From Delta Air Lines to the IOC. How to be an Olympic Sponsor.

We established the Olympic Programs department within the Brand Marketing group at Delta, managed by the irrepressible Judy Jordan. She held the title of Assistant Vice President of Marketing, but beyond titles, she was the driving force. Judy was hands down the best boss I’ve ever had: sharp, fearless, funny, and simply brilliant, a force of nature. She embodied all of that during a time and in a place that didn’t quite know how to handle a woman like her.

Delta, back then, was still very much a Southern, hierarchical, male-dominated airline. It was the kind of place where meetings took place in dark conference rooms, heavy with suits and light on listening. Judy didn’t flinch. She walked into those rooms with the calm confidence of someone who belonged, and she did. She held her ground not with bluster, but with clarity and intelligence. She could anticipate five moves ahead in every meeting. You always knew where you stood with her, which, if you were smart, was somewhere behind her, allowing her to lead.

What made Judy exceptional wasn’t just the way she operated in that environment; it was how she did it with grace. She didn’t bulldoze her way through Delta’s culture; she navigated it. She taught me how to read a room, how to manage people, and how to turn a rough idea into a real plan. I never fully mastered any of it, but what little I did learn, I learned from her. She helped me build the department from scratch by hiring the right people, setting the right goals, and putting real momentum behind it all. She changed my life. She gave me the Olympic program to manage. And that changed everything for me.

I loved working for her.

More than anything, she trusted me. Judy handed me the Olympic sponsorship program, fully aware that I had no background in sports marketing and absolutely no playbook to follow. That kind of professional faith transforms you. It certainly transformed me. It reshaped how I viewed myself, what I believed I could take on, and, most importantly, the kind of leader I aspired to become. Looking back, that assignment was the gateway to everything that followed. Everything.

The truth is, none of us at Delta had the slightest clue what we were doing when it came to the Olympics. We were marketers, yes. We understood branding. We knew sales. We had planners, PR professionals, and bright minds around the table. But the Olympic Games? That was a completely different animal. It had its own ecosystem, its own language, its own rituals, and its own quiet but very real politics. Everything was layered in symbolism and protocol, most of which we didn’t even know existed at the time. It was a culture that operated on history and hierarchy, and we were just trying to figure out where to sit.

What we did have was the Delta name, a lot of energy, and just enough humility to know we needed help.

We started by building a small internal team. The initial core included Julia Gepfrich, now Julia Varnedoe, who was sharp, steady, and possessed that rare gift for making chaos look like clockwork. She kept everything moving behind the scenes without ever needing the spotlight. Then there was Tom Lazour, a Delta lifer with a background shaped by his time at Disney, which meant he understood that big ideas only mattered if they could be executed. Tom had that elusive blend of creativity and operational sense; you could hand him a marketing concept, and he’d not only grasp it, but he’d also figure out how to make it happen. Sadly, Tom passed away ten years later in 2016. Thankfully, we had the opportunity to work together again in the early 2000s at my firm, Helios Partners. Finally, Kevin Donovan came in from domestic sales. Kevin brought heart, hustle, and a deep knowledge of how things really worked in the field. He grounded us in the day-to-day realities of the airline business.

Together, we were making it up as we went, learning what the Olympics meant from a business and branding perspective while trying to shape Delta’s role in that world in real time.

One day, I found an envelope on my desk, one of those yellowish-tan internal mailers that moved down the corporate food chain like a diplomatic pouch. It was an invitation to a meeting of the United States Pierre de Coubertin Committee. Originally addressed to Ron Allen, our CEO, it had made its way down through Bob Coggin, our EVP of Marketing, then to Judy, and finally to me. I was now “the Olympic guy,” so this fell under my jurisdiction, whatever that meant.

The meeting was held somewhere in an office downtown, maybe at the Organizing Committee office, I can’t recall. I walked into the meeting with no idea what I was walking into. As usual, I was the first one there. It was equal parts quirky and profound. And that’s where I met George Hirthler.

George would go on to become one of the most important figures in my Olympic life. At the time, I didn’t know who he was. But I soon learned he wasn’t your average marketing consultant. George was a philosopher wrapped in a storyteller wrapped in a bid strategist. He and his partner, Brad Copeland, had helped write the Atlanta 1996 bid books through their firm, Copeland-Hirthler. George had made pilgrimages to Lausanne, combed through the Olympic archives, and returned a changed man, obsessed not just with the Games, but with their soul.

He had fallen for Pierre de Coubertin, the French aristocrat who revived the modern Olympics, and he could quote the man chapter and verse. Speeches, essays, and personal letters, George knew them all. It bordered on religious fervor. Someone nicknamed him Faux Pierre, partly in jest, mostly in awe. He took it as a compliment. And he earned it.

But beyond the jokes, there was something genuine. George understood the Olympics not just as an event, but as a movement. He carried with him an emotional vocabulary that most of us lacked: the ability to speak in values and vision, not just in metrics and media buys. For me, still new to this world, that was invaluable. We hit it off immediately, and that meeting ultimately changed the course of how we approached our sponsorship and, eventually, my career.

That meeting prompted me to bring Copeland-Hirthler on board to help shape Delta’s Olympic branding and messaging. It was easily one of the smartest decisions I made. The Games come with a deluge of official language, symbolism, and sacred cows, and navigating all that without sounding generic is more challenging than it appears. Every Olympic sponsor must carve out its own space or risk dissolving into what I’ve always referred to as "Olympic wallpaper”: that indistinct blur of logos, ring graphics, and earnest slogans that washes over viewers like elevator music. We were determined not to be background noise.

George and Brad’s team ensured we didn’t fade into the background. They helped us discover our voice, shaping the visual identity, messaging, and tone, essentially the DNA of how Delta would present itself in the Olympic world. They also assisted us in applying it across every touchpoint.

Our greatest asset, of course, was our fleet of airplanes. The idea to turn one of them into a flying billboard didn’t come from Copeland-Hirthler, though. It came from Tom, and it was genius. One afternoon, Tom looked at me and said, “We’ve got flying billboards. Why aren’t we using them?” It was one of those moments that seemed obvious in hindsight, but at the time, it struck me as a jolt of clarity. We had a global fleet visible on tarmacs, in terminals, on jetways, and in countless TV news clips every day. Why not use it?

So, we did. We painted one of them and put Olympic decals on the engine cowls of our entire fleet (they melted over time from the hot oil…so, future airline sponsors, don’t do that).

The first aircraft we transformed was our original 767, the Spirit of Delta, a plane with a backstory as compelling as any brand campaign. In the early 1980s, when Delta faced financial difficulties, employees came together and raised the money to purchase the plane for the company. Through payroll deductions and a sense of pride, we paid for it ourselves. No marketing department could’ve crafted that story. It was loyalty with wings.

