You Can Too Take It with You
from March/April 2008
by Don Morrison
The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. Shakespeare said that. You can find it on the Internet. Great invention, the Internet. Full of fascinating stuff.
Like the other day when a friend told me he half-heard on the radio that some avid golfer, freshly departed to that great fairway in the sky, was buried with his favorite golf clubs. Naturally I went to the Internet for details. Couldn’t find the item in question, but I did stumble across that nice Shakespeare quote. Also the news that somebody in Windsor, Connecticut, laid a putter on a golfer’s headstone; it stayed there for six years before being removed by cemetery roundskeepers, prompting a local uproar. That tidbit led me to Luciano Pavarotti, who was buried last year in his favorite performance outfit, white tie and tails, with his characteristic white scarf in one hand. Nice touch.
Got me thinking. If being a director is your proudest achievement, what would you want to be buried with? What boardroom mementos of good financials and lively discussions would you choose to accompany you into the big sleep?
Probably not a gold watch, or whatever your company or companies may give to commemorate all those years in harness. Leave that to your kids. And surely not the cursed BlackBerry, for so long an extension of your arm—though it did convey an air of devoutness, allowing you to join other board members in collective, heads-bowed prayerfulness around the table as the CEO droned on.
No. Keep it simple. Maybe just some pen or tote bag or, yes, golf ball with the logo of one particular company on it. That would have been your maiden directorship. The place needed help, else they would not have called and you would not have answered. But you worked hard and helped save the day. Did the shareholders erect a statue in your honor? Get real. But you kept a drawerful of branded giveaways to remind you of the sheer terror you felt at that first assignment—and the quiet satisfaction of making a difference.
How about one of the many boardroom coffee cups you held in your hands over the years? The curse of the modern director is not regulatory overreach or management flimflammery. It’s boredom. You spend your days listening to people give presentations, each one more tedious than the last. Coffee is your friend, the coffee mug your sword and shield against the arms of Morpheus. Take the cup along with you. Eternity is just another long presentation.
Maybe you’d want one of the many handwritten Christmas cards you received from X. He was the first chief executive you helped ease out the door. A great guy, just not up to that particular job. He took it all with admirable grace. You remained friends and spent the rest of your lives looking out for each other.
Or how about the menu from the fancy steakhouse where you talked that young hotshot into jumping ship to become X’s successor? The menu has his rather breathtaking demands scribbled on it. That should have been a warning. Better just take the Christmas card.
This is why Shakespeare was so smart about the business of being a director. You strut and fret your hour upon a stage with the curtain closed. If you do the right thing, nobody sees it. If you mess up, the word gets out. There is not much from that experience that you would really want to take with you, except perhaps the tiny trinkets of friendship, kindness, and humanity. Fortunately, they don’t take up much space; that final boardroom is on the narrow side.
