Remembering Jean-Pierre Pilon
A bunch of guys from The Windsor Star - that’s J.P. in the middle.
Are you in the stands or on the ice?
It has been exactly one year today—April 18, 2025—since the late, great Jean-Pierre Pilon took his final bow.
For those of us who fought alongside him in the ink-stained trenches, J.P. wasn’t merely an incredibly effective production manager at LeDroit in Ottawa, The Windsor Star, Le Journal de Montréal and the Transcontinental weeklies in the Outaouais, he was a force of nature and proof that goodness sometimes prevails…
I was a young lad working the evening shift as part of a team responsible for getting LeDroit out on time when I first met J.P. — our night production manager.
It was do-or-die for our little daily, as ownership had made it clear that without a turn-around, all strategic options would be on the table. We were frantically innovating in real time (a little bleeding edge!) and going through a painful shakedown of new technologies. Stern-worded memos and job cuts were commonplace as we struggled to improve our operation and our bottom-line.
It was in this high-stress setting that I first met J.P. He struck me immediately as an entirely authentic, selfless individual.
On that first meeting, he strode into the production room and dropped a bag of chocolate Rosebuds on the proofer and looked me in the eyes: “La pression du deadline, ça en démolit une gang, mais pour d’autres, c’est comme du chocolat: y’en ont jamais assez. Pis toi, le gros, ça va donner quoi?” (Translation : “Deadline pressure either crushes you or is like chocolate. What’s it gonna be for you, chubby?”)
Quelques anciens du journal LeDroit.
I knew in that moment that not only did I have much to learn from this man, but that I would grow to love him dearly.
Fast forward a few years, and I remember quite clearly the day I brought J.P. into the Windsor Star. I knew I was bringing in a heavy hitter, but I didn’t realize I was importing a one-man comedy tour who would win the heart of everyone he met.
English was, as they say, J.P.’s second language. But he didn’t just speak it—he reinvented it. He had a way of reimagining an idiom so thoroughly that the new version actually made more sense than the original.
The Gospel According to J.P.
He was a man of total transparency. In a world of "management-speak" and "strategic assessments," J.P. had only 2 defining categories for colleagues: are you on the ice or in the stands? If you were in the stands, you were just a spectator, and J.P. had no time for you. Head office types second-guessing the morning after a herculean effort to get the paper out on time were, in J.P.’s mind a: “gang de crosseurs.” If, however, you were battling it out on the ice, J.P. was the most loyal, inspiring, and protective Captain you could ever find.
It was his "J.P.-isms,” however, that became the stuff of Windsor legend. He’d walk through the production department where the crew was sweating to hit a deadline, look them square in the eye, and offer the highest praise he knew:
"You people are working like assholes!"
Naturally, he meant we were working our asses off, but nobody had the heart (or the breath) to tell him. We just nodded and worked harder. When someone wasn't pulling their weight? J.P. didn’t say they didn't "cut the mustard." To him, that slacker "didn't cut the relish."
When things were spiraling toward a catastrophic press delay, he wouldn't warn us that the "shit was hitting the fan." No, J.P. aimed higher. "The shit's gonna hit the roof!" he’d roar, leaving us all scratching our heads and glancing at the ceiling.
The Legendary Encounter
The absolute crown jewel of his linguistic career happened following a particularly nasty typo in an early edition. J.P. marched up to a female staffer responsible for the miscue. He wasn’t mean—he was just J.P. He stood there, dead serious, and proclaimed:
"I have a boner to pick with you."
The room went silent enough to hear a linotype drop. Without missing a beat, she looked him up and down and replied, "OK, J.P., but I’m thinking this is going to have to be a short conversation."
He didn’t blink. He just wanted the page fixed. He wanted us to "Get our ass together!" (his preferred hybrid of getting your act together and getting your ass in gear).
A Year Without the Whirlwind
We laugh about it now—we laughed about it then—but beneath the "hindsight’s 50-50" and the colourful vocabulary was a man of incredible, unshakable character. He was the guy with his sleeves permanently rolled up, defending his team against the "Monday-morning quarterbacks" who only showed up when the heavy lifting was done.
J.P. was a great friend, a fierce leader, and the only man I ever knew who could insult you so poorly it felt like a hug — a J.P. hug that always lasted a little longer.
One year gone, J.P. — Those of us who were so fortunate to have known you, we’re out here on the ice, playing shorthanded — and you, my friend, you are deeply, deeply missed.
