Very early in my career, I was asked by a mentor what I thought the difference was between a very good leader and an exceptional one. Wanting to give an impressive answer, I pointed to several key characteristics. He said, “I believe it’s different than all of that. It’s about 10 minutes.” What he meant by “10 minutes” is that in a typical day we make decisions in a moment. The decisions from those twenty moments throughout a day carry us down a path and we reap the results. The difference between very good and exceptional is the humility, curiosity, and veracity that drive our decisions in those ten minutes—moments that can appear anywhere and at any time.

During dinner with a friend, a moment appeared for me. Unexpectedly my wife turned and began asking my friend Todd questions about a digital camera she wanted to buy. The questions were perfectly normal. But that’s not what the little voice inside my head was saying. “Why is she asking him and not me? We haven’t even talked about this before. Why is she bringing it up now?” Startled at what happened inside my head, I lost track of their conversation in favor of the one I was having with my ego.

As I analyzed what was happening, I asked myself these questions, “What’s going on down deep that made me ask that question? What’s wrong with her asking Todd? I don’t know much about digital cameras. Why do I even care if she asks him?” Wrapping up my silent conversation, I smiled realizing how easy it is to go on an ego trip. After all—as a man—I’m capable of pretending to have an answer when I haven’t a clue. “What are you smiling about?” Karen asked after Todd left. I wanted to quickly get past it, so I said, “Oh, nothing.” “Was there anything wrong with my questions?” she asked. “No, not at all.” I replied. Then she followed with a question I wasn’t ready for. “Did it bother you I asked Todd before I asked you?” Everything inside me wanted to say “No big deal.” But that wasn’t true. I confessed.

My ego tripped me in a moment during a simple dinner conversation about something as trivial as a camera. In a fifteen-minute conversation, we might spend fourteen minutes with our ego balanced and checked—but it only takes one moment to undo the previous fourteen. A variety of situations, people, and moments will test us differently. Those moments may come unexpectedly and pass quickly, defining the difference between what we are—and what we could be.

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…in a company should be who comes up with the best idea, not title, tenure, political power, position, etc. But that’s often not the case. I was with a client yesterday who said that their team gives their very best thinking to the next year’s production goal, lays out their plan and logic behind the plan, and pushes it up the corporate ladder to headquarters.

Headquarters always raises the goal to something unrealistic and offers no reason why. When headquarters is asked how they came up with their number so the team can get some ideas about how to change their plan to meet the new number, they ignore the request and simply put pressure on the team to acheive the unrealistic goal and then report it to the street. Of course, and then holds the team accountable for the number and comes down on them when they don’t hit it.

Intellectual laziness in business has to stop. That kind of stunted thinking pervades too many companies and decisions. There should always be push goals…stretch goals. But when someone can’t back up their thinking with any logic, and won’t talk about why, they should be fired before they end up doing to a team or company what so many executives have done (and are doing) in the banking industry.

Peter Drucker once said, “Unless one considers alternatives, one has a closed mind. This, above all, explains why effective decision-makers deliberately disregard the major command of the textbooks on decision-making and create dissension and disagreement rather than consensus. Decisions of the kind the executive has to make are not made well by acclamation. They are made well only if based on the clash of conflicting views, the dialogue between different points of view, the choice between different judgments. The first rule in decision-making is that one does not make a decision unless there is disagreement.”

If you’re afraid of that statement, you have no business being a leader in any capacity. Period.

Yesterday, Anthony Kim (age 23) won the Tiger Woods (age 32) hosted AT&T National. Because of Tiger’s surgery, he couldn’t be there. And so, Tiger called to congratulate Kim on his victory. When Kim was handed the phone, he answered, “What up, T-Dog?” He talked to Tiger while he signed autographs, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

Kim…feel free to show some respect. Put down the pen, focus on a conversation with the greatest golfer to ever play, and call him Mr. Woods, or even Tiger. But please save the “T-Dog” for the dudes you hang with, not someone for whom you should have immense respect. And I believe you have it, just learn how to show it.

In fact, carefully watch the Wimbledon awards ceremony of the “greatest match ever played” yesterday between Nadal and Federher and observe the respect Nadal paid to the person he just beat. Listen to the respect he treated John McEnroe with in an interview after the match.

Respect is old fashioned, but still relevant. People who have paid a heavy price for their accomplishments, or lived longer than us, deserve our respect. That doesn’t mean we try any less hard to win, or believe that they’re always right because they’re older. It just means that respect still has a place in society and business.

