The Plymouth Canton Lightning 9u team, a crew of nine-year-olds who started the year straight out of the Sandlot, unsure of their swings and scared of the ball, played their final baseball tournament together. This weekend, we won our first two games with guts and grit. Then came the third—an 11–10 loss on a walk-off hit that ended our season in heartbreak.

There were tears. Big ones. From players. From parents. From coaches.

Because they cared.

They really cared.

And that’s the part I’ll carry with me forever. That’s hard to teach.

More Than a Game

Coaching youth baseball is a strange, beautiful thing. It asks you to wear a hundred hats: teacher, motivator, cheerleader, strategist, therapist, occasional comedian. And when it’s done right, it becomes something so much more than teaching kids how to throw a ball or hit a curve.

It becomes a laboratory for life.

You get to teach them how to fail with grace. How to win with humility. How to cheer louder for their teammate’s hit than their own. How to say “I’ve got your back” without ever using words.

That’s the privilege. That’s the gift.

From Snowstorms to Walk-Offs

Our season started before most baseballs teams even thought about unzipping a bat bag. These kids came to practice indoors while snow fell outside. They showed up for work in wind storms, fielding drills in the cold, and mental reps in parking lot puddles.

They didn’t complain.

They loved it.

At our first game in October, no one got a hit. We were tentative at the plate and nervous in the field. But no one quit. Slowly, one “Atta Baby!” at a time, we chipped away at that fear.

And then something magical happened.

They started to believe. They started to especially believe in just having fun playing ball.

By the end of the season, we felt like a legit baseball team. One that could hang in any tournament, play with joy, and fight through adversity without flinching.

That transformation, more than any trophy, was the real win. And I do hope as they get older they will realize that.

Why We Coach

We don’t coach for the final score.

We coach for the little moments most people never see:

• A kid asking, “Was that the right place to throw there?” and not being afraid to be wrong.

• A teammate jogging in from the outfield to hug the pitcher after a tough inning.

• A player who struck out three times showing up early to hit off the tee the next day.

• A player asking if I knew where the nearest sliding mitt store was.

That’s why we coach.

There’s no better feeling than seeing a child discover their own strength. Not just strength in the batter’s box, but strength to keep going after failure. To cheer when it’s hard. To care enough that the final out hurts.

Because if you care, you’ve already won.

Why I Started Coaching

I knew early on, before my son Parker could even grip a bat, that I wanted to coach his baseball team someday. But not because I was hoping to mold the next Ken Griffey Jr. or chase travel trophies across the state. My dream was simpler, quieter. I remember telling a parent during that very first tee-ball season, when Parker was just five:
“I just want to watch the kids love the game and then buy them some ice cream at the end.”

And I meant it. It really was about the ice cream.

If a kid comes back and plays another season, than we won as coaches. And that doesn’t mean we’ve lost if they don’t. Baseball isn’t for everyone, and I understand that.

As a kid, I don’t remember our record. I don’t remember our standings or who hit what. But I remember how it felt when the coach smiled after a good game. I remember the sweaty walk to Dairy Dan. I remember the cone dripping down my hand while we laughed with our teammates. That joy—that feeling—is what I wanted to pass on.

That’s why I coach.
Not to chase stats.
But to chase memories.

If all these kids remember one day is that their coach believed in them, and that there was always a treat waiting after a game—well, that’s a pretty good legacy to leave behind.

The Lance Effect

Every team needs a heartbeat. For the Lightning, that was Lance.

He was the kind of coach you want your kid to play for. The kind of coach you want to be. I’ve never seen someone pour more of himself into a youth team. Every lineup decision, every practice plan, every team message was fueled by one thing: love for the kids. Not ego. Not control. Not a need to win. Just love.

And that matters. Especially in a landscape where youth sports can sometimes lose their soul.

I’ve seen the worst of it. Coaches yelling in rage when a kid misses a ground ball. Parents proudly bragging that their 9-year-old threw 135 pitches in a day. That kind of behavior sucks the joy out of baseball and the spirit out of kids. It’s disheartening.

But that was never Lance. He held stedfast to taking care of the kids physically and emotionally.

Even on the toughest days, when the team was dragging or mistakes piled up, his approach never crossed the line. He could get fired up, sure, but always in a controlled, intentional way. You could see the kids respond to it. Instead of yelling after an error, it was “Strong chin.” Or “We’re okay.” He didn’t shame them. He lifted them.

That’s real leadership.

I first met Lance during a tee-ball and coach pitch game last year. We were on opposing sides. But even from the other dugout, I could feel the energy coming from his team. His kids played hard, played loose, and clearly loved being there. That game ended as a one-run affair, and I remember thinking, that guy’s doing it right.

Months later, when I sat down with him to talk about coaching the Lightning together, I told him that exact thing. I said, “It was actually fun playing against your teams.” And I meant it.

So when I was asked to help coach with Lance, it was an easy yes. Based on vibe check alone, I was all in. You can spot a great coach from afar and I could see it in Lance before we’d even met.

Over the course of the season, that instinct proved right a hundred times over.

I wrote him this after a particularly tough weekend—one where the pressure had started to creep in:

“You’re doing it the right way: teaching them to be aggressive but respectful, balancing competitiveness with joy, and holding standards without being a robot about it. That’s rare. That’s real coaching.”

The best part? The kids saw it too. And I think they’ll carry that with them for a long time.

Coaches like Lance are the reason youth sports can be beautiful. I was proud to coach alongside him. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Oh, and one more thing about Lance. He bought the team ice cream on Saturday. In the end, it’s always about the ice cream.

The “Atta Baby” Philosophy

Some coaches preach discipline. Some chase perfection. Me? I chase the “Atta Baby” moments. That’s a phrase I picked up from Lance.

There’s a magic in being able to scream with joy when a kid who’s been struggling ropes a double. Or when the quiet kid starts throwing strikes with confidence. Or when someone who normally drifts off during practice asks a great question about the infield fly rule.

Those are my favorite plays of the game.

I tried to bring creativity into our practices—baseball card pack rewards, mini-games, wiffle ball days after tough weeks, kickball tournaments, walkup songs, and even Dan Dickerson doing a special team video. We made the grind fun. We made it feel like the reason we all fell in love with the sport to begin with.

Because when you gamify joy, kids don’t just learn, they remember.

Parker’s Ride Home

After that final game, the car ride home was quiet. That almost never happens.

My son, Parker, sat in the backseat, holding the framed team photo Lance had handed out. He cried at the field. He cried in the car. Partially because we lost. But more so because something good had come to an end.

At nine, you don’t always know how to express that. But he felt it.

He’s had his moments this year—learning to focus, managing distractions, growing into a better teammate. We had a lot of conversations about it. He didn’t always get it right. But more often than not, he tried.

And in that car ride silence, I want to believe I felt something shifting. He was coming to terms with what this team and experience had meant to him. The time. The work. The love. He’s not one to show emotions, but they were on full display this time.

By all accounts, Parker had a great tournament. He hit his first home run with the Lightning, plus a triple and a double. But he never mentioned any of that when we talked on Sunday. It was all about the team. About his friends. That’s where the tears came from.