That aircraft became our Olympic flagship, dressed in the Atlanta 1996 livery, and it carried more than passengers; it carried a message. It said, “This is our home Games, and we’re all in.” The Spirit of Delta now lives in the Delta Flight Museum, but I still keep a 1:200 model of her on my desk. That paint job was more than just a marketing move. It was a statement. And it was the first time a sponsoring airline had ever painted an entire plan in Olympic livery.

A quick but important aside: While we were the proud Official Airline of the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games, one of our main competitors, United Airlines, held the title of Official Airline of the U.S. Olympic Team through their deal with the United States Olympic Committee (USOC). This created some complications. You had two major airlines, both operating in the same geographic territory, both using the Olympic rings, both claiming legitimate ties to the Movement, but with very different stories to tell.

From a branding perspective, it was a mess. Imagine two rival brands launching Olympic campaigns side by side, in the same airports, the same media markets, both slapping the rings on their ads. One was connected to the Games themselves. The other was connected to the athletes. It was confusing, yes. Sometimes infuriating. But honestly, we didn’t care. The Games were in Atlanta. Our Atlanta. Our hub. Our turf.

United had the athletes. We had the Games. And that distinction mattered.

The torch arrived at our airport. The venues were in our backyard. Our employees were volunteering, working, cheering, and living the Games. It wasn’t just a sponsorship; it was a home game. From the very beginning, we decided we weren’t going to coexist politely; we were going to bury them.

And we did.

We outspent them. We out-executed them. We out-localized them. Our aircraft displayed Olympic livery. Our counters, gates, signage, and staff uniforms, everywhere you looked, featured Delta branding. Every traveler landing in Atlanta during those Games experienced a full dose of Delta hospitality and branding before even picking up their luggage.

United may have had the legal right to the U.S. team. But we had the emotional right to the Games. And when it came to impact, belief, and presence, that’s the one that mattered.

Looking back, it was one of the boldest things we did: quietly, but with intent, ensuring that the hometown airline “owned’ the hometown Olympics. No ambiguity. No second billing. No polite nod to shared space. This was Atlanta. Our Atlanta. And we weren’t about to share the spotlight, not when the Olympic flame was landing at our gate.

The creative theme we chose for the entire program was "Wings and Dreams." That phrase did more than sound poetic; it captured the emotional and strategic core of our effort. Dreams in motion. Pride with altitude. It resonated internally and externally, providing us with a throughline for every expression of the brand.

We learned about “conversion marketing.” This meant we should Olympicize everything we already had planned to produce and incorporate it into all aspects of our operations. Literally, everything. Airport signage. Ticket counters. Employee events. Posters. Staff uniforms. Our flight crews wore Olympic scarves and pins. Every inch of our operation became a canvas for the Games. If there was a wall, we hung a banner. If there were a screen, we would find a way to display a message. If there was a surface, we likely branded it, sometimes twice.

We weren’t always sure what the limits were. But we had a simple philosophy: show up everywhere the Olympic spirit might land, and make sure we were there to greet it.

Sometimes a little too well.

The truth is, back then, the rules surrounding Olympic airline sponsorship weren’t exactly clear, or maybe they were, and we just chose to ignore the fine print. Either way, we moved forward with the confidence of marketers who believed it was easier to apologize than to ask for permission.

We mailed Olympic posters and promotional kits to our city ticket offices around the world, treating them as mini-embassies of Delta’s Olympic pride. We created Olympic-themed accessories for all our flight attendants; scarves, pins, and even boarding announcements received a touch of Olympic flair. The goal was simple: extend the spirit of the Games across our global reach.

Eventually, the IOC realized what we were doing. They sent us a series of polite but increasingly stern letters, pointing out that our rights were limited to U.S. territory. Their position was perfectly reasonable: international markets were off-limits. Our position, on the other hand, was... inventive. We responded that Delta ticket offices abroad were technically U.S. territory. So were the interiors of our aircraft while in flight. We stated this with a straight face.

Of course, none of that was remotely true. But it bought us time. And in the marketing world, a little time is often all you need.

Every time we received a warning, we did what any well-meaning corporate partner would do: we apologized profusely, promised to fix it immediately, and then… mostly didn’t. Not out of defiance, but out of momentum. We weren’t trying to be sneaky. We were just enthusiastic, maybe overly so. We were marketers, new to the Olympic world, bursting with ideas and not entirely sure where the guardrails were. We operated in gray areas, not out of strategy, but because we hadn’t yet learned where the lines were drawn.

And truthfully, what we did worked. The Delta Olympic campaign had reach, impact, visibility, everything you’d want if you were trying to own the Games in your hometown. The trouble was, we didn’t just color outside the lines, we redrew the map.

After the Games, the IOC quietly rewrote the sponsorship rules for future airline partners. Many of the things we had done, global branding, in-flight activations, and international ticket office campaigns, were now explicitly prohibited. We had identified the soft spots in the system, and they were patched.

But I never saw it as being purposefully illegal. We were learning in real time, fueled by equal parts curiosity and idealism. Sometimes, the best marketing happens when you don’t know the rulebook, because you’re too busy rewriting it.

When it came to Olympic marketing and rights strategy, we realized we were out of our depth in at least one critical area. The branding work with Copeland-Hirthler made us look and sound Olympic, but the legal and commercial aspects of the deal still felt like uncharted waters. We needed someone who could clarify what exactly we had acquired, what we were allowed to do with it, and how to turn those rights into something that didn’t just look good on a PowerPoint slide but actually made a difference for the business.

So, we did what big companies do when they don’t know what else to do: we launched an RFP for an external consultant. It was your typical corporate bake-off, think glossy decks, confident handshakes, and agency reps speaking in TED Talk cadences about synergies and ROI. Most came armed with grand ideas and even bigger egos. But one pitch stood out: Advantage International, led by a man named Rick Jones.

Rick had the calm authority of someone who had coached a team through both overtime and poor catering. A former basketball coach, if I recall correctly, equipped with the posture and presence to match. He comprehended the Olympic ecosystem in a way none of us did. Frankly, at that point, grasping any part of the Olympic ecosystem put you ahead of the curve. Rick was the most qualified person in any room we entered, which admittedly wasn’t a terribly high bar, but he surpassed it with ease.

Advantage won the pitch. We were ready to move forward. Everyone felt good about it. And then, just as the ink was metaphorically drying, because nothing in corporate procurement ever moves fast enough for actual ink, he called me.

He was gracious, even a little sheepish. Turns out, Advantage was already under contract with another airline. It was Northwest, though my memory might be blurring it with some other long-gone logo. Either way, their client didn’t like the idea of their agency working for Delta. Rick did the honorable thing: he bowed out before we ever got started.

But we had an incredible backup plan: 21 Marketing, led by Rob Prazmark. If Rick Jones was the calm, collected coach, the guy who ran the clock and read the plays, then Rob was the high-voltage closer who stole the ball, called his own shot, and sank the three. He had been around since the early days of the TOP Programme at IMG and knew every lever, hinge, and hidden switch inside the Olympic marketing machine. Rob was, hands down, the best pure salesperson I’ve ever met, Olympic or otherwise. He possessed that uncanny ability to make big ideas sound effortless and to make effortless sound like a billion-dollar idea. He walked into a room as if he owned the building and usually left with a signed contract. More importantly, he carried credibility wherever he went.

