Greetings from Met-land. It may be a little bit premature, but I’m confident enough in the outcome to get ahead of myself, disclosure-wise. It may be days, or even a handful of weeks, but soon enough, the already overheated press wires should be humming with the announcement of my joining the team.
Now, I must offer a few qualifiers here. First, I actually don’t even like baseball. Finding it unwatchable, I haven’t attended a game in nearly 20 years. On the field, I never put much fear into the opposition when I stepped up to the plate, and as for my curve ball? Don’t ask (I don’t have one).
And even my feeble interest in our (misnomer) National Pass time, places my allegiances elsewhere, much to the west of Citi Field. I still hold something of a grudge against that ’69 squad for that stretch of the August, coinciding with Woodstock, when the Mets humiliated the Cubs out of what looked like an insurmountable 8 game lead, and went on to take home the Big Prize.
The Mets last trip to the Ring Measurer transpired in 1986, largely owing to the sadly capricious glove of Red Sox First Baseman Bill Bucker. And I’ve always had a soft spot for Billy Buck, who died about a year ago, having received only tepid, Bostonian redemption for his error on that Mookie Wilson grounder in the late innings of Game 6. The ball took a funny hop, and the reality that he alligator-armed it is beyond dispute. But Billy was a pretty tough out for 22 seasons. How many of us can say the same?
So, trust me on this, I find myself as astonished as most of you that this coming season, I’ll be suiting up for the New York National League team. Plus, in addition to all of the above-mentioned factors, I managed to strain my calf on Friday, and, with Pitchers and Catchers reporting in nine short weeks, I’ve got some serious rehabbing in front of me.
But duty calls, and I intend to be ready. As many of you may already be aware, Hedge Fund Titan Steve Cohen recently came to terms with the clueless and misanthropic Wilpon family, to acquire a controlling interest in the team. It would have been hard to have missed the viral reporting on this, but what at least some of you may not know is that I worked for Steve for several years. Over two tours of duty. And right now, his newly acquired asset is such a hot mess that though he has yet to reach out to me, I’m pretty certain it’s only a matter of time. Because he’s gonna need my help. I owe him a great deal — for the faith he placed in in me (twice), and its attendant impact on my career, so I can’t let him down now, when he (arguably) needs me the most.
So Steve, in case you’re reading this, I’m pleased to offer you, free of charge, the following bit of introductory advice, upon which I implore you to act immediately.
Lose the theme song. Right now. Because it’s by far the worst anthem in the sporting universe. A respectable hook is nowhere to be found, and the lyrics are so cringe-worthy that my fingers almost refuse to type them (but again duty calls). “Meet the Mets, meet the Mets, Step right up and greet the Mets, Bring your kiddies, Bring your wife, Guaranteed to have the time of your life…”.
It actually, and against all odds, gets worse from there.
No wonder the team hasn’t won anything in more than three decades. Because not only is that the worst sports anthem ever written, it may just be the worst song of all time.
I’ve been working on its replacement: an aggressive riff with less effete lyrics, and strains of Mendelson and Godsmack. But if he wants it, he’s going to have to pay me. After all, we’re capitalists, right?
I also think that the organization could benefit from a healthy dose of risk management. But I was more fired up about this until I discussed it with the wisest person I know. Who is not even a sports fan, but who but managed to point out the whole Money Ball/been there/done that element of this concept.
OK, fair enough. But while Billy Beane did a nice job of stealing some of my analytics and applying them to the return on monetary investment, as measured by on-base percentage, etc., he left out some critical elements. For instance, how are Innings Pitched and Slugging Percentage impacted by changing Foreign Exchange Rates, a discrete rise in Implied Volatilities, or, say, a Factor Shift — from Growth to Value? Well, Steve, I’m here to assist you in unpacking these mysteries.
And undertaking such a project is fortuitous for me from a timing perspective, because, if investor activity and market data are to be believed, right now there is virtually no risk worth measuring in the financial markets. Equity indices move from one high to the next. Friday’s jobs report was an unambiguous blowout. The FOMC meets this week, but can’t possibly pull a fast one at this late date in the year. There’s a baker’s dozen worth of trading days left in the 2019 (including, I must point out, one on a looming Friday the 13th), and by all accounts, there appears to be little on the horizon that is likely to impede the safe and docile migration of the Good Ship 2019 into Dry Dock.
