“And how exactly did you do that?” I ask.
“I took a smaller percentage than the other agent was willing to consider. Or I agreed to a sliding fee based on my performance, not theirs. Sometimes I just worked harder to prove myself, sold more convincingly. It’s not so different from what you do. Only people, especially women, don’t trust me as easily as they trust you.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“See? You just don’t want to trust me. You don’t want to believe I could have become successful from working my ass off rather than poaching off others.” His eyes deepen further. The smile remains on his lips, and his tone is light, but I can tell how strongly he feels. “I think it actually bothers you that I’m not the bastard you thought I was.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re assuming I don’t think you’re a bastard anymore. Maybe I’m just better able to deal with you.”
“No.” He searches my eyes as if looking for something. “You are desperately trying to hold on to your dislike. You don’t want to believe I’m a good guy. So, you look for examples of bad behavior.”
“I think you think I think about you way more than I do.”
“Do I?” His grin is infectious. In fact, he uses humor more effectively than almost anyone I know. He’s quick. And opinionated yet able to argue from multiple sides, sometimes all at once.
Dueling with him keeps me on my toes. And although I’m not planning to admit it anytime soon, having to defend my positions and being forced to seriously consider his has helped hone the presentation we’re about to make to Larry in ways I never would have expected.
By the time we settle on the sofa and chairs in Larry’s office that Tuesday after lunch, another choice we hammered out together, finally agreeing it would be more effective than a formal presentation in the conference room, I don’t even need the notes I always have as backup.
“Okay,” Larry says. “Go!”
Without actually planning it, we present as a tag team. I explain our intention to stick with tennis and baseball, with the focus on tennis first, including the role of the Tennis Center. Rich lays out our overall strategy for recruiting staff and coaches and players, but there’s a lot of back-and-forth and filling in with background on how decisions were reached.
We spend a lot of time on why we think this is the moment and the importance of getting started as quickly as possible to prevent IMG from getting a toehold here on our turf.
We summarize, then hand over two possible budgets—one with all the bells and whistles and one that contains compromises—partly because you almost never get everything you want and because the bottom line will ultimately depend on Larry’s enthusiasm for the project. Which based on the size of his smile and the nodding of his head is looking pretty encouraging.
“Jazz brings a lot to the table. You were right about not even attempting anything of this scope without her,” Rich says in closing, startling me not only with the compliment but with the use of the nickname my sister bestowed on me long ago. Every time I think I know exactly who he is, he pulls out some shiny new facet.
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing the light,” Larry replies. “You two are even more impressive when you’re pulling together.”
When we leave Larry’s office, I’m jangling from the whole presentation, the ease of communication, the flow of our pitch, how clearly Larry seemed to get it.
“Did that go as well as I think it did?” I ask as we round the corner, headed, by unspoken agreement (a first!), toward my office.
“Better. It was a beautiful thing. If he doesn’t approve every penny of every bell and whistle, I will be shocked to the very depths of my being.”
“I didn’t realize your ‘being’ was all that deep.” But in truth, he has depths I never expected, and I have never been part of a better, more cohesive experience. I am high on it.
“Very funny. Tear me to shreds if you must, but we definitely need to celebrate. And no, we’re not waiting for a formal approval from Larry. Can I buy you a drink? Unless you need to pick up Maya or something. You could take my car so you can get there and back faster.”
“My dad’s picking her up. She’s spending the night with her grandparents,” I say as we near Erin’s desk. “I am not opposed to a drink. But I’ll do the buying.”
Erin’s eyes are bigger than I’ve ever seen them. They blink in surprise.
“If you’re waiting for me to go all macho or something, you can forget about it,” Rich replies. “You can definitely buy me a drink. Hell, you can buy me two.”
Erin looks between the two of us. “So, it went well?”
“It went better than well,” I say.
“Your boss is a genius. I mean really, she’s that good,” Rich adds.
I drop my files on my desk and grab my purse. “We’re going to celebrate. See you tomorrow.” I can’t seem to stop smiling. “Hold down the fort.”
Rich gives her a salute and links his arm through mine. “Come on, Mario. Time’s a-wasting.”
We decide on Mission + Market because it’s in the next building and are ordering a drink and “bar bites” by 3:20.
“I always wondered what kind of people went drinking at three thirty,” I say as our cocktails arrive.
“Smart people. People who have things to celebrate.” Rich raises his glass to mine.
“We are both of those things, aren’t we?” I say with relish as we clink glasses.
I buy Rich the two drinks I promised, but I’m too busy talking and laughing and arguing to order a second for myself.
When we move to Kaleidoscope on Dresden, close to my home, he insists on reciprocating. I’m sipping a glass of my favorite rosé when I ask the question that’s been on everyone’s mind. “So why did you leave Pinnacle Partners and LA for Atlanta? I mean, I think StarSports is a great agency—Larry’s built something impressive—but it’s pretty small potatoes compared to Pinnacle.”
“It’s a lot simpler and less interesting than all the rumors going around.” His eyes snare mine. “My daughter started at Emory in the fall. She’s a freshman, but a young one.” He hesitates. “And I, uh, know it sounds a little old-fashioned, but I didn’t want to be all the way across the country from her.”
“You have a daughter.”
“I do.”
I try to picture Rich as a father and husband. “You’re not married, though.” It’s a statement and a question.