That mattered. I was still in my mid-30s, young enough to be ambitious yet old enough to recognize when I was out of my depth. I hadn’t yet earned the gravitas that allows you to stride into a senior leadership meeting and command the room with just a glance and a well-timed pause. Rob, on the other hand, had it in spades. He didn’t just walk into the room; he steered it. Having him next to me in those early conversations with Delta’s top brass provided me with something every mid-level marketer dreams of: time to breathe. He absorbed the pressure, carried the pitch, and gave me just enough space to catch up, settle in, and eventually find my footing. It was a masterclass in presence, and I was taking notes in real time.

 

Rob assembled a small yet formidable team: Christine Koncal and Dick Pinkham. They remained calm amid the chaos, insightful regarding details, and steady when things got shaky, which happened often. Olympic contracts aren’t written in plain English or common sense; they resemble a blend of a legal brief and an epic poem, with just enough ambiguity to keep you awake at night. Christine and Dick excelled at reading between the lines, piecing together what mattered, and politely pointing out what didn’t.

They helped us finalize the deal, yes, but more importantly, they assisted us in building a strategy that truly mattered. What were our objectives? How would we define success? Could we demonstrate it in a room full of skeptical executives? How does this sponsorship align with Delta’s larger vision, not just in terms of brand but also bottom line?

They helped us connect all those dots. They understood scale and structure and, mercifully, how to turn a feel-good sponsorship into a business case that wouldn’t fall apart under boardroom scrutiny. And they moved quickly. We didn’t have the luxury of long runways, pun fully intended. The Games were approaching like a freight train, and we needed a plan that didn’t just look good on a slide but could actually be executed within a giant, operationally complex, customer-facing airline.

I’ll always be grateful for the clarity and confidence they brought to the table. They helped keep the whole thing from going sideways, and at several moments, that was a real possibility.

Early on, the team at 21 Marketing gave us a piece of advice that was deceptively simple and disarmingly wise: pick a few objectives and stick to them. Don’t try to do everything. Don’t chase every shiny thing that floats across the conference table. Just define what success looks like, draw the lines around it, and build everything else from there. It sounds obvious now, but at the time, it felt like someone handing us a flashlight in a very large, very dimly lit warehouse.

We were juggling more than most Olympic gymnasts, internal politics, external expectations, layers of Olympic protocol, and about three too many unknowns. That advice cut through the clutter. We stopped trying to boil the ocean and focused on three core objectives. They looked modest enough on paper, but in practice, they were bold, and a little audacious.

First, we aimed to generate $33 million in incremental revenue, money Delta wouldn’t have seen without the Olympic sponsorship. That was no rounding error, especially in the early 90s. We knew we’d be held accountable, so we had to get creative. We built a custom sales program centered around travel agencies, designing it with enough nuance to satisfy a data analyst’s heart. Some agencies were incentivized while others weren’t, which gave us a built-in control group worthy of a business school case study. Each agency had its own target: push more business class seats, grow specific international routes, and tighten performance in key markets. It was anything but one-size-fits-all.

And it worked. Almost too well. Every agency hit its number halfway through the six-month campaign. You’d think that would be cause for celebration, and our Sales team did. They promptly called the agencies to congratulate them, which in hindsight was like telling marathoners at mile 13 they’d already won. Most of them coasted from there. The second-half surge we’d counted on never arrived. Lesson learned: next time, keep the champagne corked until after the finish line. In the end, our domestic incentive programs generated $49.7 million, our international programs $7.3 million, meaning our total Olympic incremental revenue was $57 million, or $24 million above the target. 

Second, we prioritized engaging and inspiring our employees. While that might sound routine now, standard fare in corporate presentations, it was nearly heretical in the early 90s. Most companies didn’t view their own people as a key audience for sponsorship. But we recognized something fundamental: in a service company, employees are the brand. This isn't just metaphorical; it's literal and plays out daily in customer-facing interactions.

A customer’s perception of Delta didn’t stem from a print ad or a 30-second spot during the Olympics. It arose from whether their bag arrived. From the tone of voice at the gate. From how they were treated when a flight was delayed, or a connection was missed. One negative experience with a flight attendant or ticket agent could negate a million-dollar campaign. No amount of branding matters if your front line doesn’t embody it.

We flipped the model. We didn’t just market to the world; we marketed through our people. We treated our employees as our most important Olympic audience. They wore the brand, spoke the brand, and delivered the brand one passenger at a time. If they didn’t believe in it, no one else would. That simple, powerful truth reshaped everything we did.

We created pin programs exclusively for employees, small tokens, really, but they evolved into badges of pride. People collected them, traded them, and wore them on lanyards and lapels like Olympic merit badges. We introduced special uniform accessories for flight attendants and customer service agents: scarves, ties, pins, little visual cues that said, “We’re part of something bigger.” We also launched a program that allowed employees to nominate one another to carry the Olympic torch. That one hit deep. It wasn’t just symbolic; it meant their stories, their efforts, their humanity mattered.

Suddenly, this wasn’t a sponsorship just being run by the company; the company was sharing it. It was theirs. You could feel it. The Games weren’t taking place in some distant city; they were right here, and everyone had a role. Morale didn’t just improve in surveys or quarterly reports; you could see it in people’s eyes. You could hear it in the way they talked about their jobs. The Olympic partnership gave them something to rally around, something to feel proud of. It fostered a sense of unity that no memo or incentive plan could’ve engineered. We didn’t just personalize the sponsorship; we made it human. And that was the breakthrough.

Third, we needed to raise awareness of our sponsorship among our most valuable customers: our premium frequent flyers. These were the road warriors, those who practically lived in airport lounges and knew every SkyMiles redemption quirk better than our own staff. They were loyal, yes, but also jaded. These weren’t individuals easily swayed by a press release or a logo on a boarding pass. They were the show-me crowd. If something didn’t enhance their experience, make them feel more valued, or engage them with intelligence and purpose, they overlooked it.

Our target was clear: by the time the flame was extinguished, at least 65% of our top-tier customers needed to know we were the official airline of the Atlanta Olympic Games. That might sound like a vanity metric, but it wasn’t. We were spending nearly $30 million on this sponsorship, $10 million in cash and another $17 million in in-kind travel, and we needed proof that it wasn’t disappearing into the ether.

Awareness was the starting point. It’s the first rung on the loyalty ladder. If they didn’t even know we were a sponsor, then all the emotional resonance, all the brand equity, and all the pride we were trying to build had nowhere to land. This wasn’t about empty exposure; it was about relevance, about planting a flag in the minds of the people who mattered most to our bottom line.