That’s the power of youth sports when done well. It shapes them. And, if we’re lucky, it shapes us too.

Failure Is a Good Thing

I’ve learned a lot from coaches like James Lowe, aka “Coach Ballgame.” One thing he says stuck with me this season:

“If you’re paying attention and giving 100% effort, I like when you fail—because that’s when we learn the most.”

That mindset matters. It rewires everything. We don’t want kids afraid to swing and miss. We want them brave enough to swing at all.

That only happens when we create an environment where failure is welcomed—not feared. When every strikeout is followed by a fist bump. When every error is followed by “You’ll get ‘em next time.” When we teach them to be allergic to negativity.

We need more of that in the world. Not just in baseball.

Was it Worth It?

If we ever wondered whether the significant time, the planning, the long practices in unpredictable Michigan weather really mattered—this note we got from a dad last night says it all.

“About twenty minutes after I got home and my son had rattled off everything—he came back to find me and started crying. He said, ‘I don’t want the Lightning season to be over.’ I gave him a hug and asked, ‘What will you miss the most?’ He said, ‘Everything. The batting, the fielding—and my friends.’”

He went on to say this was the first time one of his kids had cried when a season ended. That the whole family was invested in Lightning in a way they’d never experienced before. That even his son’s younger brothers started crying when they heard the team lost in the semifinal.

This wasn’t just about wins or losses, it was about belonging. About creating something strong enough, joyful enough, and meaningful enough that a kid would cry when it ended—not because they lost, but because they loved it that much.

What Really Lasts

In 20 years, these kids won’t remember what our record was. And I’ll tell you here that we lost more games than we won.

They’ll remember:

• The walk-up songs.

• The wiffle ball days.

• The Lightning Chain competitions.

• The time we came back from six runs down.

• The coach who always believed in them.

They’ll remember being part of something where they mattered.

And so will I.

So here’s to the Lightning.

To the kids who made this old-timer feel like a kid again.

To the families who trusted us.

To the coaches who cared.

To every “Atta Baby” screamed from the dugout.

It wasn’t just a season. It was a joyride. Together on me, Together on 3, 1-2-3 Together.

How We Got Here & What Happened

For important context, I am writing this part less than 24 hours after the taping. I wanted to document my feelings right after everything happened. I will add a section at the bottom after the show airs as I'm sure my feelings may change or not feel as raw.

This experience was a dream come true for someone like me. I’ve spent my career creating experiences that make games and knowledge fun for others, but it’s been a lifetime bucket list item to be on a game show myself. I remember, back in high school, talking to my friend’s dad about how cool it would be to create a game-show-themed restaurant. I never did that, but trivia nights in restaurants became my way of bringing that vision to life.

Even though being on a game show was a dream, I didn’t actively pursue it for many years. Sure, I’d take the occasional Jeopardy! test and bomb it, but I always figured that show wasn’t for me anyway—too fast-paced, too detail-oriented. I enjoy marveling at those who are great at it.

In February 2023, though, I saw an application for $100,000 Pyramid and thought, "Why not?" I filled it out, filmed a video, and was stunned when I got a call just a few days later. I went through five sessions with different producers, getting more excited each time, but eventually, the calls stopped. I later got an email saying they’d gone with someone else. I was disappointed but understood—it’s the nature of the game.

Fast forward to November 2024. I was sick with pneumonia when, out of the blue, a producer called me. She told me I had done really well last time and they wanted to bring me back. Despite my illness, I was honored and thrilled to give it another shot.

The process to get on the show is long, detailed, and incredibly fun. The producers are phenomenal—they treat you like friends by the end of it all. One even told me during practice, after I slipped up and used a preposition, "You’re too damn good at this game to lose $50,000 because you said the word ‘in.’" I'm so grateful for the chance to have had a peek behind their curtain and to have played these games with them. Come tape day, they are your biggest fans. They want you to win. They are great at what they do and it shows.

I practiced obsessively. Over the last few weeks, I worked with 33 different people—friends, family, coworkers—many of whom didn’t even know what they were helping me prepare for. I’m so fortunate to have such an amazing network of people willing to help. My friend Casey would start all his phone calls to me with random words, trying to get me to guess the category. All these practice sessions were invaluable. I became a student of the game, analyzing trap words like “Monday,” “UFO,” and “Sidewalk.” You can't say "day," "object," or "walk" for any of those. I had a list of 200 such words that I practiced (thanks, Holly). At night, I would constantly interrupt my wife’s TV show watching asking her to take small breaks to practice.

I also worked on refining my focus, cadence, and speed, along with trying to predict actual categories. I preferred categories with words that started with certain letters—they make it easier to guide your partner toward specific guesses. That approach helped me in rounds like “Peanut Butter and Jäger” and the “Ex” category later on. My confidence grew as I nailed practice round after practice round. With every mistake, I learned and got better. Thanks to a little help from my friends, I felt prepared.

And then there was my friend and colleague Derek. Just days before taping, he decided to fly down from Seattle to support me. I know several others would’ve done the same if given the chance, but it meant so much to me that he showed up for what he knew was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He didn’t even get to see my taping since it’s a closed set, but he made the most of his time and went to The Price is Right during my episode. I was really hoping for a great story about him winning a car while I was filming, but alas, that didn’t happen.

On tape day, I woke up at 4 a.m., terrified I’d oversleep and miss the car picking me up at 5:45. I woke up with a decent-sized cut on my forehead—courtesy of my wedding ring while sleeping. Not the best way to start the morning.

By 6:15 in the morning, I was at the studio, filling out paperwork, getting briefed, and mingling with the other contestants. We had to turn over all technology to the producers. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, and we quickly formed a bond, cheering each other on as people got called for hair and wardrobe. We even created our own little "Winner’s Circle" practice area with our chairs. I can’t wait to see how they all did. I regret not writing down their full names so I could connect with them after all is said and done.

We had three official practice rounds: one low-key with a producer, one in a simulator, and one on the actual set. I "won" all of my practice Winner’s Circles and did well on all my main rounds as well. When I was the first to go in the Winner’s Circle on the actual set, which was the final audition, I won with 23 seconds to spare on “Things Two People Do.” I jumped up, screamed, and took it all in. I felt ready.

But as the hours stretched on—9 hours since I’d arrived at the studio—I started to feel the tension creeping in. I told my producer I was working on my nervous energy just being regular energy.

As we waited in the final minutes outside to enter the stage, the producers noticed my calm demeanor and hoped I’d bring more energy when the cameras rolled. I assured them I would, but inside, I was focusing. My cool, collected practice sessions felt far away and that was a bit daunting. The friendly faces I had played with couldn’t help me now. This was the real deal. Hours and hours of practice led to this—a chance at 60 seconds in the Winner's Circle.

The thing about this game is the payout is great. You can win up to $150,000. That’s a big prize for game shows these days. But even just getting into the Winner’s Circle is likely to earn you close to $10,000, even if you don’t win.

Before filming, they had me rehearse my "figure skating" intro line about 15 times (my fault, not theirs - we were trying to get it just right), and even that was looping in my head. Truth be told, that was not one of the original three intros I gave them, but they liked that story, so they asked me to go with it.

