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  Peter was a co-owner of the Amsterdam Restaurant—appropriately located on 81st Street and Amsterdam Avenue—which specialized in rotisserie chicken. He and his partners were going to open a new Amsterdam, in West Soho. Familiar with my prior bar and restaurant experience, Peter asked me to spearhead the marketing and launch of this new location.

  After leaving the Sporting Club, I had started looking for a job that would be less taxing, with a more manageable work schedule, so I was more than happy to accept Peter's offer. The job paid less than my previous managing gigs, but it was something I knew I'd be good at—and that wouldn't wear me out. It turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. For a couple of months, I created and executed various promotions and advertisements for the new Amsterdam—and for the most part, I was able to do it all at my own pace.

  Shortly after the new Amsterdam opened, that restaurant and the original sister location were acquired by the Astor Group—a franchisor of Blimpie's sub shops outside New York City, that also co-owned with Yankees great Dave Winfield the Border Café, a joint that served Southwestern cuisine. Based on the success of the Amsterdam opening, the Astor Group asked me to take a position working out of their corporate office, promoting their full slate of restaurants.

  Once again, I was thrilled to accept the offer. I knew there was only so far I could go at the Astor Group—I'd never be asked to be a partner—but it was a great opportunity nonetheless. For the first time in my entire life, I worked normal hours in a normal office. Still in therapy with Rita, I finally had the time and presence of mind to fully recharge my batteries. It was a real blessing. I chilled out (as much as I could) and just enjoyed life in New York City for a couple of years.

  My favorite thing about those days was my lunch hour. Naturally, The Astor office was located near Astor Place, at 7th Street and Third Avenue. Almost every day during lunch, I went over to the 14th Street Y, to play in a pick-up basketball game that often included Peter Vecsey, syndicated NBA columnist for the New York Post; former editor of the Post's famous Page 6 gossip section, Richard Johnson; and NBA announcer Mike Breen. We were also occasionally joined by a guy named Rock, who coached Samuel Tilden High School in Brooklyn, and who one time cracked my head open when I drove in the lane against him. I always made sure to keep in touch with the people I met in those days. I was a natural networker, asking everyone for their business card, or phone number, constantly adding to the Rolodex.

  Toward the end of my time working at the Astor Group, the partners decided to open another Border Café. Chuck Leonis, the Astor partner who was leading the effort, asked me to direct public relations (PR) and promotion for the new place.

  As it turned out their partner, Dave Winfield, was a real “all-in” guy. He was very invested in the business. Dave wasn't satisfied just to have his name on the corporate documents; he very much cared about the details of the operation. So while working to set up the new Border Café, I developed a friendship with the baseball great—one that I'm thrilled to say continues to this day.

  It's strange to think that, having met all these other athletes through the Hard Rock and Sporting Club, I would meet Dave Winfield—in the prime of his Yankee career—through a completely different channel. Looking back, it's hard not to see fate at play, gently pushing me toward a particular career path. But at the time, it just seemed like another little reward for some hard work.

  Around the same time, a restaurateur named Bill Liederman reached out to me. He was partnering with Mickey Mantle to open a sports-themed bar and grill on Central Park West. Bill knew about my work with the Astor restaurants, and he offered me a small piece of Mickey Mantle's, if I would leave the Astor Group to come and manage all marketing for the new restaurant.

  I declined Bill's offer. I didn't think the place would be a success.

  The restaurant opened in 1988 and quickly established itself as one of the most popular restaurants in New York.

  Although I did not accept Bill's offer, over the years he hired me as a consultant for several events and promotions at the restaurant. Getting to know Mickey Mantle was a dream come true for me. And since I met him through Bill, who told him I was a good guy, whom he could trust, Mickey was great to me from the get-go.

  The right introduction can go a long way.

  (In fact, down the road, Mickey was instrumental in my successfully signing crucial deals with Yogi Berra and Phil Rizzuto.)