We measured everything, not just the big-picture goals but every touchpoint, tactic, and outcome. If it moved, we tracked it. We had spreadsheets, slide decks, internal scorecards, some of it useful, some of it overly elaborate, and a few charts that looked good in meetings. But buried in all that Excel and PowerPoint was something crucial: accountability. It grounded our ambition in real numbers. And more importantly, it gave me credibility, inside Delta, with our board, and eventually with the IOC. We weren’t just slapping Olympic rings on brochures and calling it marketing. We had a strategy, we had data, and we had proof it was working. That mattered. Especially in a company full of engineers and airline lifers who wanted results, not rhetoric.

First Things First, The Olympic Flame

By the spring of 1996, the Olympic engine was running hot, and Delta was deeply involved. One of the most symbolic duties we’d agreed to as a sponsor was to fly the Olympic flame from its ceremonial lighting in Olympia, Greece, back to the United States to kick off the Atlanta Games Torch Relay. Not just fly it but escort it in style. We painted a stunning Delta MD-11 in full Olympic livery, a soaring silver-and-white ambassador of the Games, matching the now-iconic 767 we’d unveiled a year earlier.

Tom Lazour and I flew to Athens as the advance team. We stayed at the Grand Bretagne, an old-world hotel with just the right amount of history and dust. I can’t for the life of me recall the outbound flight, which probably means it went smoothly. But I remember the return leg vividly, and not just because of the torch.

The event itself was scheduled for April 27. In the early morning hours, Delta’s MD-11 gleamed on the tarmac in Athens, ready to carry something sacred and a few dozen very important people across Europe, the Atlantic Ocean, and the entire United States to Los Angeles – 8,000 miles. We had Delta’s top brass and their spouses onboard, along with a group affectionately known as the “Magic Nine,” Billy Payne’s inner circle who’d helped bring the Games to Atlanta in the first place. This trip was their victory lap, their moment of arrival. You could feel the weight of it in the air.

Now, relationships during trips like this are always somewhat layered. There’s the pride of sponsorship, of course. We made the flight happen, funded the experience, designed the pins (we created special gold-plated Delta Olympic pins for the passengers, which were handed out like heirlooms), and managed the logistics. However, at the same time, we were guests at someone else’s long-awaited celebration.

Truthfully, there was a bit of polite distance between the ACOG group and our senior Delta team. Not tension exactly, but more like parallel universes. Ron Allen and some of our executives expected a little more warmth and shared joy. However, the ACOG folks expressed their emotions in a different way, reflective, perhaps even somewhat emotionally overwhelmed. They had spent the better part of a decade grinding toward this moment. I don’t think they meant to be aloof; they were just in their heads. To be fair, this was their moment. We were proud to help make it possible, but we weren’t the center of it.

The flight was truly memorable. The pilots left the cockpit door open so anyone could walk in and see what pilots experience every day. Interestingly, despite being jaded about many things, these guys were excited to be flying the Olympic plane. 

First class was reserved for the elite: Ron Allen and his wife, Billy Payne and his family, and a few other VIPs. Business class was filled with Delta officers, ACOG delegates, and their spouses. Somehow, I found myself seated next to Maria Pambouki, the actress who portrayed the High Priestess at the Olympic flame lighting ceremony in Olympia. She ignited the flame at the Temple of Hera in Olympia, marking the official start of the Atlanta relay. She was gracious, elegant, and fully aware of the symbolic weight of her role. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I remember thinking: only on a flight like this could the Olympic flame be glowing in its miner's lamp, attached to the airplane galley wall, while the woman who lit it sipped tea beside me.

We landed in Los Angeles early in the morning on April 27, 1996. After disembarking, we made our way to the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, the site of the 1932 and 1984 Olympic Games. It was there, beneath the Olympic torch tower that still loomed over the stadium, that Billy officially received the flame from the Greek delegation. And then it began.

The first American to carry the torch was Rafer Johnson, the Olympic decathlon champion and a hero of the 1960 Rome Games. Watching him take those first steps was deeply moving. There was a moment of historical symmetry: Rafer had lit the cauldron at the 1984 Games in that very same stadium, and now, twelve years later, he was once again carrying the flame forward. He passed it to Gina Hemphill Tillman, Jesse Owens’ (my Olympic hero) granddaughter, which truly stopped me in my tracks. That connection, from Owens to Johnson to Hemphill, was perfect. You could feel the weight of it.

That was the start of an 84-day, 15,000-mile odyssey across the United States with 10,000 torchbearers. We’d lit the match. Now the flame and the story were on the move.

Meanwhile, Julia Varnedoe and our team in Los Angeles pulled off a minor miracle. When the plane landed at LAX, she’d arranged for Delta signage to be prominently displayed all over the handover platform, where ACOG would receive the flame, deliver speeches, and officially launch the U.S. torch relay. It looked fantastic on camera. Not everyone loved it; I think Ginger Watkins nearly had a coronary. But it was too late. The banners were up, the press was rolling, and Delta got its Olympic close-up. That’s the sponsor hustle: sometimes it’s not about brute force; it’s about being clever, quick, and just under the radar.

We shook hands, smiled for the photos, and got on the plane back to Atlanta.

Looking back now, I reflect on sponsors in the heat of the moment, and how easy it is to overestimate their role in the narrative. Yes, we covered the costs, painted the planes, and handed out the pins. But the emotional center of gravity was elsewhere. And that’s okay. That’s part of what I’ve come to understand about the Olympics over time. You don’t lead the parade; you march in it. Proudly, a few rows back, helping carry the whole thing forward.

But that day? That flight? We carried the flame. Literally.

Hospitality is key

One of the most valuable benefits of Olympic sponsorship isn’t what most people think. It’s not the TV ads, the rings on the jet, or the pageantry of brand alignment. It’s access. Specifically, it’s access to the one thing no amount of charm or cold calls can secure during an Olympic Games: the best hotel rooms and the most coveted event tickets. As a top-tier domestic sponsor, Delta had the right to purchase up to 200 hotel rooms per night during the Games, each paired with four event tickets, two “A” class (think gymnastics finals, 100-meter sprint, or men’s basketball gold medal match) and two “B” class (still great, just not headline-grabbing).

That access was the backbone of every sponsor hospitality program. Sponsors typically rotate their guests in waves, with three or four groups staying for three or four nights each. We went big, four waves in total: five nights, four nights, four nights, and another five. It was a logistical ballet, with check-ins and check-outs choreographed down to the hour. About 80% of our guests came from the U.S., while the remaining 20% were international guests flown in from key global markets. Every detail of their stay was orchestrated: airfare, ground transport, hotel accommodations, premium event access, gift bags, hosted dinners, and daily itineraries. We estimated the per-person cost at around $10,000, and when multiplied by over 1,600 guests, it became easily one of the most significant financial line items of our entire Olympic program.

But it wasn’t about volume. It was about who we brought.

