There's Always Next Year

In 2003, ESPN ran a series of ads, directed by legendary documentarian Erroll Morris, about the charming, if slightly deluded, faith of hardcore sports fans. Entitled “There’s Always Next Year ,” the premise of the campaign was simple: to celebrate those lovable, long suffering devotees who, in spite of their team’s mediocrity (or worse), hold out hopes that next year will be better than the last one. One spot featured a Detroit Lions fan, another featured a New York Jets fan and —?astoundingly —?the one about the Boston Red Sox fan starred…you guessed it…me !

My journey to Beacon Hill and the other side of Erroll Morris’ Interrotron was confusing and serendipitous, doubly so because I am (a) not an actor (as the ad will confirm) and (b) not a Red Sox fan. Nonetheless, just a week or so after the commercial was shot, my phone started ringing with friends and family excitedly proclaiming that they’d seen me on TV. While in Boston that Spring somebody even stopped me on the street and said “you’re the stat nerd guy from the ESPN ad!” Over the course of two months I received checks that far outpaced my modest (actual) work salary and, given the Red Sox historically long title drought, I had reason to believe that my gravy train with biscuit wheels would keep on rolling for years to come.

Except it didn’t. Unthinkably, the Red Sox won the 2004 World Series, rendering my TV spot moot and ending my career as a (terrible) commercial actor. It was a harsh reminder that — yes — there is always next year. And yes — very occasionally — it is better than last year. But also that The Red Sox championship was stunning, not the norm, and the result of a data obsessed General Manager (Theo Epstein) who arrived in 2002 and changed the way the team operated.

If only success in business was as easy as winning The World Series. Unlike the ‘04 Red Sox, most businesses’ next year looks a lot like last year. Budgets might change 5-10%. Goals, if they are defined at all, might move a few basis points. Plans include a lot of carryover from the previous year, plus a few holes that need to be plugged and one or two hail marys. The winter holidays provide enough reprieve for some renewed optimism in January, but by April the realization sets in: this year feels an awful lot like last year. The statement “There’s Always Next Year” begins to sound less like a promise and more like a threat.

So why? Why, year after year, do we expect to find hope in a hopeless exercise, trying to convince ourselves that, next year, work will be different and better than the year before despite the fact that we’ve been trudging through the exact same steps we trudged through the year before? Tell me if this sounds at all familiar:

It’s August and half the office is either on vacation, planning for vacation or just returning from vacation. Come September, your mind wanders to next year —?to January and the hope of new roles, new responsibilities, new projects, new goals and new perspectives. But in an instant your mind snaps back into place. It’s September —?only three months before peak shopping season! Sixty days before annual reviews! So much to do! So little time! And by mid-January the office will be a ghost town again so there’s no time to think about next year. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll have some team meetings and sketch out some targets and plans and then regroup in mid-January to solidify things.

But honestly, maybe January means February. In fact, realistically, budgets won’t be final until March. The numbers won’t have changed all that much. Some plans will be green lit, while others will live in purgatory. The goals will be vague and uninspiring. And then, with a modicum of enthusiasm and reserve, it will be April and we’ll realize that not much, if anything, has changed. We’re not the 2004 Red Sox. We’re the 1998 Sox. And 1999. And 2000. And 2001. And 2002. And 2003. We’re basically the same as last year. We’re a second place team.

That’s probably not simply the common case, but the best case. A more realistic example might find us sliding backwards. Enthusiasm fades. Leaders get fired. Most businesses are not lucky enough to get their Theo Epstein — their daring leader who can combine research, analytics, measurement and focus to drive actual change. The one who understands how and why “There’s Always Next Year” is unacceptable.

Let’s face it —?annual business planning is, for the most part, broken. It’s somewhere between insufficient and non-existent. It’s messy, vague and perennially late. It lacks focus, rigor and alignment. But here’s the thing: it does not have to be this way! The next four months is your chance to be great —?to channel your inner Theo Epstein. It’s nearly August, which means that the hour glass has turned over on 2024 and the window for 2025 planning is closing. Do not do the same thing you did last year and expect a different outcome. If nothing changes then nothing changes, right? You and your people can do better. You and your people deserve better.

At facts & feelings we have a solution for Annual Planning & Alignment that is more pragmatic, flexible, rigorous and evidence-based than whatever you are doing today. It combines the benefits of data and measurement with the promise of radical focus and continuous learning. And, what’s more, it’s designed to work before the clock starts on next year. All that research, analytics, experimentation and data you’ve invested in was supposed to yield more than extra reports and headcount, right? It was supposed to light a brighter path forward, right? Well if you want to see how we transform brains, brawn, SaaS, 1’s, 0’s and all those squishy data points in between into an annual plan that looks less like the 2002 Red Sox and more like the 2004 World Champion Red Sox (again, I’m not even a Boston fan —?I swear), you’ve come to the right place. Want to see what it looks like and feel what it feels like? Let me connect you to David McBride , Valerie Kroll & Tim Wilson pronto. The clock’s ticking — 2025 starts now.