was legendary. He came to pitches. He helped me launch Trojan in 1994. He ran away all the time. He made me late for weddings and almost late for the birth of my first son.

Bud passed a few years ago. Cancer. He pooped on me while the vet’s needle sucked out his last few breaths. I didn’t even notice the feces until I was walking to my car, blinded by salty tears. It didn’t matter.

Buddy was overlapped for a while with Lucy, my dearly departed father-in-laws mini Schnauzer. Lucy almost made me become a dog hater. But nothing could. Earlier this year she passed and then we went in a pet holiday. Or so we thought.

The idea behind the pet holiday was to be pet free for a year and then get a new puppy.

Until one day a wee tabby showed up on our doorstep. This stray was skinny, noisy, but cute. She just kept coming round. And around. And around.

We didn’t let her in. We didn’t feed her. But we gave her some attention and that seemed to be more than enough.

Then one day I caved. I gave her milk.

Well, the milk was a mistake but we soon started leaving some of Lucy’s old dog kibble. She liked it.

Then we let her in. Then we got her cat food. Then we took her to vet. We thought she was just a kitten. Turns out she was pregnant!

We thought she was healthy. Turns out she had a severe heart murmur.

We thought she had a home. Turns out Craiglist proved her homeless.

So, suckers we are. We adopted her. We named her Murmur. The kids liked that. We thought it was cute. And I fell in love.

Who knew a cat could be so affectionate? Who knew she would sleep on my neck? Who knew that seeing her on my stoop every night when I got home from work would warm my heart?

All of sudden I’m a cat person. For a joyous few weeks….

Then she had a kitten! Just one. But how cool. Right in my closet under my sports coats. The kids went nuts. The neighbors paraded in. And we all said, “Ahhhhhhhh”.

And Murmur went from the night prowler we had first met to a dotting mommy. Sure, she went out twice a day for air. But she came right back and got to the feeding, cleaning and loving.

Until two weeks ago Monday.

We let her out at 9:00 to pee and she didn’t come back. I checked for her five times before I went to bed.

The next day, still no Murmur. But lots of panic as we had one hungry kitty. Emergency run to the vet and some formula secured and suddenly my wife is feeding a newborn again!

Another night. No Murmur.

Cue the search party. Every garage, every pool shed, every backyard for three blocks was scoured. Until the inevitable news.

Giving birth created one life, but ended another. Murmur was found in a neighbour’s yard. Her little heart ran out of gas. And suddenly I realized that my five weeks as a cat lover were over.

I couldn’t believe how sad I was. “Man up,” I said! It was just a few weeks. It was just a cat.

Alas, Murmur left us a lovely gift. The kitty probably only weighs half a pound but she is crazy gorgeous. The kids named her Whisper. Cute. (And I’m pretty excited about their creative skills… so I may assign them to our next new business pitch).

I still want a dog. But he is going to have to like cats. Just like his Master.

For a week it was so warm that we humans couldn’t function properly.

The Heat beat us down. It took away our desire to be outside. It made sleep impossible for those without AC. It reduced exercise time, dog walking time. It stained armpits. It even made patios less desirable!

Then the Heat beat down the NBA.  And fans in many cities across North America. The Miami Heat that is.

We all know by now the Heat was successful in securing the “Three Kings”…Le Bron, D-Wade, and Cowboy Chris Bosh.

But did the Heat win? Their franchise value jumped $40 million. Their season ticket prices jumped 50%. Their road games instantly became sold out. Maybe.

Did the NBA win? Boffo interest in the league during a typical downtime. Unprecedented media coverage. A prime time special on ESPN.

Did Chris Bosh win? A chance to play in South Florida with two of the best players in the game. Under the slick watch of the legendary Pat Riley. With South Beach and all its attractions right out your front door.

Did D-Wade win? A chance to stay loyal to his team and also have two stars join him on center court.

Did LeBron win? A bigger market to showcase his skills. A chance for him to be part of the cool, South Florida lifestyle. An escape from Cleveland, which seems perpetually cursed to win nothing. Ever. Never.

I don’t think the league won this week. Not because the players exercised their rights and in unprecedented fashion three star free agents all chose the same destination. Not because I think the league was manipulated. With the current CBA about to expire, these players knew what they were doing. It was more than that.

The league lost because some of its biggest names put themselves first. And not the customers. The NBA is an entertainment business. It’s about t-shirts. It’s about tickets. It’s about TV ratings.

Who pays for those souvenirs? Who buys the duckets? Whose eyeballs support the advertisers?

The fans, pure and simple.

Throughout this whole process, not one word was mentioned about the customer. Not one team owner, not one coach, not one player said, “We have to do what’s best for the fan.” Uh-uh. Natta. Nil.

All the talk was about winning championships and sacrifice. Sacrifice… are you kidding me? The fact that Bosh may only made $90 or $100 million on his deal versus $120 million is a sacrifice? Get a grip.

But the good news for the NBA is that there is a bigger loser. LeBron.

He lost an opportunity to be a hero. An icon. Jordan could have left Chicago early on, but he stayed and willed out a champion.

Dan Marino could have fled the Dolphins, but he stayed and never won a title. He was loyal. He fought.

Steve Y could have left the Wings, but instead he built a dynasty.

Stay and deliver. When Gretzky got traded, he was bitter and it was a business thing. But he poured his heart out for Edmonton.

When LeBron said FUC… (as in FU Cleveland!)… he turned his back on his home state and the team that had done cartwheels to build a champion around him.

LeBron has yet to put in a courtesy call to “Cleveland” to give thanks. He is off preening with Bosh and Wade.

Let him.

He has damaged his brand. He has lost his chance to be immortal. He is chasing some hardware, when he should be chasing immortality.

I hope he never wins a championship. I hope he and Wade fight over the ball. I hope the Heat piss teams off so much they rise up and clobber them. Every game of the year.

All the guy had to do was do it with class. Take out full-page newspaper ads. Thank the fans. Admit that he knows they will be pissed off with him. Say he is sorry and yes he is being a bit selfish and maybe he is making a mistake.

But be a man.

The NBA under David Stern has become a marvelous league. It has amazing talents and long standing rivalries like the Lakers and Celtics. Most of its teams are on solid footing, and unlike hockey, many of its expansion markets are thriving.

The NBA deserved better from its alleged biggest star.

It’s not what happened. It’s how it happened.

Many many people should have known better. Treat your customers with respect!

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?