  The ‘86 Giants

  One of the regulars when I worked at the Hard Rock was a guy named Lee Lipton. Lee was an important figure in the garment industry, and he used to come into the restaurant with fashion models and New York Mets, Giants, and other athletes. When I left the Hard Rock for the Sporting Club, Lee took it upon himself to introduce me to some friends of his whom he thought could be of some assistance to me.

  “I don't know what you're getting into here, with a theme bar in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “But I know some guys who might be able to help you out.”

  Lee introduced me to Hank Mackin (nicknamed H), who ran a stuffed toy company, and Kevin Heller, a jewelry maker and classic guy-who-knows-everyone-everywhere. Kevin's brother was a lawyer in Florida, with strong ties to the University of Miami's football team; through him, Kevin knew a slew of pro athletes who had passed through that program. Still more athletes sought him for custom-made jewelry. The guy had a lot of connections. It was through H and Kevin that I first got to meet several big athletes, including Lawrence Taylor, Carl Banks, Darryl Strawberry, Ron Darling, Jim Burt and Herschel Walker. They often hung out together and would invite me out as well.

  The year 1986 was a spectacular stretch for New York sports. After the Mets won the World Series in historically dramatic fashion, the New York Football Giants steamrolled their own competition, to the tune of a 14-2 record. They were all set to host the Redskins in the NFC Championship Game in January 1987.

  Peter DuPre came up big-time once again. The morning of the NFC Championship, Peter called to tell me he had four tickets to the game and asked if I wanted them. Tickets to that game were impossible to get, and these seats were on the 40-yard line.

  I called H and Kevin; the three of us went with another friend of Kevin's, Danny Stubbs, a standout defensive end at Miami who was drafted by the 49ers a year later and went on to play for five different teams in the NFL.

  As the Giants were putting the finishing touches on their 17-0 victory over Washington, Kevin turned to me and promised he was going to pay me back for the tickets—by taking me to Super Bowl XXI, at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. (Because of the rivalry between the Giants and the Redskins, the NFC Championship tickets were more difficult to come by than Super Bowl tickets that year. While Kevin's player connections hadn't been enough to score tickets for the NFC title game, they readily afforded him Super Bowl tickets.)

  The trip out west was fantastic. We all flew out together. On the strength of Kevin's connections, it felt like we were royalty being shown around LA. Everywhere we went, we seemed to know everyone. It seemed like there were Hall of Fame athletes and big-time celebrities spilling off of every street corner. The day before the big game, we even went to the players' hotel, to visit Giants' running back Joe Morris. Joe was a friend from our shared time at Syracuse.

  Joe was rooming there with Giants tight end Zeke Mowatt. While we were hanging out in their room, I noticed a stack of messages on the desk: the messages were for calls from Johnny Carson, David Letterman—it seemed like every television show and news outlet was trying to get a hold of them.

  I had an epiphany of sorts.

  “Joe,” I said, leafing through the message slips. “Who is helping you with all this?”

  “No one, really,” he said.

  “I want to help you with this when you get back to New York,” I said.

  Sure enough, Joe Morris was my first ostensible client. He was quickly followed by Keith Hernandez, Darryl Strawberry, and David Cone of the Mets, and Lawrence Taylor and Carl Banks of the
Giants.

  I had effectively started my own celebrity marketing and event agency. I incorporated it as Steiner Associates. It was 1987.

  Meeting Mara

  While working for the Astor Group, I decided to throw a fund-raiser for my old camp, Camp Sussex, which was for underprivileged kids. I had spent some great summers there, first as a camper, and then as an employee. I was grateful for my time there; every year since my last summer at camp I had found a way to raise money for it.

  We held the fund-raiser at the Amsterdam restaurant in West Soho. I promoted it everywhere I could, but I never could have imagined how far word would travel.

  As I was watching the people streaming into the event, in walked someone I didn't expect to see: Mara Wagner, my first love, whom I met at camp when I was 17.

