LARGER THAN LIFE
John Honderich had a sonic boom of a laugh.
It could come out of nowhere and startle every diner within a 10-table radius at one of his favourite bistros. Sometimes he’d be laughing so hard, his cheeks would get ruddy, his torso would piston up and down in his chair. His resting face was a toothy grin.
I haven’t met many people who truly qualify as “larger than life.” John was larger than life. It’s hard to write this column because it’s impossible to imagine the world without him.
John’s factory default was Full Speed Ahead. It was like watching someone navigate the real world in fast-forward. He once asked me to go to the Eaton Centre with him before our dinner reservation to help pick out a gift for a friend. I had to jog to keep pace. Another time, at his cottage, I gasped as he suddenly bolted down the pier and did a cannonball into the water. “Dude!” I screamed from my Muskoka chair. “Be careful!”
Here was one of the most powerful media figures in Canada. And he could still be a little boy.
That was the man I was privileged to know over the last quarter-century. Not a publisher, not a chair, not a peerless ambassador for both this paper and this city — just a spectacular friend.
He had endless energy and drive and expected the same from his editors … There are so many who can recount stories of his kindness and understanding.
MARY DEANNE SHEARS, EDITOR
What stood out for me was John’s resolute defence of journalism and the newsroom. He literally put his money where his mouth was.
TONY WONG, REPORTER
He mentored me and countless others in the media landscape. He was my friend.
GILBERT NGABO, REPORTER
John Honderich was a giant of Canadian journalism who believed deeply in building a better Toronto — and a better Canada.
PRIME MINISTER JUSTIN TRUDEAU
John was a man of action. He believed strongly that a newspaper had a moral responsibility to play a leadership role in making life better for all.
LOU CLANCY, EDITOR
John Honderich truly believed in Toronto, our city’s promise and its unique place in the world. MAYOR JOHN TORY
Toronto has lost a giant ... A newspaperman and a city booster with a heart of gold. One of a kind is an understatement. He was simply the best.
JOE CRESSY, CITY COUNCILLOR
He cared about so many of us as not only employees, but as people.
SUSAN PIGG, REPORTER
When my twin daughters were born, nearly two months prematurely, John was the first person to call me in the hospital. I still have no clue how he knew. But he knew everything. And that pep talk made a huge difference. Making a difference is what animated John in all he did. He would often say Toronto is world class, but it could be better. It could do more for those who do not have enough. The Atkinson Principles were not a treacly declaration tacked to a boardroom wall — they were fused into his DNA. John was constantly trying to help others while never sitting still. I often joked and asked if he had been cloned. Surely, there are a dozen John Honderichs prowling the GTA. I could not grasp how one person could cram so much into any one day. He was running a company, having a breakfast meeting with one person, lunch with another and dinner with a third. Then he’d attend a gala, go home and reply to 500 emails. Repeat.
A few months into the pandemic, John was going stir-crazy. He invited me to his condo. I bought a bottle of B&B, which we sipped while marvelling at the spectacular vista from his living room.
In addition to his eclectic artwork and sculptures — he could recite an essay on each piece — his condo was festooned with framed front pages and mementoes from the paper he ran for years. The Star now had new owners. John was out. But that night, as we gossiped like schoolgirls, it was as if he was still a spiritual force guiding its future. I asked if he had any seller’s remorse. “No,” he said. “It was time.” John had an impeccable sense of timing. That’s what makes news of his passing on Saturday, at 75, so devastating. He was so looking forward to the future. We were texting a couple of days ago, making dinner plans. He was excited about his forthcoming memoir. When he called me a month ago to gab, he was endearingly scattered: politics, virus, economy and, most hilariously, baking.
My wife had put aside a blue Le Creuset pie bird she planned to give John the next time we got together. What can I tell you, the man knew how to bake the heck out of a blueberry pie. This is what made John
such a force of nature. There were no half measures. If he decided to do something, to learn something new, he fully expected to do it at an elite level.
A few years ago, at a King Street restaurant, John was regaling me with his plan to visit every national park in Canada. He was borderline manic with enthusiasm.
It all sounded bonkers. “Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “Why?”
“’Tis a great adventure,” he replied, laughing as loud as a jackhammer.
John was, at his core, at old-school newspaperman who never failed to charm the modern world. He was a raconteur and bon vivant. He cared deeply about Toronto and Canada. He loved journalism more than Bill Gates loved code. John protected his newsroom like a junkyard dog.
When I was the Star’s TV critic, I’d often enrage big shots who moved in his social circles. He’d always shrug off calls for my head and then quietly tell me to be even more ruthless.
This is what John did for this paper: He had our backs, and he was not screwing around.
This is what John did for this city: Always push for better.
The universe can be unspeakably cruel. John should be around to fast-forward through so many more years. His love of life was infectious. I have never heard anyone speak so sweetly about anything as when he’d tell me about his grandsons. He was a spectacular friend to so many.
He had so much more to do at an elite level.
After we had dinner in September, he called to say he was intrigued by my suggestion he run for public office. He was certainly more open to this idea than when I suggested the Star devote resources to a dedicated UFO reporter or hire a far-right columnist.
One of my favourite memories. We have arrived at his cottage on Georgian Bay. John picks us up from the marina in his boat named “Starship.” He drives it like Mario Andretti. We arrive at his private island, an oasis where this social animal could decompress, and I jump out and try to tie the boat to the dock with no knowledge of nautical knots.
John is sitting behind the wheel, watching me fumble, laughing uproariously.
“We’re gonna have a great weekend, my man!” he bellows, cutting the engine.
We did indeed. I saw John multiple times a year this millennium and can’t recall one time we didn’t have a great time. He was an enchanting conversationalist, caring friend, brilliant, funny, sophisticated, the kindest soul in the galaxy. He loved life.
I’m crying again. I’m crying because the world can’t afford to lose John Honderich.
Damn you, cruel universe.