I met my celebrity partners, Pete Holmes and Mark Duplass, before we started. I only got about 3-5 minutes with Pete and a quick handshake from Mark. Both were incredible—funny, kind, and clearly experienced at making contestants feel at ease. I couldn’t have asked for better partners. They apologized when they got something wrong when they didn't have to do so. They made me feel welcome and were excited to play. I also enjoyed seeing them interact with each other during breaks trying to help each other win in the Winner’s Circle.

While I had some clean sweep rounds, overall, I didn’t play my best. Far from it. I was capable of so much better. And that’s devastating. I was flubbing clues I’d normally get in practice in seconds. Or if I didn't flub them, I'd go about them much more awkwardly than I had practiced. I knew I'd need to get 19 or 20 each game to have a chance to move on. I can't remember exactly where I ended up in each game, but it was around 17 or 18. I guess we’ll see when it airs how bad it really was.

Horror movies are a blind spot for me, and in a rush with a couple seconds left, I confused Psycho with The Exorcist. Yes, I know the difference, but in that moment…yikes. I could see my hands shaking on the screen.

I also stumbled on a couple of Pete’s clues, probably passing too soon. I did this because I couldn’t see the clock nor did I know how many we had correct at that point. That definitely threw me off. The category did not help here either - words with three consecutive vowels. Even Pete joked about it.

And then there was "predator"—instead of saying something clear and simple like I did in practice when I had that same exact word, like "Chris Hansen’s To Catch a BLANK," I awkwardly tried to explain a child predator, leading Mark Duplass to say 'molester' on national TV, before a Hail Mary attempt with Nashville’s hockey team. It was an embarrassing moment, and knowing the Mystery 7 round had a trip to Peru on the line only added to my nerves. It was absolutely in my mind “don’t miss a trip to freakin’ Peru as the clues were being given” But I did. This and The Exorcist are the ones that gave given the most anxiety post taping.

But here’s the other thing about this game: you’re only as good as your opponent. My competitor, Juanita, was amazing. She played such a clean game. She won the maximum amount possible on the show. I was genuinely thrilled for her and even cheered loudly (probably too loud) as she headed to her second Winner’s Circle, yelling, "Go get it, Juanita!" She’s recently relocated to Hollywood to pursue acting, and her winnings will help her make LA home. I couldn’t be happier for her.

I’ll also take 1% credit for her win (besides my obvious main game flubs). Earlier in the week, I had a dream that we got to choose our celebrity partners from a bunch of them sitting at cafeteria tables. I told Juanita and the others about it in the green room, saying I picked Rachael Ray in said dream because she said we had "minion vibes." Sure enough, during Juanita’s Winner’s Circle, she said "Rachael Ray" as the second thing for people who cook food. That definitely brought a smile to my face.

Michael Strahan was incredibly kind to everyone. After the game, he shook my hand, told me I played great, and joked about our shared gap-tooth look, calling us "bold, confident men." That laugh helped ease the sting a bit.

Still, as I type this less than 24 hours later, I’m admittedly gutted. Yes, the money would have been life changing. I thought a lot about what I’d do with it. But it's more so that I know I’m a better player than what I showed. I'm sad. I feel embarrassed for not playing my best and for letting down the people who will be excited to see me on the show. I feel sad for blowing my shot at doing so much better.

I know that complaining about not doing well on a television game show is, in the grand scheme of things, completely ridiculous. It’s a game—one I was lucky enough to even have the chance to play. And yet, as I stood outside the studio before taping, I could literally see the smoke from the wildfires drifting through the sky, a stark reminder of real problems unfolding just beyond this small, controlled world of bright lights and buzzer battles. People were losing homes, firefighters were risking their lives, and here I was, stressed about missing a clue. It puts things in perspective, and honestly, I feel a little guilty even writing about it. But I also know that disappointment and gratitude can exist at the same time, and maybe that’s just part of being human.

Even though I was beyond exhausted, I could barely sleep a wink last night as I replayed all the what ifs. But it's important that I admit I played less than my potential. There's no excuses. I own my performance no matter how much it hurts in this moment.

Before I left, my youth baseball team gave me a basket filled with thoughtful gifts all with little notes: a Whatchamacallit candy bar for when I couldn’t think of an answer, a "Coach Mark" coffee mug, Michael Strahan beard oil, an autographed baseball by the kids, and a lot more. There was also a crocheted lucky duck in there that I made a point to take with me in the green room. It was a small but meaningful token, reminding me of the support and encouragement I had from my team. The duck wasn’t allowed on stage, and maybe that’s why things unfolded the way they did, or at least that’s what I like to think. I wanted to make those kids proud the way they make me proud when they put forth their maximum effort. As a joke before I left for LA, I bought a huge $6 plastic gold chain to wear to practice tomorrow. I probably won't do that now.

I was envisioning a watch party in my head the last few weeks. Now, I don't even want to do that as I'm wishing I could celebrate how much better I played instead of silly mistakes I made. Maybe (and hopefully) my feelings will change as we get closer to the airdate.

I'm definitely saddest for my kids, Parker and Theo. And I'm 100% misty-eyed as I type that part here in the airport. The hardest part will be pretending for the next couple of months that I might have won. Parker and Theo were so excited when I called them after the taping. For weeks, Parker’s been asking if we’ll go to Fenway Park to sit on the Green Monster or take a cruise “when” I win. Parker was really excited to film a video of me last week when it became official I'd be on. Theo would adorably try to play the game randomly in car rides. Five-year-olds on Pyramid are not great, but super funny. I’ll have to keep up the charade until the episode airs.

But, I know my obligation is bigger to them than winning money on a game show. It is my duty to raise them as kind and resilient individuals. I do hope one day they'll read this when they are older and are in a potentially disappointing spot of their own, cause we all have them. I hope this teaches them, it's okay to be sad about something, but there are bigger lessons to be learned in how you handle it.

Despite the sadness and disappointment, I’m proud that I tried. I created an opportunity for myself. I gave myself a chance. People in high places saw something in me and kept me moving along in the process.

More importantly, I stepped out of my comfort zone and faced a fear I’d avoided for years—the fear of failing publicly. I hope my kids and anyone reading this can take away a lesson: it’s okay to fail. It’s okay to try something hard and not succeed. What matters is getting back up, brushing yourself off and being proud of the journey that got you there. Take risks, embrace challenges, and cheer for others, even when they win and you don’t.

Perhaps being on the game show wasn’t the bucket list item after all. Maybe I just needed a really public way to show others—friends, family, my community, and my kids—that it’s okay to be uncomfortable when you just try. Just get yourself in whatever hypothetical game it is you're trying to play in your own life. Take the class, ride the bike, have the hard conversation, or make a new memory. Give yourself a shot. You deserve it.

This was hard. It wasn’t the outcome I wanted, but I’m glad I took the shot. And I won’t let this be the last time I try something scary.

To everyone who helped me prepare: thank you. I'm so grateful. To my family, my friends, my coworkers, and my kids: I’m sorry I didn’t do better. But I'm so grateful for your support and excitement. I’ll fail again, but I’ll face it with courage, knowing the incredible support system I have around me. And if you made it this far in the story, you're the real hero. Thanks for reading. Don't be afraid to put yourself out there and try something hard. In the meantime, I'll be watching The Exorcist.