Approximately 52% of our guests were top-performing sales and incentive winners, individuals who had directly contributed to the $33 million in incremental Olympic revenue we promised the board. Another 25% consisted of VIPs in the broadest sense: aircraft manufacturers, engine partners, corporate clients, vendors, and occasionally political figures, provided it was legal to invite them (and even then, it often fell into a gray area that required careful navigation and plausible deniability). Staff accounted for 21%, comprising a mix of chaperones, program leads, logistics coordinators, and a special group that continues to make me proud: employee winners. These individuals weren’t selected by title but by merit; they had gone above and beyond. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I’d double their number in a heartbeat.

Our employee guests were undoubtedly our best brand ambassadors. They didn’t require briefing documents or talking points. Their pride was genuine, and their enthusiasm was infectious. They welcomed the VIP guests like family, navigated events like professionals, and reminded everyone what Delta was truly about, more than just planes or schedules, but people. I swear, their energy alone could’ve kept the Olympic torch burning through the Closing Ceremony. On days when I was running on fumes, tired, frustrated, and wondering how we’d get through it, I’d bump into one of our employee guests. Just like that, my mood would lift. Their joy was infectious. It reminded me why we were doing all of this in the first place.

Of course, running a hospitality program like this isn’t exactly a long weekend in Hilton Head. It’s more like staging a royal wedding every 48 hours, only with stricter dress codes, higher stakes, and significantly more credentialed chaos. We realized early on we couldn’t do it alone. So, we conducted an event management company RFP, interviewed a half-dozen agencies, and eventually chose SportsMark, a San Francisco-based firm led by my friend Jan Katzoff. Jan was a veteran of multiple Games. He had the scar tissue to show for it and the preternatural calm of someone who had once had to reroute 200 Japanese CEOs to volleyball on short notice. In other words, exactly who we needed.

Jan and his team became our logistical lifeline. They meticulously mapped out every detail for nearly 1,600 guests over 17 relentless days, including flights, hotel check-ins, ground transfers, meal plans, Olympic sessions, seating charts, name badges, bus manifests, and Welcome Kits (swag). If you’ve ever tried to herd a dozen colleagues into a restaurant reservation, now imagine managing that with 400 people a day, across two venues, two ticketed events per person, and a mid-day box lunch, all while ensuring that no one misses their bus or loses their Olympic credential. That was the job. And they accomplished it, day after day.

Reflecting on it, a significant portion of our Games-time hospitality chaos was self-inflicted. We were tardy with lists, vague with instructions, and indecisive about seating arrangements. We kept altering guest names, arrival times, and even wave schedules, right up to and including the Games themselves. SportsMark, bless them, held on through all of it with duct tape, good humor, and what I suspect was an industrial supply of Xanax. They served multiple clients at Atlanta 1996, and I’ll admit I was always a bit paranoid they were attending to someone else’s VIPs while ours wandered Peachtree Street searching for their bus. But they never let us down.

Jan and his team gave us the one thing we desperately needed and couldn’t manufacture ourselves: operational calm in the middle of an Olympic hurricane.

If you ever want a real-time stress test of your leadership skills, skip the executive retreat and try shepherding a bus full of international CEOs and their wives to the Olympic Opening Ceremony, only to realize halfway there that your driver is hopelessly, utterly lost. That was me. Lead bus. Seated next to the CEO of Swissair, Philippe Bruggisser, who, to his credit, remained gracious while I quietly unraveled beside him.

I kept glancing at my watch as if it owed me money, nervously scanning the unfamiliar neighborhoods on Atlanta’s east side, none of which seemed remotely close to the Olympic Stadium. The driver didn’t speak English, only Spanish. While my Spanish was adequate for ordering beers or asking for the bathroom, it didn’t extend to “Please reroute this bus to avoid catastrophic brand embarrassment.”

We kept circling the same streets like a Scooby-Doo chase scene. The guests stayed calm, too calm, which only heightened my dread. Then, as if sent by the patron saint of Olympic logistics, I spotted an ACOG vehicle, a silver BMW with official plates, parked haphazardly nearby. I jumped off the bus, pounded on the window, and found a young ACOG staffer inside.

“I need your help,” I said. He looked confused. I pointed at the Delta bus behind me. “It’s full of Delta VIPs. We’re lost. You’re coming with us.”

He resisted. I insisted.

I opened the bus door like I knew what I was doing, which I did not. He locked the BMW, took his place behind the driver, and, thank God, navigated us to the correct entrance at the right gate, just in time. That’s how Delta’s VIP bus made it to the Opening Ceremony. Not through flawless planning. But through desperation, improvisation, and the help of a commandeered Olympic staffer.

And no, I have no idea what happened to him or his BMW. Maybe he is telling a similar story, somewhere, about a madman from Delta Air Lines.

When we finally arrived, frazzled but on time and clinging to our last scraps of sanity, I was already hearing similar horror stories from other Delta buses. VIPs were stranded at wrong drop-off points. One bus supposedly made a scenic loop through Decatur. My blood pressure was somewhere north of Everest.

I stepped into our hospitality area at the stadium, and there was Jan, calm and collected, standing amid the chaos like a maître d’ at the eye of a storm. And I just lost it - fully, publicly, and completely unfairly. I lit into him as if he personally rerouted the buses through a corn maze. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and running on adrenaline and fear. But still, I regret it. I’ve apologized to Jan more than once over the years and probably still owe him a few more.

To his eternal credit, he took it. Like a pro. Like someone who’d seen worse, because in his line of work, he probably had. Hospitality at the Olympics isn’t about perfection. It’s about solving 10,000 things before breakfast and smiling while you do it. Jan reassured me, promising to get it fixed, and he did. Like most Games, the wheels started turning smoother by week two, literally and figuratively.

The truth is, none of us really knew what we were doing. Not at first. But we learned fast. We kept showing up. And somehow, we pulled it off.

One of our guests and his family didn’t have to worry about being late, catching a bus, or frankly anything related to our Olympic hospitality program. Sir Richard Branson and his family were also guests of Ron Allen’s. As CEO and Chairman of Virgin Atlantic, our airline partner, he was surely well-suited for the invitation. But a man who owns his own island has little appetite or regard for mingling with the riff-raff like us and our fellow guests. So, we had to create an entirely bespoke, one-off hospitality program just for Sir Richard and his clan. He even refused to stay in our hotel, opting instead for Bob Coggin’s house 35 miles southwest of Atlanta. They didn’t attend one dinner or function.

The Bomb

One of the privileges of running Delta’s Olympic hospitality program was that, for a few fleeting weeks, you created something magical for others, and now and then, something magical happened to you in return.

Each wave of our guests - top clients, corporate partners, incentive winners, and a select few Delta employees - would stay for four or five nights, and during their visit, we’d host one special evening. These were our showcase dinners: white-tablecloth events featuring great food, flowing wine, and a hint of Olympic greatness. We brought in icons like the great English decathlete Daley Thompson, American speed skating champion Bonnie Blair,  Matt Biondi, the golden boy of American swimming, and Johann Olav Koss, the Norwegian speed skater whose grace on ice was rivaled by his humanitarian work off it. They were dazzling. However, I had something different in mind, someone whose presence wasn’t about medals or records.