Maybe the best news I unearthed all week was the following chart I heroically sourced from the Bloomberg home page:
Now, I only have a couple of comments on this graph. First, please ignore the encircled arrow at the Northeast corner. I could’ve eliminated it, but I’m feeling kind of lazy this morning.
More importantly, one of the most unshakeable rules in the investment game (kind of like sending the runners when there are two outs, the count is 3-2, and the bases are juiced) is that when the strategists are all negged out, it’s time to do some buying.
But we’re not here to cover any of that, now, are we? Let’s keep talking baseball. According to that holy virtual shrine: MLB.com Mets Pitchers and Catchers report to their Spring Training HQ in Port St. Lucie, FL on Valentine’s Day. And though it will break her heart, I plan to be there to greet them when they arrive. In fact, I’m in Florida right now (at the Big Art Throw Down and no, I haven’t seen Stevie yet), checking things out. I took an Uber ride with a driver who also played some minor league ball in the early 70s for the Tidewater Tides: former Triple A affiliate of, you guessed it, the New York Mets.
Really nice guy. New Yorker and retired lawyer, but we will hold neither of these against him. And what it got me to thinking was that it’s time for us to ease back on all of that shade we are throwing at companies like Uber: enormous disruptors that are hated on by factions such as Wall Street and Progressives. Yes, Uber loses money, and no their drivers are not employees, but, of their own free will, independent contractors. But are there aren’t many informed users of the service who don’t swear by it. For reasons of my own, I am under a partially self-imposed ban from driving around Mid-Town, and cannot be other than highly thankful that with a couple of clicks on my smart phone, a driver will cheerfully take me to where I need to go.
I’ve been feeling a similar form of wistfulness about We Work. Really stupid business model. Unfathomable that purportedly smart investors took the bait. We can all take some perverse gratification in the financial comeuppance currently being dished out to Company Founder Adam Neumann and Softbank Papa-san Masayoshi Son, for their undeniable greed and hubris.
We Work may or may not survive its well-deserved financial reckoning, but God bless them for disrupting the long-rigged commercial rental market. Before they emerged, one of the most difficult challenges for small and start up enterprises, especially in cities like New York, was that of securing office space. Unless your organization had a large, pristine balance sheet, renters would not accept it as a lessee. Instead, individual owners had to sign, lock in for several years, and hope for the best.
Even then: a) you’d be lucky to find anything suitable; and b) you were almost guaranteed to have paid an egregious premium for the privilege.
Enter We Work, and now they’re giving away office rental space all over town. My guys are pressing me to finally take down a spot, and I find that I can go month to month, on virtually any square block in Manhattan, at a small fraction of the cost that would have applied a few short years ago.
So I’m gonna tip my orange and blue cap to Neumann and Son-san, and hope they find a way.
I’d throw Tesla onto the list of hated on companies that maybe deserve some kinder consideration, but the truth is that I’m not there yet. I will state this, however. Some of these days, an enterprise is going to crack the whole electronic car and lithium battery code, and if it’s not Musk and his team, it will at any rate be an organization that owes a significant debt of gratitude to them for their innovation, insight and daring.
But I reckon that’s nearly all I’ve got to say about baseball for the moment. Mookie was very gracious to Billy Buck for the balance of the latter’s life. We probably will secure some Manhattan office space, and though my preference is towards Regus over We Work, I am clear on the economic advantage conveyed on entities like mine by the arrival of WW on the scene.
So don’t let anybody throw cold water on your dreams is my best advice. If you can’t sing, you can still play guitar. If you can’t draw, don’t let them tell you that you can’t paint.
And even though I can neither deliver, nor make contact with, anything that resembles a curve ball, I still plan on being in uniform when the Mets open their season, against the Defending World Series Champion Washington Nationals, at Citi Field, on March 26, 2020. In fact, I intend to be in the lineup. I just haven’t decided yet which position I intend to play. But one way or another on 3/26/20 I’ll be good to go. And I’ve been working hard on my swing, in what is likely an irrational expectation that sometime in late February, I’ll take both deGrom and Syndergaard downtown.
It is, I believe you’ll agree, the least I can do for my former and future chieftain.
TIMSHEL