Not Taking “No” For An Answer
August 22, 2022
There are people out there who just won’t take “no” for an answer. We’ve all dealt with them at one point or another.
And I had just such an encounter last week.
Recall that four weeks ago, I was approached by a member of the committee organizing the 50th anniversary WHA reunion in Whistler on Thanksgiving weekend. He asked if I was going. I said no.
Even though I made every effort to be polite, he seemed offended. But I thought that was the end of it.
Until I got an email from a different committee member a few days ago.
He wanted to “chat” about the reunion.
OK, I thought. So I asked him what he wanted to discuss.
“Great! When is a good time to call?” he responded. “I just want to get a read on what you are up to and how we can work together!”
Hmmm. What I’m up to is none of his business. And though I welcome contributions and/or constructive feedback, I’ve never indicated that I wanted to “work together” with them. Nor did I say anything about inviting a phone call. So I said I would prefer to handle such discussions via email. I don’t need to defend why I’m careful with respect to my privacy.
“Uh oh, is something going on? I don't understand,” was his response.
After an uncomfortable back and forth via email, he finally got over his little snit and asked if I had any ideas for honoring players, owners or fans. I humored him with an answer, though I remain under no false illusion that my thoughts and opinions hold any weight with him or any member of the committee.
Clearly, the aim of the exercise was to get me on the phone, where he could smooth-talk and butter me up. Make me feel like my presence in Whistler would be so important that I couldn’t resist booking a flight and tickets.
I didn’t take the bait.
I’m not unsympathetic to their plight. They’ve undoubtedly paid a king’s ransom worth of non-refundable deposits and other commitments and have probably maxed out their credit cards. Nine months ago, they thought that people like me would be frothing at the mouth and panting like a dog begging to be part of this reunion. It obviously hasn’t worked out that way. I’m clearly not the only one who fails to see the attraction in sitting in a saloon in the middle of the mountains alongside a bunch of drunk hockey players watching Slap Shot. And though they have only themselves to blame since they couldn’t have made a poorer decision with respect to the venue, I’m genuinely sorry for them.
But I’m not going to Whistler.
Deal with it.
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