You Gotta Have Balls Read online

  There's just nothing like looking forward to going to work in the morning. When you feel this, you'll know true passion—and you'll feel that your life has a purpose.

  The most common question people ask me about business is, “How did you get started?” I'm never sure where to begin, because I can't trace my success back to a particular place or moment. There wasn't one massive event, or one giant deal; it was more like landing on one island, and later another, and so on—with a lot of treading water in between. The one common thread, the underlying impetus, is commitment. Over the course of almost my entire life, I was committed to countless endeavors. Describing my career makes for a long conversation.

  This book is my attempt at having it with you.

  Not Being All In

  There might not be a better example of passion without commitment than Michael Jordan.

  I know—relax. I'm not talking about Michael Jordan the basketball player. I'm talking about Michael Jordan the baseball player.

  In 1993, when Jordan left the three-time champion Chicago Bulls to pursue a career with the Chicago White Sox, he seemed genuinely passionate about baseball. But with his baseball skills far below the Major League level, the organization wanted him to play on its Double-A squad, the Birmingham Barons. Life in the minors is decidedly unglamorous; these guys play in small towns, for small crowds, for a small salary, and move from city to city by bus. While this kind of life could not have been more opposite to the one to which Jordan was accustomed as the best basketball player on the planet, he accepted the assignment dutifully—which showed he was passionate about baseball.

  Jordan played hard the entire season, exhibiting steady if unremarkable progress. And he followed that up by playing for the Scottsdale Scorpions in the Arizona Fall League. But that would be his baseball swan song; Jordan returned to the Bulls the following year. He went on to win three more NBA titles.

  If Jordan had been not just passionate about baseball, but also committed, he would have stayed in the minor leagues longer. Most baseball players toil in the minors for several years before making it to “the show.”

  Michael Jordan is as ferocious and resilient as they come. But when it came to baseball, he had the passion—but not the commitment.

  Chapter 1

  What's with the Water in Brooklyn?

  There's something in the water in Brooklyn. I don't know what it is, but growing up there lights a fire in some people. They start hustling from the time they're little. I'm thinking of people like Jay-Z, Joan Rivers, Woody Allen, and Mel Brooks. Eddie Murphy and Barbra Streisand. Larry King and Rudy Giuliani. Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Mike Tyson. Spike Lee. Joe Torre. Sandy Koufax. Growing up in Brooklyn, you gotta have balls.

  My family lived above a kosher butcher shop at 539 Kings Highway, near Ocean Parkway in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. We were working poor, but we lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood that had large Syrian Jewish and Italian populations. Many of them were first-generation immigrants. It was a diverse culture, to say the least.

  The butcher was called Weingarten & Weiss, and it was glatt kosher, which meant, among other things, that chickens and other animals were slaughtered on the premises. The entire building was always uncomfortably cold, on account of having to store all that raw meat there.

  I'd wake up in the morning to the sound of condemned chickens screaming “Bwahhhk!” followed by the sound of the death blow—“Thwack!”

  We never saw Weiss, but we saw all too much of Mr. Weingarten, who was also our landlord. Sometimes I think he considered us to be additional slabs of raw meat.

  He and I were always in each other's faces: me scolding him over the living conditions and lack of heat in winter; he, deflecting the issue, scolding me about our rent being late. True, the $62 we paid every month wasn't exorbitant. But it was all we could afford, and the welfare check came when it came.

  Mr. Weingarten seemed to be particularly fond of turning our heat off on Friday nights, when he would close the store for the Sabbath. During the harshest winters, it got so cold on those weekends that we'd call the police. But when the cops went to his house and ordered him to turn our heat on, Weingarten told them that they had to take his keys, go to the store, and do it themselves. He insisted that he couldn't work on the Sabbath.

  Occasionally I would take a hammer and break the lock on the cellar door, to go jump-start the boiler myself. The basement was filled with our fellow tenants: bugs and other animals of unknown origin. I could usually hear them scurry and crackle under my feet.

  We probably could have lived in a bigger place, maybe had nicer furniture and more food, if we had lived in a different neighborhood. But our neighborhood had good schools and community centers, and places where my brothers and I could go and be safe while our mom worked. Her logic was that it was better to raise kids in a decent neighborhood—even if it meant stretching every dime to make ends meet.

  It took me a long time to realize that the S on all the towels in our house stood for Sheraton—not for Steiner. After that, I made it my duty to stock up on towels, robes, glasses, and soaps any time we stayed at a hotel. In a way, that was the first time I collected memorabilia.

  We certainly knew hunger. We were often on food stamps, a fact I was very embarrassed about, even as a little kid. I've always said I saw the light at a young age—unfortunately, it was the light in the fridge.

  My father, Irving Steiner, left when I was five. He suffered from epilepsy, and he was sick most of my childhood. I saw him sporadically until he died, when I was 11.

  My mother, Evelyn, basically raised me and my two brothers by herself. Cary is my older brother, I'm the middle child, and Adam is the youngest. The three of us shared a room; Cary had his own bed, and Adam and I shared a bunk bed, with me on top and Adam on the bottom. Three boys, growing up in a single room, smaller than the office I sit in every day.

