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I’m sitting at a table full of stockbrokers and executives who are about to take a company public. Most of the paperwork has been done, and now we’re getting down to the little sweeteners that brokers build in for themselves in case the company’s stock price rises quickly after the opening day. They’re looking to me for investment money, but they have no idea, yet, what I’m thinking.
When they begin to describe to me a block of stock that they call greenshoe options, I’m struck with a feeling of déjà vu, and recognize what these characters are really up to …
When I was seventeen, I flew down to Florida to visit my Uncle Walter. He’d sold his restaurant for a lot of money and retired at the age of thirty-eight. Ever since then, he’d been spending as much time as possible frequenting the many race tracks near Miami, and contributing significantly to their fortunes.
It was spring break, and the incredible adventure my father had lined up for me had fallen through. I was supposed to be driving his friend, Georgie Fingers’s car to Fort Lauderdale while Georgie made the trip by airplane, but at the last minute it occurred to them that putting a kid my age on the road to Florida in a Rolls Royce might have some problems associated with it. The flight to Florida was my consolation prize.
Uncle Walter did everything he could to help me overcome my disappointment. The first day I was there, he took me to Hialeah, and taught me how to read the racing form. Then, with the kind of patience only an uncle can show, he walked me through the process of betting. By the time the eighth race was over, I’d learned all about the daily double, trifectas, quinellas, and how to lose all my vacation money in one afternoon.
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