No one argues, because they’re all leaning in like they’re shocked by him being here at Fairfax Media headquarters.
He moves through the agenda without embellishment. Fourth-quarter performance. Brand stability. Media positioning heading into the holidays. Risk exposure that’s already been mitigated. His voice never wavers. His memory doesn’t miss a beat.
When he hands sections off to me, it’s seamless.
“Sofie will walk you through the next item.”
I don’t hesitate, I never do.
I talk numbers. Strategy. Outcomes. I answer questions before they’re fully asked. I redirect one tangent before it blooms into something unnecessary. A few board members nod, impressed but unsurprised. The reality is they want to be in his favor, so they’re all being show ponies.
At one point, a director smiles and says, “Feels like we’re already in the new year.”
My father nods. “That’s the goal.”
There’s no mention of succession. No hint of transition. Just a man closing a year the way he’s closed decades of them, with intention and control.
Near the end, he adds something that sounds casual if you don’t know him.
“I’d like to increase the frequency of our informal check-ins in Q1,” he says. “Nothing formal. Just continuity.”
The meeting is almost over when one of them clears his throat.
“If I can raise one point before we wrap,” Herman Muldoon says. “Given where the company’s momentum is right now.”
My father nods. “Go ahead.”
“The sports vertical is our fastest-growing arm,” Muldoon continues. “Visibility matters there. Recognition. Fans respond to a certain… familiarity.”
I already know where this is going.
Scott Smith leans in. “We’ve seen strong engagement when you’re front-facing,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward my father. “Your presence carries legacy. Authority.”
There it is.
“And,” Muldoon, choosing his words like they’re gifts, “sports audiences skew male. There’s an argument to be made that keeping you more visibly involved makes strategic sense.”
I don’t speak, I don’t need to.
My father doesn’t either, not right away.
He folds his hands on the table and looks at them, really looks at them, like he’s deciding whether something is worth correcting or discarding.
“No,” he says.
Just that, no softness, no invitation. They all still.
“You’re confusing nostalgia with strategy,” he continues calmly. “And optics with competence.”
Smith tries to smile. “That’s not what we meant.”
“It is,” he replies. “And let me be very clear.”
He turns slightly toward me, not to include me, but to anchor the point. “Sofie knows more about sports media, athlete branding, and fan engagement than anyone at this table.”
A beat.
“Except maybe golf,” he adds dryly. “Which is the only sport any of you actually understand.”