I wanted Jim McKay.

If you grew up in the U.S. during the ‘60s and ‘70s, McKay was the Olympics. His voice had carried us through everything from Nadia Comaneci’s perfect 10 to the darkest day the Games had ever known. At that time, I was 38, a rookie in the Olympic world, and I was aware that most of our VIP guests were older, executives, chairmen, board members, and power brokers, who’d grown up hearing that same steady voice. I believed they’d remember McKay the way I did: not as a sportscaster, but as a witness, a presence, almost a narrator of memory.

Through our agency partners at SportsMark and a few media contacts, we found a way to reach him. Jim agreed, and he and his wife, Margaret, attended the full Games as my guests. In exchange for attending four of our dinners and delivering four brief speeches, they enjoyed carte blanche: tickets to any event they desired, along with the complete Delta VIP experience. They were thrilled, gracious, elegant, engaged, and appreciative. They seemed genuinely touched to be remembered and welcomed in such a way, as if we had reopened a door that had quietly closed.

Jim didn’t just attend those dinners; he owned them. Each night, he would rise after dessert and share stories of his Olympic life: the glory, the heartbreak, the challenges of live television in the pre-satellite era. And yes, Munich 1972. He carried that memory carefully, never for spectacle, never for sympathy. Just because he had lived it and believed others should know what it meant.

And then came Atlanta’s darkest night.

It was early in the morning on July 27, 1996. I had finally gotten to bed, exhausted from hosting duties, when the phone rang. A bombing. Centennial Olympic Park. Casualties. Panic. At first, we didn’t know where our guests were, if anyone had been hurt, or whether they’d even made it back to their hotels. Our team scrambled. We pieced together a headcount in real-time, using hotel records, staff reports, and any other information we could gather. There were no smartphones, just those little Motorola StarTAC flip phones and a constant cycle of voicemail pings and missed calls.

Once I got up, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I got dressed and wandered down to our Delta hospitality suite, nestled in the Marriott Perimeter Center, a hotel far from the Olympic core, but the best we could manage given how late we’d joined as a sponsor. The carpet still smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial-strength carpet cleaner. The lights were too bright. The TV in the corner played looping news footage. I poured a cup of coffee and sat alone at one of the round banquet tables, making and receiving calls for updates, trying to make sense of the fog.

And then, Jim McKay walked in.

He looked as I felt: sleep-deprived, concerned, and quietly bracing for something worse. He grabbed a cup of coffee and shuffled across the room in loafers, without a jacket, wearing a Delta Olympic polo shirt. He said, “Terrence, do you mind if I sit with you?”

Imagine that. Jim McKay asking me if he could sit down.

He settled in beside me. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he said. “What do you know so far?”

I told him what we’d heard, just fragments. Scattered facts, none of them comforting. Some of it he already knew. Some of it he didn’t. We sat for a while, just sipping our coffee, surrounded by the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the distant rattle of a service cart. Then he looked at me and said, “Let me tell you a story.”

He took me back 24 years, to 1972, to Munich.

He told me about the early morning knock on his hotel door, the rushed drive to the broadcast center, the confusion, the silence, and the ache in his gut as he tried to explain to the world that 11 Israeli athletes had been murdered. Not just lost. Murdered. He spoke softly, never dramatizing it, simply telling it as it happened from his front-row seat to tragedy. It wasn’t just a story; it was an exhale, a sharing. And I sat there, watching him, listening, and floating outside of myself.

There I was: a young guy who had somehow found his way into the Olympic world, sitting across from a man who had defined that world for an entire generation. And he was telling me this. Not on stage. Not into a microphone. Just at a quiet table in a suburban hotel suite, over lukewarm coffee and the faint aftershock of yet another Olympic tragedy.

It was a sacred moment. The kind that stays with you.

Jim and Margaret became friends. Later that year, when I got married, they sent Dani and me a beautiful set of Tiffany crystal dessert plates, thoughtful, understated, and classic. Just like them. Whenever we use those plates, we always think of and comment on those two sweet and endearing people.

Of all the Olympic memories I cherish, that morning stands out as one of the most unforgettable. Not because of what transpired in the world outside, but because of what unfolded at that little table, between a man who had experienced it all and another who was beginning to grasp the weight of the stories he was stepping into.

Closing Ceremony Scare

The Olympic Games are many things: a spectacle, a celebration, a stage for greatness, but behind all that, they are a marathon. Not just for the athletes. For the organizers, the sponsors, the planners, the people behind the curtain. For our team, that meant nearly three relentless years of preparation and pressure. Late nights, impossible expectations, endless moving parts. And then suddenly: seventeen days. Not eighteen. Not nineteen. Just seventeen. No extensions, no second chances. You get one shot. Everything has to be perfect, the first time, on time.

By the Closing Ceremony on August 4th, I was spent. Hollowed out. Our entire team had been running on adrenaline and grit for weeks. But we made it. As the Closing Ceremony countdown ticked away, I walked into the stadium with Dani, and we found our seats, seats SportsMark had assigned months earlier with meticulous care. I sat down beside her and reached for her hand, holding on tightly. My chest rose and fell with one long, quiet breath. We were here. We had survived. The Games were over.

There was a strange cocktail of feelings washing over me, relief, yes, but also melancholy. I knew this wasn’t just the end of the Games. It was the end of my Delta career. Fifteen years. So many friends. So many experiences, from cleaning toilets to being detained by Russian border guards. That chapter was closing. And while I was moving on to something new, something filled with purpose and promise, there was grief in the letting go. For now, though, I just wanted to sit, breathe, and maybe let myself feel something close to peace.

Then my phone rang.

It was Susan Hudson, Ron Allen’s wonderful assistant, sharp as a tack, cool under pressure, a woman who could run a Fortune 100 office like a five-star general. If Susan was calling during the Closing Ceremony, it wasn’t a social call. I picked up. “Hi Terrence,” she said in her precise, Southern-friendly accent. “Where are you?” I told her I was in my seat. “Well,” she said, “we’re here too. But our seats… aren’t.”

My stomach dropped. “What do you mean they’re not there?” I asked. “They’re covered,” she said. “With some kind of blue tarp. The whole section is as well.”

I didn’t walk. I ran. Through the crowd, through the corridors, heart thudding. And there they were: Ron Allen, our Chairman and CEO, his wife Marcia, and the rest of Delta’s senior team, standing politely, dressed for the occasion, no drama, no panic, but definitely not sitting. They were smiling, gracious even, but the message was clear: this isn’t how this night was supposed to begin.

Ron looked at me and said, “Terrence, what’s going on?” I told him the truth: I didn’t know, but I was working on it. I had already called SportsMark and ACOG. Minutes later, I got the callback: NBC had blacked out those seats for television coverage. Something no one had anticipated when we assigned them a year earlier. It had fallen through the cracks. Shit happens, and this was an extra-large helping.