So, dude…seriously.

A University of Connecticut survey of 2,435 employees in 400 organizations revealed that people think that being a team player is the most important factor in getting ahead in the workplace. Being a team player ranked higher than all factors, including merit and performance, leadership skills, intelligence, making money for the organization and long hours.

But most people think being a team player is all about the we, and never about the me and that’s simply not true. But how we channel that individual contribution and motive is what makes us a team player, or a team liability.

If progress is truly our primary motivation, we won’t let individual passion and commitment to a project or idea drift into a me-first, company-second view. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight fiercely for our individual team’s needs, but we should be guided by what’s best for the business, not just our own territory. Consider the email from a Fortune 100 general manager to his leadership team inviting a more “we, then me” focus:

From: (name withheld)
Sent: Wednesday, March 1, 2007 9:15 AM
To: Leadership team
Subject: Food for thought

 

As the planning process for [product name] unfolds, I’m seeing or hearing some behaviors that could be destructive to our long term goals. Essentially, everyone is feeling the pinch of our budget reality, but most are also lobbying for their group to get a bigger piece of the work that we need to accomplish. Sometimes that lobbying is in the form of emails, sometimes it’s in planning meetings, sometimes it’s accomplished through prototypes, etc. My only conclusion is that somehow I’ve created an environment where people believe that the way to get more resources is to sign up for unrealistic deliverables. 

 

Prototyping and dreaming are activities we need to encourage, so I don’t want anyone to interpret my statement as not being in favor of that activity. As leaders, I expect you to guide the team through the tradeoffs it takes to make the transition from prototype or dream to funded project. Sometimes more than one good idea will exist in the same area and we’ll be forced to choose. Sometimes even a great idea won’t rise above the threshold that has us reprioritize other work in order to fit it in. Often times, you will be asked to do more with less. In the end, we have to do what’s right for the business, even if the individual dreams of some of our best people can’t be accommodated.

 

I hope to hear statements from each of you like: “Doing X is more important than Y. Even though I’m responsible for Y, I think we should cut it and move the resources to focus on X.” Unfortunately today, I’m more likely to get “I understand Y better than anybody else…Y may not be the most important thing we could do, but it’s really cool and it will motivate my team, so I should fight for it.”

 

We all have work to do. Thanks.

What message is he trying to get across? ”We” comes first. But let’s say this manager’s company is on the ropes and “downsizing” on the horizon. Is his “business first” request unrealistic to people vying for a limited number of jobs? Should they ignore the email and take a “survival of the fittest” approach? Even though that’s a typical response, it would be exactly the wrong approach. In good times, a company needs contribution from people, and people want to keep their jobs. But do company or employee needs change in difficult times? The answer is no.

The needs for both increase when times are hard—companies need more contribution and people need job security. If “we, then me” is effective when times are good, it’s no less effective when times are bad. The irony of a survival of the fittest mentality is that as pressure for survival increases, so does the temptation to abandon humility and adopt a “me, then we” attitude—to be defensive about our ideas, treat colleagues as competitors, occupy time showcasing our “you can’t live without me” brilliance, and seek the acceptance of those who can send us to the unemployment line. As ego takes control, our performance decreases. By definition, that decline puts us one step closer to the exit. If ego minimizes our strengths, we won’t be judged on what we’re capable of contributing, but on what ego’s counterfeits allow us to contribute. The more we focus on self-survival, the less likely we are to survive. “We, then me” is the most direct strategy and incentive for survival—on both sides of the equation.

“Economists have long assumed that success boils down to personal incentives. We’ll cooperate if it’s in our self-interest, and we won’t if it’s not (sort of like lions),” said Jerry Useem of Fortune. “Then a team of researchers led by behavioral psychologist Linnda Caporael thought to ask: Would people cooperate without any incentives? The answer was–gasp!–yes, under the right conditions. Participants often cited ‘group welfare’ as motivation. To economists, shocking. To anyone who’s been part of a successful team, not shocking at all. “[The] boss who assumes that workers’ interests are purely mercenary will end up with a group of mercenaries.”

It’s important to remember that devotion to progress abides by an economic reality; since the company is investing for the return and living with the risk, its needs factor in heavier. For instance, if an employee makes a mistake that costs the company money, the company eats the cost—it doesn’t come out of the employee’s pocket directly. As a result, the business comes first. But even with that reality, it doesn’t make sense that a company would be interested only in its progress to the exclusion of the needs of its employees.

