Matt walks all the way back to high school for this one. Four straight student-government wins — middle school class president on through school vice president — had him certain the top job was his by right. He got up at the assembly, gave a perfectly competent, perfectly familiar politician’s speech, and figured the coronation was a formality. Then his opposite number, a sharp, rule-breaking kid named Warren, got up, mocked the entire process, and promised something he plainly couldn’t deliver — longer breaks, or a longer lunch. Matt was sure everyone would see through the joke. Warren won. The administrators were dismayed. Matt was stunned. And decades later, with Warren now passed, Matt’s verdict is genuine and generous: kudos to Warren. He had something going on up there.
The lesson has two parts, and they’ve both aged well. First, people are pulled toward the new and the revealed — even a slightly unrealistic promise beats a competent rerun, because Warren was simply more entertaining and a big freshman class didn’t know Matt as the career politician. Second, and the one Matt’s hardest on himself about: he treated the speech as a continuation instead of its own event. He walked in as the emperor addressing his subjects, and the truth is nobody owes you their attention — you don’t have a right to an audience finding you interesting, ever, no matter what you did last time. So every talk, every interview, every pitch is its own thing, and the only move is to stay present and break your own mold a little.
His weekend questions: what does “different” look like for you, and who could you ask for the honest feedback on how you’re coming across?