  Mara had grown up in Five Towns, Long Island, an area much more affluent than my own. Her parents had sent her to Camp Sussex so that she would get to know kids from more modest backgrounds. They wanted her to get to know both sides of the world, as it were. Unfortunately, she got to know me.

  But I hadn't seen her for eight years.

  Then there she was that night at the Amsterdam. She took the wind right out of me. She looked fantastic.

  I was speechless, but fortunately, Mara came up to me and broke the ice. We talked for a while, and the whole time I knew I was in trouble. She was really pretty and very smart, and she had these great blue eyes.

  Even though we had parted ways when we both went to college, I had never forgotten about Mara. It was Mara who first got me to think seriously about college. She had had a huge impact on my entire view of the world; she made me see the bigger picture. She was the love of my life.

  Mara went to Wharton for undergrad, and even though we saw each other only two times in college, I made sure to check up on her through mutual friends now and then. She was always in the back of my mind, but I never really thought that we would reconnect after all those years. Now she was a semester away from getting a master's in finance from the University of Chicago.

  We went out to dinner a few nights after the fund-raiser. Seeing the woman she had become, I was even more thunderstruck than before.

  Mara was interested in hearing all about what I had been doing, and she had really good insights about it all. We began dating, even though she was still living in the Windy City.

  Amazingly, when Mara completed her degree and moved to Manhattan, she settled into an apartment on the Lower East Side—mere blocks from the Astor Group office. I had been living on the Upper West Side, and it was difficult not to read the circumstances as some kind of sign from above. Not long after, Mara graciously let me move in with her.

  Mara is the most secure, sensible person I know. With me in mid-air and Mara's feet planted firmly on the ground, we achieved a nice equilibrium. We complemented each other very well and made a great team.

  In 1988, we got married—it's 23 years and counting.

  One Thing Leads to Another

  During my time with the Astor Group, I produced a handful of fight nights on the side—like the ones I hosted when I worked at the Sporting Club. Through my work there, I had met a man named Donald Lipeles, who currently runs Madison Sports Management, a marketing agency. In those days, Don owned a satellite TV company; he would accompany me when I needed to bring certain television equipment to a restaurant.

  Don and I put on some very large fight nights at discotheques around the city including 4D and Club 1018. We charged as much as $250 and even $500 a head for these premium parties, and people still lined up around the block to get in. We drew thousands of paying customers to our bigger events.

  These events attracted corporate types who wanted to show their clients a good time. In addition to the big screens we had hooked up to the satellite feed, we had the ring girls and everything; it was just like you were there in person.

  And just as they had at the Sporting Club, celebs showed up. Dustin Hoffman, Alex Trebek, Lawrence Taylor, Charles Oakley, Dan Marino, Ottis Anderson, Mark Jackson—all of them could practically have been called regulars. I'll never forget that at one of these fight nights, Eddie Fischer sang the national anthem!

  Of course, I had long had designs on opening a sports bar of my very own. I had a vision. It was essentially going to be like the ESPN Zone—except a decade before the ESPN Zone existed. At one point I had raised about $300,000 from everyone and their mother—and my mother—and I looked at a lot of spaces. But it just didn't come together.

  Then, in 1989, Don Lipeles called me with an offer. He told me that he and a few associates were going to start their own small marketing agency. The group was composed of Don, who was going to handle player marketing and autograph signing with Mead Chasky, who was tight with all of the ‘86 Mets; and David Lin, a lawyer who represented several Yankees. Don asked me to come on to spearhead the food service side.

  “We're going to be like a mini-IMG,” Don told me, referring to the sports marketing and media behemoth.

  That night, I talked things over with Mara. In order to accept Don's offer, I'd have to give up my steady job at the Astor Group. But Mara agreed that the invitation sounded like a great opportunity, and it was worth the sacrifice. Besides, I think she was probably relieved that joining this new firm would put an end to my dream of opening my own enormously risky sports bar. So that Monday morning, rather than train down to the East Village, I headed to midtown, and reported for work at my new office, at 645 Madison Avenue, 60th Street in Manhattan.