One Month Later: Reflections and Reality

It’s been a month since taping, and I’ve had time to sit with everything. Time has softened some of the sharper edges of disappointment, but I’ve also spent a lot of time unpacking why I felt so crushed by the experience in the first place. After all, this was a bucket list item. I accomplished it. So why did I walk away feeling so low?

After it was safe to reach out, I messaged one of my celebs on Instagram to thank him for his kindness and for being part of my dream. To my surprise, he replied within 10 minutes, reassuring me that I should feel great about how I played. He reminded me that it was my first time in the spotlight, and even though he’s experienced, he still gets nervous. The stress of the moment can really take a toll on performance. He said he’s done a lot of game shows and always jokes that you’re about half as smart up there as you are at home practicing, which was oddly comforting to hear.

I think the answer lies in the fact that I didn’t go prepared to lose. I went in confident, practiced, and ready to win. I never once entertained the idea that I’d play worse than I had in practice. But I did. And the gap between how well I performed in preparation and how I played under the lights was wider than I ever anticipated. At least in my mind. And I say that without having seen it on TV yet.

I wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for the letdown of not living up to my own expectations. I’ve been on stages before. I didn’t think I’d be impacted by the moment. But I clearly was. It was surreal, and even now, I couldn’t tell you exactly what all my rounds were—I just know I didn’t perform at my best.

Maybe part of it was how abruptly it ended. One moment, I was in the middle of this whirlwind, something I had spent months preparing for, and the next, I was being ushered out with half a turkey sandwich in hand, already being asked what I would do differently next time. It was jarring. So much time and energy had gone into preparing, and suddenly, it was just... over. It felt unceremonious in a way that didn’t match the weight of what it meant to me. I was in a car and off the lot within ten minutes of the taping ending. That contrast made it all the harder to process.

In the weeks that followed, I went through a real slump. For two weeks, I felt completely unmotivated. I ate like garbage. I beat myself up. I couldn't shake the thought that maybe my spot should have gone to someone who would have fared better. I felt like I threw away my shot. It’s not a game where I can just go try again the next day. The opportunity had been so rare, so special, and in that moment, I felt like I had wasted it.

But now, with some distance, I feel more gratitude than regret. I still wish I had played better, but I’m grateful for the experience. I’ve also realized that my response to this whole thing—the taping, the airing, the aftermath—is just as important, if not more so, than how I performed in the moment. A close friend reminded me that my kids (both my own and the ones I coach) are watching. I can show them what it looks like to take a hit and keep moving forward. To admit to yourself that you aren’t perfect, that you could have done better, and then go try again. And I will try again. It might not be a game show, but it’ll be something.

I also recently found out that my episode is the season premiere. That news hit with mixed emotions—excitement, nervousness, a little dread—but mostly, I’m happy to see how it all turned out and to finally be on the other side of it.

I wish I had been kinder to myself in the immediate aftermath. I wish I had given myself more grace. But at the end of the day, I took a shot. I stepped onto that stage and gave it my best in that moment. And I’ll keep doing that, no matter how many times I stumble along the way.

The Airing: Getting on the Other Side of It

This week has been really hard and great at the same time. People are genuinely excited for me to be on the show and see how I do. That means a lot. However, when I hear people saying they can't wait to see how much I win, that definitely stings each time. It's not their fault. They don't know.

I got the okay to start promoting the appearance earlier in the week along with some official pictures. The pictures were a nice reminder of the fun of the day. I debated for a long time about a watch party, but I woke up on Tuesday and tried to stop feeling sorry for myself and decided I'd throw one and do what I do best - gamify this shit. So, I played the role of Michael Strahan hosting some games of Pyramid for people who were kind enough to attend. I wanted to make it fun for them as they’ve been so supportive.

It meant the world to me that 25 friends showed up for a late-night watch party to see my episode air—seriously, why 10 PM!? But despite the late hour, the energy in the room was electric come air time. I’ll never forget the roar of the bar when Pete Holmes introduced me and I appeared on the screen. That might be my favorite moment of this entire experience. I’m thankful I got that part on video.

I know everyone came hoping to watch me win. One person even joked, “You wouldn’t drag us all out here to watch you lose.” And that’s been the hardest part—everyone just assumed I had won. In the same way I prepared to go and win. But I’m okay with how it turned out. More than anything, I’m grateful—for the experience, for the support, for the messages, smiles and hugs that reminded me how lucky I am to have this incredible community around me.

One of the best surprises of the night was reliving the first round. I had completely forgotten that I went 7-for-7! The bar erupted again during that moment, and it was so much fun to see it play out. I forgot I actually had a few 7 for 7s.

The moments that stung right after taping—the ones I replayed over and over in my head (Exorcist, predator, Pete’s clues to me)—still gave me a bit of that “what if” feeling. But watching the episode, they flew by much faster than I expected. Time and perspective really do work wonders.

The first person I messaged after the episode aired was Juanita. I couldn’t have been happier for her shining moment. She played an amazing game, and I was so happy to see her succeed. Watching her Instagram stories this morning has been awesome.

At the end of the night, Theo (my five-year-old son) came up to me and said he was sad that we wouldn’t be able to go to Fenway Park to sit on the Green Monster anymore—that’s what he had been hoping for. That one stung, because I would’ve loved nothing more than to share that moment with him. He actually took the loss pretty hard the rest of the night. We’ll still get to Fenway at some point.

In the end, I didn’t walk away with the big prize, but I walked away with something better—memories, joy, and the overwhelming support of so many people, both near and far. That’s what truly matters. Thank you to everyone who reached out, who watched, who cheered. I’ll never forget it.

Five Fun Facts About the Experience:

• The cardigan wasn’t mine—I’ve never worn a cardigan a day in my life. They asked if I’d wear it, and I had no issue with it. I didn’t even sweat in it.

• Even without a studio audience, there was still a warm-up comedian. He performed just for Juanita and me.

• There were no clocks anywhere. I had no idea what time it was until I left the lot. In total, I was on-site for about 10–11 hours.

• The season premiere intro was filmed at the very end, after they decided it was a contender to open the season.

• I went through an extensive background check—mostly because I have such a common name. At one point, I was asked if I was involved in about 25 different paternity cases across the country. (The answer was no.)

To build a big game like this properly in our digital system, we’d need heavy involvement from our design, product, and engineering teams. That kind of investment is feasible, but it comes with a cost. Was it worth weeks of their time for something untested and slated to be used only one day a year? We had to think creatively—how could we test the idea and bring it to life without draining resources?

Embracing Constraints to Fuel Creativity

We were excited about Hive Wars and didn’t want the idea to disappear because of logistical hurdles. So, we got scrappy. We realized we could jerryrig our existing digital bingo software to suit our needs for the gameplay portion. But adapting it wasn’t as straightforward as it sounded—we needed to create a system for it to score the game the way we wanted.