Then, like a miracle in motion, a man appeared, jogging toward us in ACOG gear, at least three radios blaring, and with a stack of tickets in his hand. His name was Bob Stiles, the stadium manager. He was apologetic, out of breath, and radiating that Olympic energy of “fix it fast.” He handed me new tickets, better tickets, actually, and kept apologizing.

To their immense credit, Ron and the others didn’t flinch. They took the tickets, thanked Bob and me, and were escorted to their new seats. No finger-pointing. No anger. Just quiet understanding. That kind of grace is rare. And in that moment, I realized how lucky I was to have worked with people like that.

Bob Stiles, as it turned out, wasn’t just any operations guy. He was one of those Olympic nomads, men and women who drift from Games to Games, quietly holding the whole thing together. Years later, I hired Bob to work with me on the Moscow 2012 Olympic bid. He was steady, sharp, could speak fluent Russian, and was deeply respected. We worked together again on Sochi 2014. He was back in his element there, smiling, confident, alive. He even found love in Sochi, got married, and moved there full-time to help with the Games.

However, not long after moving to Moscow, Bob passed away suddenly, due to an aneurysm, while on a trip back in Atlanta. Gone too soon. But I think about that moment often. That blue tarp. That sprint through the stadium. That man, jogging toward me with a second chance clutched in his hand.

So that was it. My final act as Delta’s Olympic lead. The last fire to put out. The last breath of a long, long run.

And what a run it was.

I knew I’d never have another experience quite like it. The exhaustion, the joy, the near-misses, the people, it was all wrapped up in those seventeen days. It had nearly broken us at times. But we endured. We delivered. And as the final fireworks burst over the stadium, I closed my eyes for a moment and thought: we did it.

We really did it.

Making the Move

Of course, we didn’t get everything right. One of our biggest missteps came wrapped in the seemingly simple form of in-kind air travel, the flights we agreed to provide to the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games (ACOG). As part of our sponsorship deal, Delta committed $17 million of travel support for athletes, officials, staff, and assorted VIPs in the run-up to and during the Games. On paper, it looked reasonable. ACOG gave us their projected needs, and we built the agreement around those numbers.

But their estimates were wildly off, especially when it came to peak summer travel in 1996. We saw it coming; they didn’t. Or maybe they just hadn’t grasped the sheer logistical pressure the Games would place on airline inventory during the year’s busiest travel season. At the time, Delta owned over 90 percent of the Atlanta market, and summer was when we made our money. Those months weren’t just busy, they were the profit engine that kept the whole machine running. This meant that every non-revenue seat was a loss. A direct hit to the bottom line.

By the time ACOG realized their Games-time travel needs were far greater than they’d projected, it was late in the game. They came back to us asking for an extra $3 million in Games-time air travel, essentially requesting more of what we’d already budgeted and committed. That didn’t go over well with my board. Their message was clear: if we’re giving more, we need more. Go back and renegotiate.

What followed was a maddening series of meetings with ACOG’s sponsorship team. Our ACOG Account Executive, Glenn Norman, a well-intentioned guy doing his level best, sent me a spreadsheet across the table that, in theory, amounted to $3 million in “added value.” I flipped through it. It was a patchwork of half-baked assets: signage no one would see, program mentions no one would read, hospitality packages no one had asked for. It felt like a ransom note written in marketing jargon. A Frankenstein’s monster of line items, stitched together purely to hit a number. I wasn’t buying it, literally or figuratively.

We went in circles for a while. Then someone finally had enough and kicked it up the ladder. That’s how I found myself in a room with Chris Welton, ACOG’s number two on sponsorships. I knew of Chris; everyone did. He had a certain Georgia royalty about him. A standout on the University of Georgia 1980 national championship football team, a brilliant attorney from King & Spalding, and by then, a rising figure in Atlanta’s business and Olympic circles. People liked him, trusted him. He had a calm way about him, the kind of guy who made you feel the deal could get done, not because he’d cave, but because he’d cut through the noise. He wasn’t there to posture. He was there to settle things.

We sat down. I told him what I needed: something I could present to the Delta board, especially to Ed Arzt, the then chairman of Procter & Gamble and one of our most vocal directors. Ed was constantly on me, asking for hard numbers and demanding justification. I said, “Chris, I don’t need magic. I need something I can defend. Something I can stand in front of the board and say with a straight face: here’s why it’s worth $3 million.”

I slid the spreadsheet across the table. Chris looked at it, scanned a few lines, then looked up at me and said, “Yeah… it’s all bullshit.” Just like that. I laughed. It was exactly what I was thinking.

Chris nodded. “Take it all,” he said. “Everything on the list. Just take it.” That was it. Done. No haggling, no bluffing, no pretending. What was supposed to be a three-hour negotiation turned into a 20-minute conversation between two people who simply wanted to move forward. We shook hands, then went to lunch at Bones, the legendary Atlanta steakhouse, and had a laugh about how complicated things get when people try too hard to be clever.

That was Chris Welton: clear, fair, and fast. He cut through the noise, provided what I needed, and never made it about ego. It was one of the most refreshing moments in a year filled with politics, pressure, and second-guessing. 

It was around that time, late in the run-up to the Games, that Chris let me in on what was coming next. Quietly, over a couple of late-night Scottish beverages, he shared that he and Laurent Scharapan, who was then with ISL, the IOC’s marketing agency, were working on something big. The two of them had been quietly sketching out the idea for a new kind of joint venture: a lean, independent agency that would take over day-to-day management of the IOC’s global TOP sponsorship program. At the time, the IOC was still a relatively small, bureaucratic operation. They had major partners, Coca-Cola, IBM, Visa, but no true commercial backbone. Chris and Laurent spotted the gap and took it straight to Michael Payne, then the IOC’s Marketing Director, to Dick Pound, Chair of the IOC Marketing Commission, and eventually to IOC President Juan Antonio Samaranch himself. To their credit, the leadership agreed, but with one very IOC-style caveat: if they wanted to do it, they’d have to fund it themselves. The IOC wasn’t going to underwrite it. If they wanted in, they had to bring skin to the game, $1 million in startup capital.

They got to work and found their solution in Japan.

Chris and Laurent struck a deal with Dentsu, the Japanese advertising powerhouse, to secure the seed funding. It wasn’t easy, nothing at that level ever is, but they pulled it off. I contributed in a small way. Chris called me, needing to get to Tokyo almost immediately to finalize the agreement. It had to be quick and discreet. I told him to book the cheapest economy fare he could find, and I’d take care of the rest. I accessed his reservation and provided him with a “no ad collect” (free) upgrade, which required my authorization. I moved him into first class on a Delta flight to Tokyo. He arrived rested, closed the deal, and came back with the $1 million secured and the venture alive.

In the spring of 1996, Chris and Laurent made it official with the IOC, and they offered me a role in the new venture. The job came with a significant raise, double what I was making at Delta, and the chance to stay in the Olympic world. I wasn’t ready to walk away from the ethos, the history, the global stage; it had gotten into my blood. I loved the work. I loved the people (well, most of them). And I loved the feeling that we were doing something that mattered, not just for a brand or a company, but on a global scale.

