The Analyst #4 - Cincinnati
Each month, we’ll tell the story of an analyst’s journey to become one of the greats.
Taking stock of the good stuff, battling internal demons and looking to what comes next is no easy balance. Sometimes a peaceful place helps make peace with it all.
It was unusually serene for a January morning on the Vineyard. He was taking a holiday break from the city, just needed to get away from the bustle. Normally, he took his ride in the park before work or just hit the gym. But today, he rolled through the hills ‘Up-Island’. Not a person. Not a car. No sounds. Just a ridiculous view of the gorgeous blue Atlantic on Middle Road, stretching beyond the cow pastures and wheat fields.
He thought about farming. It was kind of his job to think about farming. The crops, the machinery, and the technology that all enabled his companies to profit and their stocks to gyrate so. He was altogether comfortable with that kind of volatility.
He careened down an easy hill to an old crossing called Beetlebung, named for the trees that produced wood tools for making ships in the Whaler days. Down the hill still further was Menemsha, where the Tricentennial (1694-1994) celebration happened 30 years ago. Back in the day, they caught their fish, tilled their crops and raised their cattle for a good long while before there were even colonies, let alone states. The frontier started right here, he thought. Those guys had to solve some real problems to survive and, ultimately, thrive. Probably focused on getting it done and not how they felt when they woke up...
Most days, he woke up worried. Not, ‘uh-oh the boogey man is coming’. That was too generic. His anxieties had painfully detailed features:
Were the numbers in the model right?
Did he check them one last time for errors?
Would something terrible really happen if he didn’t wear his blue quarter-zip on the same day he took it out of the dryer?
Did his scenario forecast cover most outcomes?
Did he have a good read of the risks?
What kind of read would Lindsay (LNN), which prints today, give for numbers at bigger Ag players where he had positions like DE, CAT, PCAR and CNH?
Did waiting to get his coffee every day at exactly 6:54 am at Blank Street on 23rd really ensure that his hit rate would stay above 54%?
The rides in the mornings helped, and so did the SSRIs. Turns out his chemical imbalances could be shifted a bit to help him think. His therapist said it was this mix of generalized anxiety and OCD that drove him to not to fail at things. And unsurprisingly, he rarely did. Also unsurprisingly, he was rarely happy about it.
But it took some time. There was not a lot of open discussion about taking on the mental side of the investment game. Portraying an external façade that read, “steady as she goes” without expressing emotions was easier said than done.
He had just turned in another great year – his sectors led results in a large industrials book. His hit rate was a firm best 57%, and he slugged at 1.4. Stats like these brought not only the attention of a grateful boss who had just paid him enough to buy a 2nd home if he wanted, but word was getting around and recruiters were calling, too.
He had spent 7 years grinding away, first as a junior on the sell-side out of banking, then working his way up the ranks at a big fund. He was supposed to be relishing this moment. The money that competitors were offering should have put his “worry factor” out the window. And yet here he was, thinking about colonial fishing and farming on an island and read-throughs from today’s print on his morning bike ride...
There was a new bakery at the corner, so he hopped off his bike and wandered inside. Behind the counter was a spry man laying out all kinds of breads and sandwiches. The chocolate croissant was calling him, and the coffee smelled good. He just needed to stand there for three more minutes, until his Apple watch would move up to 54 on the minute hand, lest he forsake all that hard-earned investing mojo…
The man turned around and saw him just standing and waiting, and he chuckled, “My dude, I see you eye-balling that croissant. I promise it’s real and won’t bite back. How about it?”
The man was disarming to be sure, but rules were rules. So, the analyst merely smiled, looked around, and checked out the fresh milled flour and some of the other knick-knacks in the front of the store. His bike shoes clicked as he ambled across the wood floor. Again, the man spoke. “I bet after pushing it to crest at that “can’t miss” view at the top of the hill, you probably hit thirty miles an hour before braking into the parking lot.”
He became more at ease as he realized that the baker clearly also rode. “Thirty-four, actually. That wind felt good.”
The baker pointed him to the side door and suggested he have a seat at the picnic table. “Look, I don’t give a shit about the metal on your riding boot, but my wife just did the floor. This one’s on the house.”
They walked outside and the baker set down the croissant on a small plate. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes, black please, and thank you,” the analyst responded, and sat at the table.
A minute later the man joined him. “Bought this place last summer and finished the renovation around Thanksgiving. Not exactly peak season right now. But when the kids put the store up on Instagram, I’m out of bread by ten o’clock. I just need to catch my breath before it gets busy.”
“So, I’m just curious,” the analyst said, “what made you decide to start a business?”
The man smiled, “Lemme guess. The bike, the curiosity, that earnest ‘I really do want to know’ look in your eye…are you a finance or deal guy by any chance?”
The ‘what-the fuck?’ look on his face told the baker he had him pegged. The analyst was surprised to be pinned down so easily. “Wow, good guess. Yeah, just taking a few days off from the city.”
“That’s why we moved here. We initially got it as summer getaway, and now we’re here for good,” the baker offered. “Close to stuff, but still on an island, if you get me?”
“Oh, I get you. I definitely get you. I’m here trying to figure some shit out career-wise. I’m just about to head into a ‘peak hedge fund’ type opportunity and I’m less than juiced about it.”
“Do you enjoy your job? I don’t mean, do you enjoy the status or the money it brings, but the day-to-day, week-to-week aspects?” This was not a question the analyst had asked himself. Not through the morning runs or rides. Not during earnings. And not when he was considering a potential next move. He was more focused on getting through, completing the task, hitting the numbers he needed to hit to be successful. His life was a treadmill of sorts. Even though he was very good at running on it, joy was elusive.
“I would have to say that I like to problem solve the most. That piece satisfies me more than the financial wins it gets me. But I spend a lot of time worrying about being wrong or failing and because of that, I’m not all that happy.”
The baker was not inclined to tell the analyst how maddeningly hard it had been for him to find the simple joy from doing a thing well or in the quest for self-improvement, in his first career or in this one, even if he was getting pretty good at the perfect loaf. No, the analyst needed to know that sometimes, greatness was its own reward, however lonely it might be. And that the Zen or calm or feng shui that might release his demons and provide peace would be available on his bike rides. And that when figuring out how to make the best career moves, he needed to know that solving the bigger questions was going to be a work-in-progress. Just then, the baker looked down at the analyst’s socks and saw a Patriots logo, right on the ankle.
“It’s on to Cincinnati.”
The analyst laughed. It was a memorable Belichick quote from the end of a press conference where he simply rebuffed any hard questions and looked ahead to the next week. The coach was undeniably great, and perhaps the most successful ever, but happy? A work-in-progress to be sure. The analyst remembered this was the life he chose, and for the moment at least, got unstuck. He was going to have to settle for being good at his job for now. “Thanks for the food and conversation. On to Cincinnati, indeed.”
The baker shook his hand, pulled a Yankees cap from his back pocket, put it on, and said, “It’s my pleasure, but the advice would have been much different if those socks had a Red Sox logo on them.”