The Champion Who Wasn’t

“So, I’m thinking we’re pretty much cracking to go with this, Max. Just need to get the paperwork signed off.”

As Liam nonchalantly shuffled his papers across the conference table at Massive Dynamic, I tried my best to mirror his breezy confidence. He’d been my go-to guy here for the past three months, navigating our proof of value through the corporate maze like a knight in an office chair. Our partnership had blossomed over countless coffee chats, whiteboarding marathons, and those delightful calls where we miraculously finished each other’s technical sentences.

In my notebook - the one where I jot down random thoughts to decode the corporate gibberish - I’d rather embarrassingly scribbled “CHAMPION” next to Liam’s name, complete with a doodled crown. Bit premature, as it turned out.

“Procurement just needs to tick their boxes,” Liam continued, his voice smooth as a radio host’s. “But they’ll follow my lead. I’ve got sway here.”

That’s when my internal alarm bells started a faint jingle. Things going smoothly in a corporate setting is generally the calm before a delightful storm of chaos.

The door burst open, and three figures entered. Janet from Procurement I knew from spirited email exchanges about NDAs. The other two were fresh faces: a chap with thick spectacles glued to his tablet, and a woman sporting a smile so unnervingly confident it made yuo instinctively pat down your clothes for embarrassing misalignments.

“Right,” Janet announced, plonking down into her chair as if claiming territory. “Let’s review the PoV results against our standard vendor assessment framework.”

I glanced at Liam, expecting him to launch into our well-rehearsed spiel about the 27% efficiency gain our project demoed.

Instead, he seemed suddenly engrossed in his notebook, shoulders curled inward.

“Liam has been our primary contact,” I ventured, trying to stir him into action. “He’s really spearheaded the technical side and—”

“Yes, Liam’s been a helpful liaison,” Janet interrupted crisply. “But let’s remember, this is a procurement decision based on objective criteria.”

Another glance at Liam. This time he met my eyes, then quickly looked away as if I’d caught him nicking biscuits.

“Perhaps we could start with the showcased results?” I suggested, booting up my laptop. “As you can see from the dashboard—”

“Before we dive into that,” interjected the previously silent woman, “I have some concerns about your security compliance. Specifically data residency.”

Now, Liam and I had hashed this out thoroughly. He’d reassured me that their legal team was on board with our approach.

“Liam and I covered this extensively,” I said, swinging towards him hopefully. “We agreed that—”

“I don’t recall making any commitments there,” Liam chimed in, his tone suddenly bureaucratic. “I believe I mentioned we’d need to review your proposal.”

My stomach executed a perfect gymnastic tumble. “But we had a whole session on this,” I protested, trying to keep my voice steady. “You confirmed your security team was happy with our UK data centre option.”

Liam offered a half shrug. “I might have said we’d discuss it with them, but no approvals were given.”

Spectacles finally looked up from his digital fortress. “Our requirements are clear: all data must stay within our infrastructure. That’s non-negotiable.”

This was news to me. Three months in and suddenly there’s a “non-negotiable” dealbreaker that Liam had conveniently never mentioned?

My eyes darted to my notebook, to the little crown beside Liam’s name. I had a fierce urge to replace it with a less flattering symbol.

“I think there’s some misunderstanding,” I managed, scrambling for diplomatic ground. “Liam, we specifically talked about—”

“I was merely gathering information,” he countered, avoiding eye contact. “I never implied I had the authority to decide anything.”

The meeting spiraled from there. Every time I referenced a discussion with Liam, he dodged, claiming, “Just exploring options,” or “That was preliminary.” My supposed champion watched our project get dissected without lifting a finger to defend it.

As we concluded, Janet handed me a novel-length document. “Here’s our formal vendor assessment criteria. Please fill this out and resubmit your proposal.”

The document was an epic of twenty-seven pages, bloated with previously unmentioned requirements.

Post-meeting, I cornered Liam. “What was that about?” I asked, a mix of confusion and betrayal seasoning my tone.

He scanned the corridor before replying. “Look, I like your solution, I do. But Procurement runs the show, and Janet answers to the CFO. I can’t rock the boat.”

“But you said you had influence here. That they’d listen to you.”

“Well, yes - if what I propose doesn’t capsize the ship.” He checked his watch. “Sorry, must dash. Another meeting. We’ll catch up soon, yeah?”

We never did catch up. My emails aged ungracefully in his inbox. Our catch-ups were chopped from the calender like dead wood. Eventually, a cold, formal note informed us that Massive Dynamic was exploring “alternative solutions.”

Six months later, I bumped into Janet at a conference. After exchanging awkward hellos, I couldn’t help but ask, “What happened with our proposal? We thought we demonstrated strong results.”

She looked genuinely puzzled. “Oh, we ended up building something similar internally. Turns out, Liam had been championing an in-house solution for ages. Your PoV actually helped him argue the case.”

And there it was. The champion who wasn’t.

Reflecting on it, the red flags were all fluttering wildly. Liam was all tech enthusiasm in private, but clammed up about budgets and decision-making timelines. He never brought other stakeholders to our chats. Keen on features, vague on commitments.

I still keep a notebook for decoding corporate double-speak. But these days, I don’t sketch crowns next to names until I’ve seen someone actually fight in the trenches with us. Until they defend the project in the unforgiving light of a boardroom battle.

Because a true champion isn’t just a friendly face in meetings. It’s someone who stands up when it’s far easier to sit down. And sometimes, you don’t really know who you’re dealing with until everything’s on the line.