Enter Google Docs. I’ve worked with Google Docs enough to write basic formulas, but what we needed for this game was beyond my skillset. I turned to ChatGPT for help, explaining what I needed to do. Through trial and error (and a lot of experimentation), I landed on the perfect formula. It was the good ol’…

=IF(D2=$D$9, IF(H2=1, 1, 0), IF(H2<IFERROR(VLOOKUP($D$9, $D$2:$H$6, COLUMN(H2)-COLUMN(D2)+1, FALSE), 9999), 2, 0))

It was complex (at least for me) and honestly a little hilarious, but it worked. With that formula in place, we had a foundational tool to bring Hive Wars to life.

Designing Without a Design Team

Once the mechanics were sorted, we still needed a way to display the game as intended. Again, we faced constraints—our design team was already juggling other high-priority projects. So, we turned to Canva.

It’s incredible what Canva can do with pre-existing templates and tools. We created a professional-looking scoreboard that could be updated in real-time and designed it to look like it some design thought involved. It was functional, visually appealing enough, and ready to use.

Finding Allies to Bring Ideas to Life

The final ingredient I needed was an ally. Creative ideas often benefit from collaboration, and I knew I needed someone to help refine and enhance the game. I brought in my coworker and good friend, Nick. He immediately bought into the concept, offered feedback, and helped make Hive Wars even better.

Together, we tested the game during our annual Zoom holiday gathering with Sporcle’s HQ staff. It was a hit. We surveyed participants afterward, and the reviews were overwhelmingly positive.

The Takeaway

By refusing to let constraints stifle our creativity, we turned a concept into reality. We didn’t have all the resources we’d ideally use, but we leaned into what we did have: resourcefulness, collaboration, and a commitment to the idea.

Now, we can’t wait for the world to see Hive Wars at SporcleCon. It’s a testament to what can happen when you let constraints fuel your creativity instead of stopping it in its tracks. Sometimes, all it takes is a good Excel formula, a Canva hack, and a great ally to turn a wild idea into something extraordinary.

We have a fairly radical new concept for the future of SporcleCon that I'll share another time. Small spoiler, it involves a transformation of how SporcleCon engages with its attendees and the overall event experience. This particular element (not the whole con) will happen in this space:

I've been so excited to work on this piece in particular the past several weeks as it evolves in our minds. It started as a half-assed idea and is now fully evolving (at least in my brain). The thing I was looking forward to most about this week was spending time in a creative space working on this new idea. Doing it without distractions, while in the physical space, with other creative minds, was something this idea needed. I was excited.

While Monday and Tuesday saw bits and pieces of time dedicated to talking about the what-ifs around the ideas, we hadn't quite got to the creative mind space to really dig in fully. We had a lot of other things to discuss too.

Yesterday was our last full day, and my coworker and planning partner in crime, Becca, stopped us an hour or so into the morning as we were talking schedules for next year's event. We had spent a good chunk of time on Tuesday working on that as well.

She also had a thing that was really important to her that we work through and get done while we were in person: building out calendars with deadlines for the year, action plans, assigning projects and roles, and all the nitty-gritty. She made her hopes and priorities clear well before stepping off a plane this week, emphasizing the need to focus on actions and plans that allow the team to start moving forward with purposeful momentum.

Details are hard for me sometimes. I'll admit it. I've been told in the past that I don't always like to get in the weeds. And that's true. I'm best suited to work on creative things. I'm fortunate to work with amazing people who are outstanding at getting in the weeds with me. I'd be lost without them. Don’t get me wrong, I can buckle down with the best of them and build out spreadsheets and really focus on small details. It’s just not my forte.

I know how vitally important the details (and weeds) are to the entire operation of anything. The idea of spending hours on them at the end of an exhausting three days, especially when we hadn't touched the creative project I dreamed of talking about the last few weeks, felt daunting.

But I knew the project Becca wanted to spend time on was more important, even if it was hard for us at the time. And truth be told about Becca, she thrives in the creative too, so I knew she wanted to get to that same discussion. But she was smart enough in that moment to table all the "fun" talk and refocus our time. We refilled the coffees and dug in.

The next few hours surprised me. We actually found great joy in working on the hard project. The amount of moving parts for SporcleCon is insane. We built some pretty good starting points for action plans, calendars, project ownership, and more. Because we buckled down and dialed in on the hard thing for a few hours, we were then rewarded with two hours at the end to plan out our new concept I mentioned earlier.

We were in a coworking space downtown. By the time we really started to dig in on the creative project, we were one of the only people in the building. It felt like we had downtown Chicago to ourselves. We moved into this cavernous boardroom meant for 20 people with a weird air freshener that emitted unexpected noises , just the two of us with the most beautiful whiteboard one could ask for.

There were whiteboard markers flying (literally), cartwheels and headstands (by Becca, not me), and pure joy to plan this concept. It was the reward for a hard week. And it was probably joy that wouldn't have felt the same had we not spent the time on the hard thing first (side note: read Eat That Frog).

As I sit in the airport to come home, I'm very excited about these new concepts and sharing them with others, but I'm more excited that we did the hard project (and more important one) first. Here’s a super blurred version of our fun at the end of the week…

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The first step to inspiring people is grabbing their attention. That’s why that dog above is here, and they have nothing to do with today’s issue. But you looked at the cute dog and were a little more willing to listen, right? Great, let’s keep going.

Nothing gets attention faster than standing out from the crowd. Human instincts are wired to notice what’s different, which is why the boldest brands often reap the biggest rewards.

That’s where Andy Pearson, the VP of Creative at Liquid Death came in. If you’re unfamiliar with Liquid Death, it’s a canned water brand that’s essentially hydration wrapped in a punk rock album cover. Who knew staying hydrated could look so edgy? They recently received a $1.4 billion valuation...for water.

A talk with Pearson has recently been making its rounds. Curious, I listened to the talk, and wow—this was gold. Pearson broke down what makes Liquid Death’s approach not just unique but a genuine masterclass in creative branding. It got me thinking about how these principles could apply to not only marketing but any creative endeavor. Here are my biggest takeaways—and how I hope to use them at Sporcle.

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1. Embrace Worst Practices

Sometimes, the most unconventional ideas can lead to the most significant breakthroughs. Liquid Death’s meteoric success stems from its willingness to challenge norms and embrace what others might dismiss as “stupid.” Pearson explains:

“If we can entertain ideas that are truly and genuinely dumb, you’re starting from a place that no one has bothered to start from before. You’re starting from somewhere that is so stupid you would never consider it, but we start there with a lot of stuff we do.”

Take, for example, their recent limited-edition Pit Diaper, designed for mosh pit concertgoers who’d rather keep rocking than leave for a bathroom break. On the surface, it’s ridiculous. But it sold out in hours and got people talking—because it’s unexpected, entertaining, and undeniably unique. No, I did not purchase one. But it went viral and got me thinking about their brand.

At SporcleCon, this mindset could inspire us to rethink how we engage attendees and create memorable experiences. What if we designed an interactive trivia show where contestants solve puzzles or challenges under unique circumstances, like answering questions while wearing oversized trivia-themed props? By embracing the absurd, we could make SporcleCon a place where trivia fans leave with stories they'll tell for years.