  My mother was a force of nature. She was a brilliant, tireless woman. She was a pretty woman, but she fought with her weight most of her life. At a couple of points, she weighed well over 400 pounds, close to 500 even.

  She ran a beauty salon for a long time and was always made up, with gleaming nails. She did amazing things with her hair, changing the color at least once a month, and styling it high and big, like a hedge sculpture. And she usually wore some incredible outfit. You would notice my mother walking down the street from a mile away.

  She carried a huge pocketbook with her at all times. She would use it to smuggle home food from weddings and other events. Once we were at a bar mitzvah with an extensive buffet, and there was a problem with the electricity, temporarily leaving us all in the dark. It was a golden opportunity.

  “We're at a big buffet with Mom, and the lights are out,” Cary said. “We're going to be eating this food for days!”

  My mother had a measure of confidence equal to her stature. She had been a real firecracker; as a young woman, she threw herself into political activism and canvassed the city, stumping for Henry Wallace in the 1948 presidential election. She was a magnetic public speaker. But after Wallace lost the election, and the Progressive/American Labor Party ticket went down in flames, she became disillusioned with politics. She turned her attention to her various business ventures.

  My mother was constantly promoting her salon, called Evelyn Sachs, after her maiden name. No matter where we were, she'd be marketing herself. We'd walk into a room, and my mother would whisper to us which woman was wearing a wig, which women needed to do something with their look.

  “You should stop by the salon,” she'd counsel the women in the room. “I could give your hair some color, do your nails—give you a completely new look.” She loved getting people excited about changing their looks. She knew her stuff. In those days, there weren't as many manicurists and hair colorists as there are now. But she took classes to learn it all.

  My mother had some very clever marketing strategies.

  She taught me the value of using your b
est day to promote your worst day. Beauty parlors were usually packed on Fridays and Saturdays, because women went out those nights. As a result, it was a struggle to get good business going earlier on in the week. So my mother offered a special price for a wash and set on Wednesdays and Thursdays. She never stopped coming up with all sorts of deals, trying to get the place busier during the slow parts of the week.

  The salon was two blocks from the Kings Highway stop on the elevated F train. After school I'd linger at the exit of the station, handing out fliers during rush hour. Then I hired some friends to do it. Since most kids didn't want to go hand out fliers for a beauty parlor, I compensated them, paying them in fireworks—which weren't quite legal. Needless to say, I made a little bit of a vig on each kid.

  One day, while I was standing underneath the train and giving out the fliers, I thought, “Why just give out fliers for the salon?” I decided to stop by other stores in the neighborhood to offer our services.

  “I have three, four, five kids with me every day at rush hour,” I told the owners. “We're handing out fliers underneath the train. Do you want us to hand out some fliers for you?” I created my own little side business, making a bit of extra money.

  I was always thinking of new ways to pass time and always eager to make an extra buck.

  On Saturdays, I worked at the salon, sweeping, cleaning up and doing other chores. Going to the salon was a 10-, sometimes even 12-hour affair for women. They got their nails done, their hair colored, the wash and set; it was a big part of their day. So to make some money, I brought the women their lunches. I took the orders, went to the delis to get the food, and I brought it all back. They gave me good tips.

  In reality, despite all the special discounts my mom came up with, the conversation and the camaraderie she kept up in her salon was really what lured women in and brought them back. My mother was warm and gregarious, and often served as a surrogate therapist to her clients. She was always ready to listen to their problems, and to talk them through as long as they needed.

  In the salon, I learned that relationships and trust are as important as anything else in business—as crucial as the work that you do or the products you sell. When people feel their best, they do and act their best.

  I was lucky to get that lesson so early in my life. Back then, men and children rarely went into beauty parlors.

  And to this day, I always know which women have colored their hair, and which have their original color. I may not be the best husband in the world, but I at least can tell when my wife has been to the salon.

  When my mom was healthy enough, she was always moving a mile a minute, hustling to make an extra buck for my brothers and me. She was incredibly resourceful.

  Back when I was younger, airlines used to pay for travel agents to take “familiarization trips” to certain destinations, so they could sell the travel packages from firsthand knowledge. Some summers during high school, I'd watch my mom work two or three phones at the same time, selling warm weather honeymoon trips—just so she could take me and my brothers somewhere. For a few years during our schools' holiday break, we escaped the New York winter by going to Jamaica and other sunny islands. We went on a few cruises in the Caribbean. We even got to go to Disney World right after it opened, in 1971. Even though we were poor, we traveled fairly well, compared to other people in the neighborhood.

  And my hair and nails always looked good.

  Although my mother, my brothers, and I did a good job of making the best out of so many situations, I also went through some dark periods growing up.

  During my elementary school years, I spent as much time as possible at the after school center in my Brooklyn neighborhood. The place was amazing; it offered everything from arts and crafts, to music lessons, to basketball leagues for kids whose parents didn't have the time or resources for those types of activities. I particularly liked playing floor hockey there.