  No sooner did I reach the 10th floor and walk in the door, however, than Don pulled me into his office. He proceeded to explain that he and the other guys had decided that they didn't need me to be a partner, after all. I was free to keep my one-room office, inside their two-floor space, so long as I rented it from them. But I was no longer going to be part of their new company.

  I felt humiliated. I can't say it was as bad as that time in fifth grade when Mr. Kerper gave me money to buy new clothes, but it was in that ballpark of feeling. Still, I had no choice but to take Don up on the office rental; for at least a month, I had nowhere else to go.

  A few months later, Don and David and the rest of them determined that they couldn't make their arrangement work, and they all moved out of the office! Now I was working in a ghost office.

  On My Own

  I did anything I could to stay afloat. I went back to hosting events at venues around the city: guest bartender nights tying together celebrities, charities, and liquor companies; fight nights; other celebrity events, like golf outings. All sorts of marketing campaigns for all sorts of bars and restaurants.

  I sold fight night packages to restaurants like Mickey Mantle's and Tavern on the Green. I'd sell them the satellite broadcast, celebrity clientele, and the other necessary ingredients for a great fight night, and they'd sell tickets. I sold some packages to corporations that held fight nights in their conference rooms for their employees and associates. I built up a steady little business for myself. I even ended up helping to open a few bars as far away as Miami. All the while, it was becoming more and more apparent that sports moved people as much as celebrities did.

  Still, as time marched on, more and more people were signing up for cable subscriptions and getting access to pay-per-view at home. I knew that soon they weren't going to need to leave their homes to watch boxing, or any other sport. The business model of organizing promotions and events around premium sports broadcasts wasn't going to last much longer.

  The final nail in the coffin came in 1991, when Mike Tyson was convicted of rape. He had been scheduled to fight Evander Holyfield for the heavyweight championship in November of that year; I had lined up big fight events at several bars. It was going to be my biggest payday yet, and when Tyson got locked up, it became a crippling loss. I was going to have to find other ways to make my business work.

  Before the end of the fight night era, however, I got a phone call from my friend Michael Ritz. And no matter what you
call it—fate, luck, coincidence—that phone call was a product of years of hard work creating sports events at bars.

  Michael worked at the Howard Marlboro Group, with a man named Don Raskin. Currently a senior partner at Manhattan Media Ensemble, at that time, Don ran the promotional department of HMG. Cutty Sark Scotch Whiskey had just hired the firm to create a promotional campaign; Michael recommended to Don that they farm out the work to me. At first Don was reluctant to give away any business, but Michael convinced him that I had a unique skill set to bring to the account, based on my experience working with celebrities to market restaurants and bars.

  After all, in reality, I didn't have to be a competitor. If I helped create a great campaign for Cutty Sark, it would only reflect well on HMG, strengthening the trust between the two companies. (I'd be the What Else HMG could provide to Cutty.)

  Needless to say, no sooner did Don call me with the parameters of the project than my mind started racing, dreaming up possible events for the whiskey brand.

  I had recently done some promotions with bars that had Pop A Shot arcade games. In these games, you take as many free throw–type shots as you can in one minute, while arcade lights flash and your score is recorded on an LCD display.

  I had always been a fan of Rick Barry. A former ABA and NBA superstar, Rick wasn't just one of the best free throw shooters in history; with his unorthodox, underhand, two-hand technique, he was the most iconic and recognizable free throw shooter of all time.

  Even though he was working as an NBA broadcaster for TBS, Rick was being underutilized commercially. It was a perfect formula; with his reputation as a legendary free throw shooter, and known national TV presence—along with his limited commercial exposure—Rick was the perfect athlete around whom Cutty Sark could run a dynamic promotional campaign.