2. Make Entertainment, Not Marketing

Here’s the kicker: Liquid Death doesn’t even see itself as marketers. Instead, they aim to make content that people actively enjoy—the kind of thing you’d share with your friends, not scroll past. That’s where I first saw the Pit Diaper. It was shared in a Facebook group of my favorite band.

“We don’t want to make marketing. The world doesn’t need more marketing. The world needs more laughs. That’s sort of the filter we always put over work: can we bring real joy to people? Can we make them laugh? Can we bring something they didn’t expect?”

It got me thinking: how often do we approach our work with this mindset? Whether you’re leading a team, creating a project, or just trying to stand out in your field, what would it look like if you focused less on the sell and more on making something people genuinely enjoy?

At Sporcle, I think that are ways we can lean far more into our Globies mascots. They’ve made small appearances at live events, but what if they became front and center in our digital offerings? I can picture a Globie hilariously failing at trivia in their “expert” category, hosting chaotic digital quizzes, or goofing around at SporcleCon. It’s not just about what we do—it’s about how we make people feel.

So here’s your challenge: think about your own work. What’s one thing you could do this week that’s less about meeting expectations and more about creating delight?

3. Have Fun

There’s an infectious energy to Pearson’s approach. Infusing fun into the creative process doesn’t just make the work environment better—it makes the output better, too. Fun has a ripple effect that consumers can feel.

“If we have fun, if we can bring fun into what we do, and if we all agree that that is something we all want more of in the world, how much better would everything be?”

This resonates with everything I want SporcleCon to be: a place where fun is at the forefront. From silly mini-games at SporcleCon HQ to surprise ice cream cones for attendees, creating moments of pure fun (like quizzing with dogs) strengthens connections with our community.

4. Challenge Conventional Wisdom

Liquid Death doesn’t just question industry norms—it obliterates them. Who would’ve thought that a canned water brand called “Liquid Death” could dominate the beverage aisle? But that’s the point: they didn’t blend in; they stood out.

“It’s very funny to me because a lot of people are like, ‘You’re crazy to call something Liquid Death and put it in this can, right?’ I would argue, you’d be crazy to enter a category and look exactly like everything else in that category.”

For Sporcle Events, this means at least having more frequent conversations about how we structure pub trivia. What if we ditched the traditional rounds entirely and created a “choose your adventure” trivia format, where teams decide the next category by voting in real-time? Or perhaps at SporcleCon, we reimagine the grand finale of Battle of the Brains to be more interactive and theatrical. Standing out starts by being willing to zig when others zag.

What We Can Learn

Liquid Death’s success is a masterclass in creativity, courage, and connection. It’s about starting where no one else dares to start, prioritizing entertainment over hard sells, having fun, and challenging the status quo. Even if you’ve only sipped their water once (or twice, like me), there’s so much to take from their approach.

At Sporcle, we have the opportunity to not only build a strong trivia community but to redefine what people expect from trivia—whether it’s at a bar, on our site, or at a massive convention. What’s one “stupid” idea you’ve dismissed recently? Maybe it’s time to revisit it.

Until next time, let’s embrace the ridiculous, the unconventional, and the fun. Who knows what we might create?

Stay Curious,
Mark

As I write this, I’m sitting in the Rocky Mountains hosting a destination trivia event with Sporcle. It’s something we’d never attempted before. Along with our hotel partner, we envisioned hundreds of fans traveling to a special location for a weekend of trivia and camaraderie playing games all weekend about a niche topic.

The hotel owner, a huge Sporcle fan, had a vision of a full city takeover by trivia enthusiasts. For our first year, we set a bold yet achievable goal: attracting 200-250 attendees. When the event finally arrived, attendance landed closer to 100. At first, we couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

But then we paused and took stock of what actually happened.

Just the act of trying something new was a win. We brought together eight of our best staff members to host a unique weekend experience. They are hear, rising to the challenge and have made the event feel big and memorable, no matter how many people attended. That is a win.

And then there was the first night. As we looked out into the room, full of participants laughing, connecting, and celebrating their shared passion, it hit us: they didn’t care about our attendance goals. They were just happy to be there, in a space created for them to fully embrace their fandom alongside like-minded people.

Having a more intimate crowd created incredible opportunities for what we like to call “unreasonable hospitality.” We handed out swag, sat and played games with attendees, and had countless moments to connect on a deeper level.

One of my favorite stories involves my colleague Derek (shoutout to Chief Rabbit). Early on, he introduced himself to a table of four women who had traveled in for the weekend. He offered to help them with anything they needed during the games and our digital answering system. Playfully, they replied, “Well, if you want to buy us a round of drinks, we will take that.”

A few minutes later, Derek spotted them at the bar ordering their round. Without hesitation, he cut to the front of the line, pulled out his credit card, and covered their drinks. They were floored.

That moment wasn’t just about the drinks. It was about making them feel seen, valued, and part of something extraordinary. And that’s a win.

Even more, it reminded us why we were there. It wasn’t about attendance numbers or revenue goals—it was about creating moments of connection and joy. That’s the kind of win I will always take.

It’s a lesson I’ll carry with me: success isn’t always measured in numbers. It’s found in the faces of the people we serve, the moments of joy we create, and the willingness to take risks and try new things.

We took the win—and we’re better for it.

In Practice:

• Celebrate Small Milestones: Whether it’s trying a new project or reaching an incremental goal, pause to acknowledge the effort it took to get there.

• Shift Perspectives: If something doesn’t meet your expectations, ask yourself, “What went well? What did I learn?”

• Focus on Impact: Remember, the people you serve don’t see your behind-the-scenes goals. They see the experience you create for them—and that’s often the biggest win of all.

It sold three tickets. Yep, three. It was a bigger dud than Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny.

Now, I could have easily swept that under the rug during discussions about ticket sales, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve used it as a chance to poke fun at myself in front of the team, even a year later. Why? Because I believe it’s important to show that taking risks and making mistakes is part of the process. The point is to create an environment where experimenting and learning from failure is encouraged.

Fast forward to the last couple of weeks, when we began our initial discussions about ticket structures for SporcleCon 2025. Our new mantra? Less is more. We realized that having 12 (!!!) different types of tickets for 2024 was overwhelming and confusing. In our attempt to cater to everyone, we ended up making it harder for people to decide. So, during one of our meetings, I jokingly told the team, “The thing I think we really need for 2025 is payment plan tickets again… whoever came up with that idea last year was brilliant.”

Of course, everyone knew that was my idea and how well it didn’t work. But by making fun of myself, I’m sending a clear message: it’s okay to fail, and it’s important to reflect on those failures openly. I want the team to see that mistakes aren’t something to be hidden or ignored. They’re part of growth, and sometimes, the team's gut feeling is more accurate than my own hunches.

Self-reflection, especially in front of your team, has the power to build trust. It shows them that even in leadership, mistakes happen—and it’s not about getting it right every time. It’s about learning from those mistakes, moving forward, and creating an environment where everyone feels comfortable trying something new. And more so, an environment where they all can (and should) poke fun at me.

The key takeaway? Don’t be afraid to believe in your ideas, even when they don’t work out. And when they don’t, don’t shy away from openly admitting it. By doing so, you not only grow as a leader but also build a culture where the team feels empowered to take risks, make mistakes, and ultimately, find the right path forward.

