I thought I would use my first entry to introduce myself. My name is Mike, I am 51 years old, I live in Boston, Massachusetts and I am married to a wonderful woman. While Boston is home, the place I feel most connected to is Scotland, St Andrews in particular. For reasons I can’t explain, Scotland calls me. Perhaps in another life I was William Wallace or more probably it is the country’s beauty, simplicity and directness that call my name. While St Andrews is very much a large part of the most recent chapter of my life, I have been visiting there for over three decades. How does a first generation traditional Italian-American raised in blue-collar home in a neighborhood in Boston find his way to St Andrews and own a home and a business there? The answer lies in the story.
My mum and dad both immigrated to America. My dad was 16 when he arrived in Boston from Cassino, Italy. Mum was 23 when she made her way here from London, England. It was the second time she had shuffled the deck in her life. When she was two years old, mum and her family emigrated from their native Italy to London. My parents met while my father served in the United States Air Force and was stationed in Scunthorpe, England. They married in London and moved to Boston when Dad completed his service in the Air Force. When mum arrived in Boston, she was eight months pregnant with me; a new life, a new home and a new family. I was the first of five siblings.
Growing up as the eldest child in a traditional Italian family centric home was complicated. My dalliances with the Rolling Stones, early drug experimentation, long hair and all “unproductive” activities didn’t mesh well with a strict dad. When I told dad at age 15 that I was quitting my job as a hardware store clerk to start my own business booking bands, I may well have told him that I heisted a convenience store. Thankfully, God loves a chancer and not only did the business flourish but also I survived dad’s ire. As I found my way through Boston Latin School, the prestigious and oldest public high school in America, the business grew from a local seedling to one of regional prominence. I was not a good student throughout my academic career. College was no different. I got by. I didn’t study. I worked, I played, and I purchased a house when I was 18 years old. I was smart but it wasn’t book smart. I was rewarded in life with a great deal of common sense and sometimes too much curiosity.
The band booking business was immensely lucrative and I learned the ways of the world. I stopped booking bands when I was 22. It wasn’t so much a decision as it was a mandate brought upon by a hemorrhaging brain tumor. I was given the Catholic sacrament of last rites on Thanksgiving eve 1978. I was legally blind with a vision measurement of 20/1500 as the result of the tumor pressing against my optic nerve. Two interesting firsts happened after last rites: I heard my father in the hospital room crying and I cursed in front of him. I said blindly in the direction of my father, “dad why are you crying? There’s no fucking way I am going to die.” That didn’t help him, or me for that matter.
Thanksgiving Day took on a new meaning for me after my surgery. I was truly on the bonus plan and now viewed life and the world differently. I became the most optimistic person you could ever meet, I took people at face value and was no longer stress filled about anything. Reluctantly, I quote the immortal and world famous philosopher, Mickey Rivers; “I don’t get upset over things I can’t control, because if I can’t control them there’s no use getting upset. And I don’t get upset over the things I can control, because if I can control them there’s no use in getting upset.” Mick the Quick’s simplistic overstatement of the obvious is my credo.
After recuperating from my illness, I worked nights while finishing college during the day. Upon matriculation, I also graduated from anchor watch into a day job as a back office accountant for a mutual fund company. After hanging out with the likes of Southside Johnny, Bonnie Raitt, Robert Palmer, Steve Miller and Ronnie Spector, my new job was hardly the height of excitement!
I always thought that my comrade back office accountants were “dogging” it. I was completely finished with my work by 10:30 a.m. or 11 a.m. at the latest. After asking my supervisor if she needed any help, she told me to go back to my desk and look busy. She was empire building and didn’t need a snivel-nosed recent college grad to undermine her. So—–I read. I read every investment book I could get my hands on. As the fund managers were visiting my end of the building, I would be on them like a bad fitting suit. “What do you think of this company or that company,” I would ply them with. “I like this company or that company because of…..” I would explain. I suppose some of my investment rationale made sense because I was ultimately hired as an analyst. It was still a long way from 2 guitars, bass, keyboards and drums but it was getting more interesting.
Three years after becoming an analyst specializing in nothing in particular (but being good at it), I was made a portfolio manager of a small fund. Now, I was living. In the ensuing 10 years, good liquidity and performance grew the fund from $27 million to $2.3 billion. I was running the nation’s best performing small capitalization growth fund. If it wasn’t as consistently in the top 20% year in and year out, I would think it was a dream. In fact, it still feels like a dream nevertheless. I made oodles of money and it meant nothing to me. Keeping score by determining how much you made or spent was not me. I kept score by evaluating how much I learned. Plus, during that 10 year period I married the wonderful woman I alluded to at the beginning of this introduction. If you’re keeping score, that was a Grand Slam.
In the mid-nineties while still managing the small-cap fund, I gave notice to my employer that I was leaving. I was starting my own company running two hedge funds, a higher risk investment vehicle than a mutual fund. My boss decided that he wanted to continue our relationship. This meant that when I left my old job I was bringing the fund with me to the new job. The new business went from a seat-of-your-pants-startup to a going concern overnight. This type of arrangement was unheard of at the time and while nothing ever changed regarding my management style, the relationship between the new and old company became acrimonious over time. Two year’s after starting my new company, my old fund was sheparded back into the original company fold. Money bled out of the fund when it was announced that I was leaving. Two years later, the fund was closed. Again, it was another unheard of decision. The fund had the best ten year record in the industry and now my old company was making it disappear. I have no regrets in life but that was a blundering decision made by an inept management team.
As our new company plugged along, I was the subject of a feature story on the front page of the New York Times Sunday Magazine. One week before me, Elvis Presley was on the cover, the week after me, the Pope. This was new territory for a first generation traditional Italian-American raised in blue-collar home in a neighborhood in Boston.
I didn’t deserve to be on the cover. It was the nature of the times. In the 70’s, hairdressers were celebrities, then in the 80’s it was Boy George’s turn, in the 90’s it was money managers and now in the Oh – Oh’s, it’s chefs. Nevertheless, the article sparked interest in our firm and investors’ money flew in over the transom.
All the fun and games ended with the bear market of 2000-2002. The Dot-Com era concluded not with a proverbial whimper but more like a 40 car pileup on the Autobahn. Large company stocks were decimated and small growth companies were on life support. Our company was fully invested when disaster struck. Selling small company stocks when everyone else wants to do the same is tricky business much like getting a herd of elephants through a door. It takes time and usually ends up not working the way you envisioned it. Adding to pain of the bear market, our investors’ money was flying over the transom again but this time, in the opposite direction.
When I retired in 2006, the funds had just enjoyed 3 record setting years of performance. It was time to move on. It was time to concentrate on Scotland. And so, now the story begins.
Possibly Related Posts:
- Happy New Year One and All
- Back from St Andrews But Not Really
- Aye Wonder Pre-Flight
- St Andrews in All Its Glory
- Week 27 – 5 x 5