It’s equally ineffective for an employee to pursue individual progress to the detriment of the company. A company shouldn’t skew the balance to 90/10 in favor of its needs, and individual contributors should be clear the balance isn’t 50/50 either. When either side miscalculates the ratio, they misjudge the consequences to a culture. When people perceive unfair disparity, they hold back and devotion to progress evaporates in favor of “doing their job” and collecting a paycheck. Not all strikes from work are on picket lines with signs of grievances.

Devotion to progress doesn’t mean you can always meet everyone’s needs, but you can diligently consider them before you make a decision. Those considerations will be subjective, and only you can determine your motive behind them. The sequence of focus we’re suggesting doesn’t eliminate selfishness, or guarantee selflessness, on either side. It does, at least, provide the opportunity to strike the right balance between we and me.

When the Celtics won their 17th championship this week, Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce both made comments about how unbelievably great it was to have the weight or burden of winning a championship for the Celtics off their shoulders. That made me wonder where that weight came from. Did it come from Larry Bird or Bill Russell? Bob Cousy or Kevin McHale? If they didn’t win a championship, would it devalue what players from the past accomplished, or diminish their legacy?

I’m not a big believer in the pressure that comes from “legacies” or traditions. I think legacies can be overblown. They can be just as much of a motive for continuing greatness as they can in keeping people stuck in status-quo by imaginary expectations. I’ve watched plenty of people keep re-cooking the same ideas in business and becoming less relevant in the name of “legacy” and tradition. 

People live in their own time and circumstances. Larry Bird and Bill Russell played at a different time, with different coaches, under different ownership against different competitors. Garnett and Pierce were playing for their own accomplishment in their own time and circumstance, and that’s enough. Who cares what reporters and analysts say about if they “had what it takes” or not? The question is, did they or not? Success is not about what others said you accomplished, but whether or not you hit your capacity, your ceiling, in what you accomplished.

Garnett is an all-time great player because of his intensity and devotion to “we” over “me.” Pierce overcame high and hard hurdles in his life to reach Tuesday’s pinnacle. The trophy didn’t validate their accomplishments, it was just a symbol of it. What if they didn’t win it, had a player get injured, got a bad call, etc.? Would they have accomplished less? And each of us won’t recognize some of those accomplishments if we’re waiting for the trophies in our life to validate it.

Rocco Mediate isn’t any less of a player or person because he lost to Tiger at the U.S. Open this week. He did his absolute best (and so did Tiger), and any other standard doesn’t matter nearly as much. They are different people with a different set of skills, ages, challenges, circumstances, etc. They both reached what they were capable of…period. Both won, but only one received the physical representation of that achievement in the form of a trophy.

At the end of the day, did you do your best? That’s what matters…that nothing was left “on the court.” So decide today that you’ll push yourself as hard as you can to accomplish what’s possible for you, and let the trophies come if they will. When you’ve accomplished what’s possible, you’ll find the trophy won’t really matter, no matter how much it appears to matter to everyone else.

If we want people to open their minds to the truth when it’s hard to hear, we need as much humility and courage to speak up as others need in hearing down. When speaking up, what we say, how we say it, and our intent plays a big part in where the conversation goes. While it’s true that some things are better left unsaid, too often silence stifles progress. Most of us have been in a meeting where silence prevails even though everyone knows the truth is being avoided. There are dozens of reasons we keep quiet: “silence is golden,” “better safe than sorry,” somebody else will speak up, they probably already know, it won’t make a difference anyway, they have seniority, you’re new, they’re new, fear of the unknown, and on and on. One of the main reasons we don’t speak up is fear.

We often don’t speak up for fear others will label us, i.e. bringing up a negative equals being a negative person, or if we say something brutally honest, then we’re not “nice.” Or it could be we think if we state the obvious or ask an obvious question we’ll seem uneducated or stupid. When we strain to manage perceptions others have of us, that effort kills truth in the process. The fear we feel that prevents us from speaking up was clearly illustrated to me while I was a freshman in college.

My Psychology 101 class was held in an auditorium that seated 1,000 students. The professor was on stage with a microphone and a slide show, cruising through the day’s lecture. Rarely did anyone ask questions; we just took notes and tests.

One day as the professor lectured, I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. I looked around the room to see if anyone else was in the same boat. But everyone, even my friends sitting next to me, looked like they were getting it. So I continued to stare blankly toward the stage below. Since no one seemed to be taking a lot of notes, I assumed this was either pretty straightforward or unimportant stuff. What’s more, I told myself I was probably the only one in the auditorium that didn’t get it.

