Life has those shortcuts that plunge you into memories and emotions.
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I was in Bucharest, Romania at the Lucian Bute vs Jean-Paul Mendy fight when I signed my resignation letter from La Presse. Friday, July 8th, in the luxurious lobby of the Hilton, on a huge marble table.
Jacques Thériault, my old socialist, Michel Hamelin, the Face de Beu ambassador, Olivier Bossé from the Sun and my late friend Albert Ladouceur were the uninvited witnesses of my motto in my throat.
It was twelve years ago. This time I sent my letter from Quebec to the heads of the journal. Last Monday. I was in the capital for the fight against Artur Beterbiev, which ended up being postponed to January 13th. We’ll be there.
Twelve years elapsed between these two fights. And no bloody Stanley Cup parade.
The parade is my only regret. Everything else will have been hard work and pure luck.
A BOSS: THE READER
The Olympic Games in London, Sochi, Pyeongchang with Big Matt, André Cyr and Alain Bergeron dit le Yeti will have been moments of unique adventures. I remember Georges St-Pierre’s first retirement fight against Johny Hendricks in Las Vegas and the hunt for Dana White in the MGM catacombs. And in my knees, which weren’t artificial yet.
And everything else. The chronicles of Vanessa Lepage-Joanisse that changed her life a bit, those of Artur Beterbiev’s early days and those of London last January, the Panthers match in a Rolls-Royce in the former owner’s dressing room, the chronicles that troubled and shocked, those that made people smile, those that touched some hearts, all these chronicles were written for the reader.
Always try to get closer to reality. And above all, the causes of this reality, which lurks before you behind an army of PR experts who ultimately put the profession to sleep. The reader always comes first. We get paid to let you know.
For twelve years I always had a computer with me. We never know. Twelve years lived at a breathtaking pace. That call from Martin Lafleur to tell me in Florida at eight-thirty that Guy had just had lung surgery. Leave guests in the living room to write 500 words, which will be sent to the desk half an hour later. The text was not a half-hour work. It was the result of 48 years of speaking and listening to Flower and her family.
CRAFTSMAN… SO PRECIOUS
I never got a chance to thank the spotlights that occupy the desk. The protective measures. Mylène Richard, who woke me up at ten o’clock to check the meaning of a word, I already miss you. For Jean-Claude Grenier, who lost his job due to illness, your nervous breakdowns over the deadline were justified. Bernard Cyr, Cédérick Caron, Louis-Éric Allard, quiet old pro, hats off.
The desk is a vocation. These colleagues are not entitled to the adventures and adrenaline of the field. They don’t watch games and don’t take part in interviews and events. But they are essential.
Last January I sent my two pages of text to London on Thursday evening London time. Search me, they never made it to the servers. zero, zipper.
We went to dinner at the Colony, a very chic restaurant reserved for the big gumballs. Rubber so big that a wave jammer blocks cellphone communication. To swallow his soup without choking.
Simon Baillargeon at his desk called and called while texting. But nothing happened.
Eventually I left the dining room to go to the bathroom. It started clicking. It was Simon. I called him back: “Where are your text messages?” »
Fuck dessert for me. We got into a taxi and drove to the hotel.
And the next day both of your sides were there…
So a newspaper. A well-established team for the reader. Always the reader. In the age of digital and social media, I only hope that the journalists and the team can continue to work for a boss. The reader.
Projects abound
I, I keep going. I have exciting projects. A great TV series, Le Septième, for TVA, I hope, a feature film “El Magistrado” in the United States, I hope, and certainty that I will tell you about it another time.
But you will read to me every morning. That’s what I like.
Hello Jess, Jo, Fouf, Jean-Nico and the others.
But what a joke!
