“Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration.”
– Thomas Alva Edison

Terry, my Canadian (exchange student) brother had a buddy called Sweaty. I’ve never met Sweaty, and in the only photo I’ve ever seen of him, he was asleep – or passed out – and not really sweaty, but I’ve always felt a connection to him.

I’m sure you can figure out why.

Since I know something about perspiration, let me just say that there are two kinds. The good kind, and the bad kind. The good kind – and even that, only in moderation – is the one you get at the gym, or while jogging, working at a farm, or doing any kind of exercise.

Or, like Steve Martin’s character in “The Lonely Guy”, you can spray it out of a can.

The good kind of sweat lets people know that you’re working hard, and that you’re a dependable kind of person who cares. You care about yourself, and other people, and by Toutatis, you’re willing to sweat for it.

I like the good sweat. Of course, being a lazy, round guy, I like them good foods, too. Like Anna, a fellow language course student told me in Oxford in the 1980s: “I bet you’d be really fat if you didn’t work out so much.”

She was right, of course, but she also came to the conclusion one night when a group of us was, once again, hanging out at the local burger joint, and I was the only one eating.

But I did work out almost every day even during that trip, because back then, I was still dreaming of a career as a hockey pro.

That’s the kind of sweat I love. I don’t mind my light blue T-shirt turning into dark blue, completely dark blue, at the gym. Or when I’m riding my bike, as exercise.

Of course, the line between the good sweat and the bad one can be a bit blurry at times. For example, a good workout sweat on a T-shirt that’s forgotten in a bag for three days and then pulled out may force other people at the gym to cover their noses with their shirts.

(Or, at least I’ve seen one guy do it once, doing a shoulder workout next to me, while I was doing bench press).

On a hot summer day, just a simple bike ride to the city may turn into a workout only because I can’t ride slowly. Relative to my own ability, that is. There are times when that’s not a good thing. For some weird reason, a lot of people interpret a few beads of sweat running down the temples as nervousness. I bet Mentalist would, too.

Sometimes it is. Like when I held a baby for the first time.

But not always.

Ten years ago, after I had let go of my dream of making it to the NHL as a player, I still nurtured my dream of possibly making it to the big leagues some other way. Maybe as an executive. Maybe as a player agent. Maybe as a stick boy (if the price was right).

I found a Swedish event management company and cold called them about wanting a job there. The man was amused, but just like the ad agency guy some ten years earlier, curious enough to set up a meeting with me. Thrilled, I penciled in a meeting, and started to visualize how I would decorate my new office at the Royal Tennis Arena.

That’s where there offices where, at the Royal Tennis Arena. The place where Björn Borg and Rod Laver had played, where Ingemar Johansson had fought, and that had been the venue of a Beatles show.

Just so happened that their office was about ten kilometers from my house. Just so happened that it was such a nice early summer day, in June, that it would have been foolish, stupid even, not to take advantage of the situation and skate there, in my inlines.

The meeting was at 1pm, I left the house at 11.30 am. Listening to music, admiring the beautiful city on my way, I was on schedule when I passed the Royal Castle, my mental halfway point.

I was at the 1912 Olympic Stadium early, but worried that I wouldn’t find the Royal Tennis Arena, I kept pushing, thinking that I could then take it easy for a good 15 minutes. I got to the RTA, took off my skates, and pulled my shoes out of my backpack.

I could tell that my shirt was a little damp, but I wasn’t worried about it, because I did have time to recover. I just sat on the chairs and stretched my legs. What company wouldn’t want to hire such a sporty fellow?

Ten minutes later, I went in to look for the office, and met the man who’d agreed to meet me. He showed me to a cafeteria, and we sat down to talk shop.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“Well, I’m Finnish, and I have a degree in marketing…” I started, getting the two most important facts out of the way, and then launching into a presentation about my strengths and weaknesses, while carefully, quickly, wiping some sweat off my brow.

The bad kind of sweat.

“Interesting, interesting,” the man said a minute later. He then got up, and got me a some napkins.

“Just in case,” he said.

“Thanks, um, it’s kind of hot here, isn’t it? Nice day, though, I’m not complaining,” I said and continued my speech, while using the napkins to dry the sweat on my forehead, and sideburns.

In fact, I used them all up, so that three minutes into my meeting with the event management executive, I had a pile of crumbled (and sweaty) napkins next to my glass of diet Coke on the table. About the size of, say, two tennis balls.

“… And like I said, I love sports, and I’ve been looking to…” I said as the man leaned back in his chair.

“Would you like to go wash up a little? I mean, if you’re uncomfortable…”

Just to please the guy – like I said, a little sweat never bothered me – I went to the bathroom, and splashed some water on my face. The man in the mirror approved.

I returned to the table, and kept on talking.

When were done – turns out, they didn’t have anything for me – but before I put on my inlines and skated back home, the man also told me he had never seen anybody sweat that much.

But if Edison was right, at least I’m doing something right.