Thanks for reading and remember to Stay Curious!

Mark

This week, we’re diving into how embracing deadlines, like the concept of the MVP (Minimum Viable Product), can unlock creativity, drive progress, and help you deliver—even under pressure.

The Show Must Go On
SNL creator Lorne Michaels famously said, “The show doesn’t go on because it’s ready; it goes on because it’s 11:30.” This simple truth pushes us to let go of perfectionism. When a deadline hits, you need to deliver, ready or not. Waiting for everything to feel perfect often leads to paralysis, but setting a firm deadline, like 11:30 for SNL, forces you into action.

1. Things Are Never Fully Ready
There’s always something more to tweak before launching. But it’s in the act of moving forward that the best ideas emerge. Waiting for perfection stifles momentum.

In Practice: SporcleCon Prep
Before SporcleCon this year, one of our team members mentioned feeling like we had so many things 95% of the way there. There was a small sense of frustration from their comment. However, what was important to remember in that moment, was the 95%, not the 5%. Rather than stress about the missing 5%, we moved forward, trusting that the final pieces would fall into place. The event succeeded because we stayed flexible and completed what was necessary on the go. I don’t think anyone looks at the photo below from SporcleCon 2024 and thinks, “wow, that was only 95% ready.”

2. MVP is Your Friend
An MVP, or Minimum Viable Product, is a version of a product with just enough features to be usable and to gather feedback for future development. It’s not about launching something perfect; it’s about launching something functional that can be improved through real-world use. By focusing on the core essentials, an MVP allows you to test ideas, learn quickly, and make adjustments without overcommitting resources.

Why It’s Important:
The MVP approach prevents perfectionism from stalling progress. It allows you to learn from real feedback instead of assumptions and enables faster iteration. In short, it keeps you moving forward.

In Practice: Motor City Trivia Days
Back in the early Motor City Trivia days, I would regularly test out different game formats: Rock Bingo, 8 Ball Trivia, Point Drop Trivia, Trivingo, Barcapades (Yes, I’m serious), Mystery Rounds, Name That Tune—you name it. Without realizing it, I was creating MVPs of these game formats, putting them out in their simplest form to gather feedback. Some formats survived, but many didn’t, and that’s okay. Testing basic versions of ideas helped refine what worked. Today, we run several strong pub trivia formats across 700 games each week nationwide, built on lessons from those early experiments.

3. Creativity Thrives in Motion
Movement breeds creativity. When you’re actively working toward a deadline, you unlock solutions and ideas that would have remained undiscovered if you stayed in the planning phase.

In Practice: The Globies’ Debut
When we introduced our mascots, the Globies, we didn’t have every detail finalized. But once they were out there, the creative ideas started to flow. By launching them, we allowed new possibilities to take shape that we hadn’t considered before. I’m very excited about their future in our games, site, and social media.

4. Celebrate the Launch
It’s easy to rush past an MVP launch in anticipation of feedback, but launching something—no matter how small—is an achievement in itself. The hard work, iteration, and courage it takes to bring an idea to life deserve recognition, even before the first piece of feedback arrives. Taking a moment to celebrate not only honors the effort but also sets the stage for positive energy as feedback begins to roll in.

In Practice: Sporcle All Hands and Slack Recognition
At Sporcle, whenever we launch something new, we make sure to recognize the team’s achievement before any feedback comes in. Whether it’s during our weekly All Hands meeting or via our Sporcle News channel on Slack, we take time to appreciate the effort that went into getting something out into the world. This celebration fosters pride and reminds everyone that simply launching is a victory in itself.

The Takeaway:
This week, embrace the idea that things may never feel fully ready. Push forward, aim for an MVP, set deadlines, and let creativity thrive in the movement. Progress, not perfection, should be your goal.

That’s it for this week’s edition of The Honeybee and The Owl. Until next time, remember: the show goes on at 11:30, ready or not.

Stay curious,
Mark

Last week, I shared a story about how a little curiosity in coaching my son's baseball team transformed the kids' energy and focus during practice. This week, we’ll dive into the idea I teased—Unreasonable Hospitality. It's a concept that has completely reframed how I think about coaching, leadership, and even my personal relationships.

Inspired by Will Guidara’s book Unreasonable Hospitality, I’ve learned that hospitality is not just for the restaurant world—it’s for everyone. Whether you’re coaching a youth baseball team, managing a business, or even just spending time with family, the idea of going above and beyond to create remarkable experiences is universal. Guidara often says, “Service is black and white, whereas hospitality is color,” and that idea is the heart of this philosophy.

1. Service is Black and White; Hospitality is Color

First, let’s start with that phrase. Service is simply about doing the job—getting the food to the table, completing the task, sticking to the basics. But hospitality brings life to that service. It’s not about what you do; it’s about how you make someone feel while you’re doing it. It adds vibrancy and color to an otherwise routine interaction.

In Practice: Pizza Motivation

In Practice: Think about how you can add a little extra color in your daily life. For me, it could be as simple as celebrating the small wins at baseball practice—turning a successful drill into a pizza party the kids remember with pride. For you, maybe it’s making a client feel seen, heard, and valued.

2. The Hot Dog Story: Finding Joy in the Unexpected

One of my favorite stories from the book involves a group of guests at Eleven Madison Park who, while enjoying a high-end meal, offhandedly mentioned that the thing they had yet to try on their NYC adventure was a New York City street hot dog. What happened next? Will Guidara overheard it from afar and didn’t just dismiss it. Instead, he sent a staff member out to grab a hot dog from a street vendor, served it on a silver platter, and brought it out to the table. The reaction? Pure joy.

It’s a brilliant reminder that it’s not about sticking to the script—hospitality is about being creative, reading the room, and giving people what they didn’t even realize they wanted.

In Practice: The Camaro Surprise

One of my favorite ways to practice Unreasonable Hospitality is by surprising my team with small, thoughtful gifts. It’s not about the size or extravagance of the gift, but the act of listening and responding in ways that make people feel valued.

In May, four months before SporcleCon, our Content Strategist was in town working on the event. During a casual conversation, he mentioned his love for Legos and how much he wanted to build the Chevy Camaro set. He joked that he hoped his wife was seeing all the targeted ads he had been receiving while browsing online.

That same week, I went ahead and purchased the Lego set, asked his wife not to buy it (she’s wonderful), and kept it hidden away until SporcleCon. When I finally gave it to him at the event, his reaction said it all. Let’s just say his words won’t make it into this family-friendly newsletter! A few days after SporcleCon, I received a photo (actually 18 photos) of the completed Lego Camaro—a reminder that it’s not about following the script, but about paying attention and going the extra mile.

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3. Understand Your People Personally

Hospitality isn’t just about the “wow” moments—it’s about knowing the people you serve or lead. Will talks about how truly connecting with people and understanding what makes them happy is the foundation of hospitality. That means knowing which person you’re working with needs a confidence boost, which one thrives on a challenge, or which one could use a little humor to relax.