  The two men who ran the center at that time were Peter Foti and Mel Kerper; Mr. Kerper also happened to be my fifth grade teacher. We had a good relationship, and I was glad to be in his class.

  One day we were taking a test when Mr. Kerper called me to his desk. He pulled me in close.

  “Brandon,” he said. “I want you to know, we took a collection of money, for you to buy new clothes.” He handed me an envelope stuffed with bills.

  I just stared at him. It completely took my breath away.

  “What?”

  “You know, we thought you needed some new clothes, so we took a collection.”

  “How do you know that?” I said.

  “Well, you've been wearing the same pants for three weeks in a row,” he said. “There's a rip in the right knee.”

  I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't even wearing pants at that point. I felt naked.

  I took the money home. As soon as I saw my mom, I started crying. I told her what happened. I told her I felt humiliated.

  “You don't have to worry,” she tried to console me. “I was just waiting because I wanted you to lose a little weight before I took you to the store to buy new clothes.”

  I lay awake in bed that night, thinking about my mother's explanation. It didn't ring true to me. I knew we simply didn't have the money.

  It was all I could think about for a few days. I felt embarrassed and sad, but I also felt hungry and determined. I knew my mother was doing the best she could. But I also felt that I needed to be responsible for myself.

  “You don't have to worry about me anymore,” I announced to my mom a few nights later. “I'm going to make some money. You don't need to buy me any clothes. I got it covered.”

  I was 10 years old.

  That Saturday, I woke up and trolled our street, walking into every store I passed. I canvassed a good two miles of shops, from one end of the street to the other.

  “I'll sweep for you,” I told the owners. “I'll deliver for you. Anything you need.”

  Finally, the man who ran a vegetable stand down the block from us took me up on the offer. His store was called Freddy the Fruit Man.

  “I could use some help on weekends,” the Fruit Man said. “Sweeping up and stocking the vegetables.” Shortly after, I began making deliveries for him, as well.

  Looking back, it's bittersweet; no 10-year-old should have to go looking for work. But on the other hand, that experience served me well.

  That was my first real job.

  While my memories of my mother are as colorful as she was, my memories of my father are somewhat hazy and gray. The going wisdom in my family was that my mom was always the smartest person in the room, except when Dad was home. But epilepsy had derailed a promising life. He graduated from the Bronx High School of Science and got a scholarship to Columbia, but he had to drop out of college after a couple of years due to health problems. He ended up becoming a shipping clerk in the garment district. By the time I came into his life, the barbiturates my dad had to take to control his seizures had robbed him of much of his vitality.

  We saw him on occasional Sundays, and our interactions were usually tense; when we went out with my father, there was always the danger that he might have an attack at any moment. As a little kid, it was incredibly scary and humiliating to be standing on a street corner with my dad when he'd suddenly begin seizing. One time he fell on the sidewalk and broke his jaw; he had to have it wired.

  I was a father's dream son: I had a job working before and after school; I was a Cub Scout and Boy Scout; I had a ton of friends; I was crazy about sports, out in the park every day, playing ball. But my dad's health problems and fractured relationship with my mom prevented him from becoming engaged in my life. It didn't help that he was more into music and art than sports. Those weren't two of my favorites.

  I remember liking his drawings, though; he could always draw really well. And he could be very funny. He was kind of corny, but when he was feeling well, my dad was capable of really making us laugh. But my brother Cary was a lot closer to him than I was.

/>   When my dad passed away at the age of 48, there were only eight people at his funeral—that included the four of us, and his sister; so you can do the math. At a Jewish funeral, you're supposed to have a minyan, which means at least 10 Jewish adults have to be present. We had to grab a couple of passersby just to say the prayers at the side of my dad's grave. There was barely any service at all, really. It was raining. We weren't there for very long.

  My father's death had a profound effect on me. I felt terrible that he wasn't missed by more people. I remember thinking that I could never let that happen to me.

  I think it's a healthy exercise to think about who will miss you when you die. What have you accomplished while hanging out on this planet? What kind of effect have you had on others—and on yourself? What are you leaving behind? Will our world be better off because you were here?

  I do have fond memories of my dad taking me bowling several times, probably the only sport we ever did together. He took me to a place called Spa Bowl on Coney Island Avenue, where every lane had one red pin mixed in with the white ones. If the red pin was set in the very front, and you bowled a strike in that frame, you got a cherry Coke on the house. The two of us won our fair share of sodas.

  As he taught me to bowl on those sunny days, my dad was fluid and graceful. Those were times we could be athletic together, however fleetingly. So when my wife, Mara, and I built our house a number of years ago, I made sure that we installed a bowling lane in the basement—to remember Dad by.

  Though certainly better off than my father, my mother was rarely in perfect health herself. Her weight was a dark cloud on almost every aspect of her life. She initiated many discussions about her dying with my brothers and me, even when we were young. She'd make sure she had our attention, and then launch into her go-to hypothetical.

  “If I die…” she'd say to us, then provide specific instructions for money, the apartment, and taking care of each other. Death hovered around her.