But I also felt a deep sense of loyalty to Delta. I told Chris I wouldn’t leave Delta until after the Games. I wanted to see it through.

Delta, for their part, had already been planning my next move after the Olympics. They were lining up a promotion, a coveted international role in London, which, under different circumstances, I would have jumped at. But my personal life couldn’t accommodate a move overseas, and if I’m honest, my heart had already begun drifting toward the new opportunity.

I sat down with Judy, Bob Coggin, and Ron Allen, our CEO, and told them the truth: I was leaving. Not immediately. Not before the finish line. But I was going. Judy, in her typically clear-eyed way, understood completely. She knew me well and didn’t need much explanation. Ron was different. He took it personally, not with anger, but with genuine disappointment. He was invested in me and made a sincere effort to get me to stay. There were lunches, long conversations, and a few heartfelt gestures that have stayed with me ever since.

One of those gestures came after I’d already left. When I remarried, Delta quietly hosted the reception at the Capital City Club in Atlanta. They paid for it. They even covered our honeymoon. That wasn’t a corporate transaction. That was something else. That was affection. That was respect. That was family. And it’s what made the decision to leave so difficult, even though I knew it was time.

On August 20, 1996, the day after the flame was extinguished and the Atlanta Games officially ended, I walked out of Delta for the last time as an employee. The very next morning, I started my new role with the IOC’s fledgling marketing venture, a company that, at the time, didn’t even have a name. That would come later. I gave it one: Meridian.

It was the start of an entirely new chapter. One built on everything I had learned at Delta, and everything I had yet to learn about the journey ahead.

Thank you, Delta

Looking back, the Delta Olympic journey was nothing short of transformative. We started with no playbook, no prior experience, and no real understanding of what Olympic sponsorship even meant. But through instinct, hustle, a few hard lessons, and a lot of collaboration, we built something remarkable. None of it would’ve happened without the team, Julia, Tom, Kevin, and so many others like Copeland Hirthler and 21 Marketing and SportsMark, who brought creativity, discipline, and heart to the effort every single day.

And I was fortunate to have a boss like Judy, who backed me, challenged me, and gave me room to grow. Together, we created a program that not only elevated the Delta brand but also caught the attention of the IOC itself, enough to inspire a new approach to managing Olympic partnerships going forward. That path ultimately led to the creation of Meridian, and with it, a new chapter in my life. What began as a crash course in Olympic marketing turned into a calling, a career, and a journey I never could have planned, but one I’ll always be grateful for.

Secret Postscript

There’s one last postscript to my Delta Olympic story, something I’ve rarely shared.

On the morning of the Opening Ceremony, July 19, 1996, I ran with the Olympic flame in the torch relay. But that’s not the secret. The secret is what was happening inside me, what I hadn’t told anyone.

I was unraveling. After fifteen years at Delta, I was walking away from a career I had built from the ground up. It had started humbly, with entry-level jobs, long hours, and plenty of detours, and through a mix of grit and stubbornness, I had finally landed in a senior leadership role, and I was being promised much more. On paper, I’d made it. But I was burned out. Spiritually, emotionally, and professionally. I was tired of being a sponsor. Tired of the endless fights for signage, access, approvals, of feeling like we were always battling upstream against the Olympic bureaucracy. I had seen too much of how the sausage was made, and it left me disillusioned.

No one knew how I felt. Not Dani. Not my parents. Not my colleagues. I was carrying it quietly, trying to smile through it. But Tom somehow guessed.

Tom Lazour was my friend, my colleague, and in many ways, my ballast. He wasn’t flashy or loud; he was thoughtful, intuitive, and unfailingly kind. The kind of guy who listened when you spoke, and maybe more importantly, when you didn’t. Tom had that rare gift: emotional intelligence that ran a mile deep. I never said I was struggling. I didn’t have to. Tom saw it. And he did something extraordinary in return.

Without telling me, without even a hint, he pulled strings behind the scenes and arranged for me to carry the Olympic torch on the most meaningful day possible, Opening Ceremony day. He filled out the forms, chased the approvals, and kept it quiet. I suspect he knew that if he told me too early, I would’ve politely declined. I didn’t think I deserved it. I would’ve rationalized my way out of the moment.

One day, Tom told me, “You’re in the relay.” It caught me off guard. I tried to protest, but he brushed it off. “Just show up,” he said. “You’ll be glad you did.”

And so, I did.

I was torchbearer number 39 that day, just 38 runners ahead of Muhammad Ali, who would light the cauldron that night and mark the official start of the Atlanta Olympic Games. I rode to my starting point in a van with several other runners. As we drove through the city’s sleepy early-morning streets, we each took turns introducing ourselves and sharing why we’d been selected.

Their stories were stunning. Teachers who had changed lives. Cancer survivors. Community activists. People who had faced incredible hardship and come through the other side with grace and strength. I sat there listening, more humbled by the minute. And then it was my turn.

What could I say? That I was a sponsor? That my job involved hospitality tents and signage plans? I felt like a fraud. I hadn’t overcome anything. I hadn’t sacrificed in the way these people had. I felt unworthy, out of place.

When I stepped off the van and took my position on the route, I wasn’t euphoric. I was embarrassed. And then I looked up.

There they were. My parents. Dani. My daughter. And Tom, standing a little apart from the rest, arms crossed, beaming. He was happier for me than he ever would’ve been for himself. That’s who he was. The joy on his face wasn’t pride, it was peace. He knew he’d done something that mattered. He had given me back a part of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

I was standing in a poor, predominantly Black neighborhood in central Atlanta. The sun had barely risen, but the streets were already lined with families. There wasn’t noise or fanfare, just presence. The crowd felt reverent. Dozens of people came forward and asked if they could touch the torch. Hold it. Take a picture with it. Take a picture with me. With their children. With their grandparents. I said yes to everything. Over and over again.

And slowly, I felt it: my chest loosening, my eyes stinging. Something inside me was shifting. I had been standing at the edge of a new life, but too scared to move. And now, surrounded by people who would never be invited to a sponsor lounge, who would never sit in an Olympic stadium or meet a gold medalist, I was reminded what it all meant.

This, this, was the Olympic spirit. This was what I had almost walked away from. Not the bureaucracy. Not the branding. But the shared human wonder. The pride. The joy. The belief in something greater. For these humble people who would never see the Games except on TV, this fleeting moment with the flame was everything. And they treated it with reverence. And they passed that reverence to me.

That was the moment. That hot, humid July morning, in that forgotten corner of Atlanta, among people who had every reason to feel invisible, I was made visible. And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I now headed in the right direction.

Tom never made a big deal about it. He never brought it up again. He didn’t need to. He gave me that moment not for recognition, but because he could see what I couldn’t. He gave me a gift I didn’t know I needed, at the exact moment I needed it.

To Tom and to those beautiful, joyful people on that Atlanta street, I’ve never forgotten you. I never will.