In Practice: Putting Paul Through a Table

Hospitality isn’t just about the grand gestures; it’s about truly understanding the people you work with and what makes them tick. At Sporcle, our Customer Success Manager, Paul, lives and breathes professional wrestling. Every time we’re in the same room, I make it a point to ask him if he’s ready to give the unsuspecting crowd a show by having a wrestling match with me right then and there. Paul never misses a beat—he always jokes about how I should finally pick him up and put him through a conference table. He wants for nothing more.

It’s all in good fun, but it also serves a purpose. Paul’s role can be stressful, and this running joke gives us both a way to lighten the mood and kick off the day with a smile. The point is that hospitality is often about knowing what makes someone laugh, what helps them relax, and what makes their job a little easier.Do you know what lights up the people around you? Whether it’s clients, teammates, or family, taking the time to know their personal preferences, likes, and motivators helps you show up in a more meaningful way.

4. Create Moments of Joy by Exceeding Expectations

Guidara’s philosophy is that going beyond the expected is what builds loyalty and lasting connections. It’s not about just doing what’s required; it’s about finding ways to do more than what’s expected—delivering an experience that people will talk about long after it’s over.

In Practice: Surprising and Delighting at SporcleCon

At SporcleCon, we made it our mission to deliver those unexpected moments of joy for our attendees. It wasn’t just about creating a smooth event—it was about going beyond the expected to leave people with memories they’d talk about long after the weekend ended.

Throughout the event, we sent out push notifications offering surprise treats like free ice cream cones on Friday at a nearby ice cream stand, cookies and soft pretzels from one of our bar partners on Saturday, and Detroit-style coney dogs for lunch on Sunday. And when the afternoon energy slump hit, we had free cold brews waiting for attendees at a neighboring coffee shop.

These small gestures weren’t part of the initial ticket—they were designed to surprise and delight. It’s that extra step that turns an ordinary experience into something remarkable and keeps people coming back.

5. Celebrate Wins, Big and Small

One of the biggest lessons from the book is that people respond to recognition and celebration. Whether it’s a big achievement or a small personal win, the impact of celebrating with someone is profound. As a coach, I’ve seen firsthand how much kids light up when you call out their effort, even if it’s just for hustling during a drill.

In Practice: Recognizing the Power of Team Effort

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is the importance of celebrating both big and small wins with the people around you. Whether it’s a major achievement or just a small personal milestone, recognizing someone’s effort can have a profound impact.

Recently, I took a coworker from the SporcleCon Planning team on a sales trip for a premium event I was trying to close. She’d never sold products or services at Sporcle before, but she’d expressed interest in having a more active role around premium events. Her presence on the trip was invaluable. In her own words, she was the “social lubricant” that kept conversations flowing and took the pressure off me from having to talk and pitch numbers and ideas for 48 hours straight.

By the end of the trip, we had signed the deal, and when we got back, I made sure to recognize her contribution during our company all-hands meeting. Her support was a key reason the deal went through, and it was important to me that everyone knew it.

Celebrating wins, big or small, isn’t just about giving credit—it’s about making people feel valued for their unique contributions.

Think about the little wins that deserve celebration, both at work and in your personal life. How can you make sure people feel recognized for the things they do well, no matter how big or small?

The Takeaway: The Art of Hospitality As you move through the week, I challenge you to think about where you can apply the principles of unreasonable hospitality. Whether it’s through surprise, curiosity, or simply paying attention to the details, the goal is to turn everyday moments into colorful experiences that stick with people.

That’s it for this week’s edition of The Honeybee and The Owl. Until next time, remember that hospitality brings color to our lives—and we all have the ability to create it.

Stay curious,
Mark

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1. What in H-E-Double Hockey Sticks is this?

In a world overflowing with information, it's easy to get lost in the noise. "The Honeybee and The Owl" is my way of cutting through the clutter, sharing meaningful insights, stories, and reflections that matter to me—and hopefully to you too. I’ve reached a point where I want to engage in more intentional conversations, not just about trivia or business, but about growth, curiosity, and how we can make a little more sense of the world together.

2. What’s with the name?

The name "The Honeybee and The Owl" comes from two symbols that represent what this newsletter is all about: curiosity and wisdom. The honeybee is a reminder to stay curious, explore, and continuously seek out new ideas—just like a bee tirelessly gathers nectar. It also embodies the concept of unreasonable hospitality, which I’ll dive into as we explore the value of going above and beyond for others, just as the bees do for the queen. The owl, on the other hand, represents wisdom, reflection, and understanding, reminding us that knowledge is only valuable when we take the time to think it through. Together, they symbolize the balance between discovery and insight, which is the heart of what I hope to share with you in each issue.

3. Who made you the boss?

So, why am I the one writing this newsletter? Well, I’ve spent years building communities around curiosity and knowledge. As the VP of Business Development at Sporcle (the world’s largest quiz and trivia community) and the creator of Sporcle's pub trivia business, I’ve had the privilege of engaging with people who share a passion for learning, trivia, and growth. Along the way, I founded SporcleCon, created countless trivia events, and learned a lot about what makes people tick. Beyond trivia, I coach youth baseball, run marketing projects, and believe deeply in the power of unreasonable hospitality and storytelling. This newsletter is an extension of everything I’ve learned and everything I’m still curious about. So, I hope you’ll dig in with me.

4. Let’s build this hive together

This newsletter isn’t just about me sharing ideas—it’s about creating a space for all of us to grow together, like a hive of bees working toward something bigger. I want to know what you’re curious about, what topics resonate with you, and what sparks your own sense of wonder. Don’t be shy! Whether it’s a question, a suggestion, or a thought, feel free to email me anytime at mark@thehoneybeeandtheowl.com. Let’s make "The Honeybee and The Owl" a collaborative space where we explore ideas and build something meaningful together.

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5. A Sample Story - Curiosity in Coaching

As someone who coaches three youth baseball teams (yes, three—because I’m a little insane, but I love it), I’ve learned the value of curiosity firsthand. Our most competitive (very very loose term) team is my 8-year-old’s tournament squad, and at our 6th ever practice last night, the kids were sluggish. Back to school is hitting them hard. I was curious if a little gamification could turn things around.

We have a drill called the diamond drill, where infielders throw the ball in a pattern across the diamond, trying to beat a runner circling the bases. It’s one of my favorites because it works on throwing, catching, and baserunning—you know, birds and stones, as they say.

Before starting, we talked about the effort thus far and how we all knew we could do better (the other coach and I included). I told them that when we get 100 outs on diamond drill at practices, we’ll have a pizza party. Mind you, the previous practice, they got maybe 2 outs in 20+ tries. But last night, with 13 minutes left in the night, I told them, “Let’s see how many we can get.” The thought of pizza lit a fire under those 8-year-olds! They asked to stay longer, asked for bonus opportunities, started rooting each other on, etc. They instantly turned their effort around, and in 13 minutes, they completed 8 outs—a huge record for this team.

Being curious about gamification? Totally worth it. And there’s a lesson about unreasonable hospitality in there too that we’ll touch on next time!

Closing Quiz

Each issue I’ll reward your curiosity and readership with one of my favorite Sporcle quizzes at the time. Play it. Celebrate the knowledge you possess, even just for a few minutes. Here’s today’s on Pixelated MLB Logos.

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