A couple minutes later I still couldn’t follow the ideas. Finally, out of desperation, I raised my hand from the balcony, told him I didn’t understand, and asked a question about what he was saying. My question didn’t come without fear of looking “dumb” or that it would seem like I wasn’t listening. The professor thanked me, and began to re-explain the ideas in a different way. Not only did I start to understand, but I noticed nearly everyone else frantically taking notes. I wasn’t the only one in left field. When we’re feeling peer pressure, self-imposed or not, we don’t ask questions or say what’s on our mind for fear we’ll be labeled. Losing veracity is often the price we pay to maintain image—ours, or someone else’s.

Have you noticed there’s often a gap between what executives think is going on, and what front-line managers know is going on—and vice versa? What about the difference between what marketing thinks the market is ripe for, and what sales is convinced clients really want? What about the divide between you and a colleague on the same team, on the same project, in the same meeting—and yet you hardly see anything the same? What about the gap between someone’s individual competence or incompetence, and the difference between what they think it is, and what everyone else experiences?

What’s unsettling is what we don’t know, and what we don’t know is buried beneath fear of saying what’s unknown to someone else, or hearing what’s unknown to us (person to person, board to shareholders, company to market, etc). The only way to close those gaps is if both sides have the courage to say it, or listen and embrace it when said. Building “water-cooler honesty” into the way a team works bridges the gaps ego can create by spinning the truth, playing coy, beating around the bush,  being overly “politically correct,” etc. 

And a recent survey suggests we’re going to need a very big bridge.

Two of my boys were really into American Idol this year, so I started to watch it for the first time (I know, I’m out of it). But as I watched it, I got hooked. I think that’s because I have the soul of a rock star, but not the talent of one. And I thought as I watched it that you could make a pretty good case that that the three judges (Randy, Paula, Simon) are a good model for any business team to follow for finding talent.

First, they look almost everywhere for talent, and they don’t exclude anyone from trying out. Although they can usually tell early if someone has “it” or not, they don’t judge by appearance only. In addition, the person has to show their talent–they have to prove it–they have to sing, and that usually removes all doubt or confirms what they suspected. Ask yourself, and the team that interviews with you, how you could have talent “try out” more like American Idol.

In terms of the judges, Simon is brutally honest (although sometimes brutal in the way he says it), but at least the singer knows exactly where they stand. If more of them were hungry for criticism and the “truth” he delivers, they would get better (or in the tryouts, maybe they would quit and find what they’re really great at). I find it amusing that the audience usually boos him when he’s critical. That’s how most people view criticism…negative. That’s because most people don’t want it, and can’t see their way through it objectively.

Paula, although not very helpful in terms of construcitve criticism, gives people hope. She stays positive, and reminds them of what they’re capable of. We all need that.

Randy has a unique ability to relate to the person and connect with them so they don’t resist the point of view he shares. Randy is amazingly connected to what talent is commercially relevant and where people are on (or off) in being authentic.  That’s because he stays connected to what’s relevant in entertainment.

So how would you measure up to the American Idol judges? Are you honest and candid (but with diplomacy)? Do you remind people of their potential and stay positive? Do you relate to people so they can hear what you say? Do you stay relevant so what you say carries weight and credibility?

In the combination of the talents and philosophies of those three judges, there’s a lot to be learned from American Idol that applies to business.

There’s also a lesson to be learned from contestants. I noticed most of them were more worried about whether Simon would be positive or negative than what he was actually trying to tell them. Rarely would they ask a question about how to change the negative of whatever he said. David Cook, the eventual winner, was good about listening for what he could change.

More of us need that ability rather than craving the good and wincing at the bad. When we crave good, and fear the criticism, we don’t perform at our best and ironically increase the odds that our best performance, our true talent, won’t be on display.

It’s easy to get frustrated by the lack of candor and honesty in politics or even sports. But when it comes to business, we’re not much better.

And the lack of “water-cooler honesty” in business is tied to an identity crisis. A quick metaphor explains why. Let’s say you’re going on vacation. You carefully plan the long road trip and map out the sights you want to see. Before leaving, you check the fluid levels, tire pressure, spare tire and so on. One-third of the way into your trip you stop to get gas and something to eat. As you walk out of the Chevron FoodMart, someone flags you down, “I think your car is leaking something.” What would your reaction be? More than likely it would be interest and appreciation. “Really? Where? Is it leaking a lot? Thanks for pointing that out.” Even if you’re an expert mechanic and checked everything just before you left, you’d still check to see if it’s leaking or not.

What if on closer inspection you discover your car isn’t really leaking, they just thought it was. As you get ready to take off, the person asks where you’re going on vacation. As you describe your trip, they say “I lived in that area for five years. You’ll have a great time, but you might not want to take I-70 East.” What would your reaction be if that’s exactly how you were planning to get there? Again, the advice is valued. “Why wouldn’t you take I-70? Is there major construction? Is there a new, faster way I don’t know about?” If it turns out nothing’s wrong with your car, you’re fine with that as an outcome—in fact, happy. If there was a leak, you’re glad someone pointed it out and relieved you didn’t discover it later—in the middle of nowhere.

But that changes when we’re at work.

For example, let’s say you developed a go-to-market strategy and someone said, “This strategy won’t work. It doesn’t factor in the downturn in that market right now, or how buyer preferences are shifting.” As opposed to the leak in our car, we’re tempted to respond differently because we don’t take it as it’s intended—a helpful observation. We think the “leak” reflects poorly on who we are and challenges our identity. If we don’t take it personally when our car is leaking, why do we take it personally when our strategy is?

Part of the reason is we don’t control what happens to our car; anything can happen to it at any time. But in a corporate setting, we’re supposed to be in control. If someone points out a weakness, it feels like something we should have controlled—but didn’t. We believe that leak brings our ability into question. The barrier to water-cooler honesty is not that people are incapable of seeing the truth or even expressing it. So where’s the problem? The reaction to truth when it’s revealed.

If someone tells us something we don’t want to hear, our reaction can shut down their willingness to say what’s on their mind. Once shut down, it’s rarely earned back again. And we’re stuck repeating the sames mistakes because those hearing and noticing things different than we do don’t speak up again.

Are you satisfied?

Chances are you’re not. You want to be thinner, stronger, healthier, smarter, more creative, wealthier, buy a nicer home, be a better mom or dad, etc.

Because you aren’t quite satisfied (and probably in more than one area), you’re probably pushing yourself hard to get better…right? Chances are you want to. You talk about it, say you will, put your mind to it, write it down, and post it on the refrigerator.

And then usually don’t.

But why…why do so many of us say we want to be better, but then rarely do enough to get there? Why does the “next level” seem so much further away when we try to reach it than when we talk about it?

It’s because we don’t really want it. Deep down, in our heart of hearts, we’re satisfied. Complete…enough. We want so much to be finished that we finish ourselves off before we reach our potential. We don’t give up, but we do pull the finish line closer to where we are and tell ourselves we crossed it (or at least that we’re close enough we could cross it if we really wanted to). But really wanting to is the key question we have to answer.

When my son Alec was 16, he loved football. It’s all he talked about, day after day, hour after hour. He couldn’t wait for High School Football to begin so he could play. Then one day he had a hard time choosing between summer football and a summer job. I walked by and he asked for my advice. Here’s how the discussion went:

Me: “I think you should do what you’re passionate about. What are you really passionate about?”

Alec: “FOOTBALL!”

Me: “Really?”

Alec: “YES. Definitely.”

Me: “How do you know you’re passionate?”

Alec: “Because it’s all I watch and talk about…you know that.”

Me: “Well, if I followed you around for a day, or a week, and I couldn’t hear what you said, but only what you did, what would I say you’re passionate about?”

Alec: Uh…I don’t know.

Me: “I think you’re passionate about watching football, talking football, and hanging out with your friends. But actually playing football, I’m not so sure.”

I asked him why, if he loved it, and couldn’t wait for football to start, he wasn’t doing something about it? “Why don’t you run to get in shape? Why don’t you lift to get stronger? Why don’t you take the assistant coach up on his offer to work with you on your receiving?”

Because for Alec, talking was easier than doing. People would say things to him like, “That’s great, Al. You’ll be great at football. You have great hands.” That gave him small doses of false direction and accomplishment. He lived as a football player in his own mind, but nowhere else.

And the danger was that talking felt like doing…to him. If he talked about football, and said he was going to do it, it felt the same to him as doing it. So how do each of us push ourselves past talk to walk?

The answer begins with asking ourselves, sincerely, what are we really passionate about? And if someone followed us around, would our actions back up our words. Make a list during the week and see what your behaviors tell you.