3. Animal House
I walked onto the Syracuse University campus knowing nobody and excited for a fresh start. It was an expensive institution, but the efforts of my mother, support from my grandparents, financial aid, and work-study programs made the experience possible. Syracuse was everything I wanted in a college: a quality education, an expansive campus, a thriving Greek system, and a nationally prominent athletic program.
There were a few familiar faces from Great Neck, but nobody I would consider a friend. That changed the first day of classes when I walked into Sociology 101 in the Maxwell Auditorium. As I sat in the fishbowl-style classroom, a shaggy-haired kid with a Zeta Psi hat was sitting directly in front of me. He was drawing a picture-perfect Tasmanian Devil, and my eyes drifted to his handiwork.
“That has to be traced,” I offered as we gathered our books, opening a conversation. “Nope, it’s freehand,” he said with a smile while extending his hand. “I’m Kevin Wassong, sophomore—damned glad to meet you!” We continued to talk as we walked out of the building, and I watched him converse with other students. He had a way about him, an infectious energy that combined the easiness of Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption and the innocence of Kevin Arnold from The Wonder Years. It’s safe to say that he was instantly likable.
Our friendship grew throughout my first semester, and I pledged Zeta Psi that spring. The following year, we roomed together in our fraternity house, continued to build upon our bond, and by the time we broke for the summer, we were best friends. He joined me for a vacation to southern California the following year, and we stayed with my dad in Long Beach, where he was living with spouse number four in a small house in a bad neighborhood. We actually heard gunshots as we sat on the front porch talking about our future plans. The next day, we ventured to Universal Studios to take the tour, and I immediately saw a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
When Kevin graduated in 1990, he landed a job at the Creative Artists Agency in Los Angeles and pursued his passion for entertainment. While he earned a degree from the Newhouse School of Communication and I studied business management, we always talked about working together one day. Twenty years later, we would do just that.
As I made my way through Syracuse University, I wanted to study business but wasn’t sure of which major to pursue. I enjoyed accounting, but finance seemed entirely more exciting—one industry created wealth and the other simply counted it. I reminded myself that if I wanted to make money, I needed to stand near the cash register. The deepest drawers were on Wall Street, I knew, but I didn’t have blue blood or a means of infusion. That posed a problem unless I could somehow identify a way to crack the code. I had to think outside the box.
I was a good student who took my academic career seriously, despite an active commitment to collegiate hedonism. I was competitive in part because I felt that I had something to prove. When I viewed coursework as a contest, I started to pull away from my peers. Graduating with honors was a good start, but I knew that it wouldn’t be enough when I began to interview at Wall Street firms.
I waited tables my freshman year at the local Bennigan’s and used those tips to underwrite a bartending class the following summer. I worked at several bars when I returned to school before landing a job during my junior year as a bouncer at Harry’s, one of the more popular hangouts on the hill. I had no interest in standing outside in the Syracuse chill, but it was an opportunity to get my foot in the door—that too would provide a valuable lesson that came in handy later in life.
When the regular bartender called in sick one night, I was asked to replace him, and under the watchful eye of the owner, I was “high ring,” putting more money in the till than the older, more experienced pourers. I then joined the starting rotation and with each successful night, I was given more latitude. In a few short months, I had my choice of shifts.
I had everything that I could have ever dreamed of. I bartended at my favorite watering hole, excelled in my class work, enjoyed fraternity life, and did the types of things that college kids wanted to do. I had it all, yet I wanted more, the fatal flaw of a classic overachiever.
The Ace of Spades
During my junior year, I aced my finance midterm and blew the bell curve. Pride would have been an appropriate reaction, but I studied the few wrong answers and loathed the lack of perfection. That was my style—set the bar too high so if I missed, I would still be ahead of the crowd. It wasn’t the healthiest approach, as I never allowed myself to feel a true sense of accomplishment.
Following the test, my finance professor called me to his office. As I walked across the campus to accept his praise, I allowed myself a rare moment of satisfaction. Things were going well and despite the looming unknown of what I would do after graduation, I let myself enjoy that moment as I raced across the quad on that frigid Syracuse afternoon.
When I arrived, he proceeded to grill me on the subject matter, one question after another, as he stared into my eyes. After a few minutes, I realized what was happening.
“You think I cheated?” I asked, calmly at first but then with increased agitation. “I busted my ass for this class, and you’re accusing me of cheating?”
Following an intense exchange, the conversation eased into a healthy dialogue, and, as fate would have it, the professor oversaw the Department of International Programs Abroad. There were several internship opportunities available overseas that summer, most of which were geared toward MBAs. He began to gauge my interest as I asked which companies participated in the program. He listed them one by one: Manufacturer’s Hanover. Saatchi & Saatchi. Morgan Stanley….
“Morgan Stanley?” I interrupted, recognizing the name of one of the biggest cash registers on the Street. “If I can intern at Morgan, I’ll gladly hop the pond for the summer.”
London Calling
When I accepted the Morgan Stanley internship, I had no idea that it was one of the few paying positions of all the companies in the program, which was good news for a kid staring at tens of thousands of dollars in college loans. I headed overseas for the summer of 1990, between my junior and senior years.
I was placed in the Operations Control department and was responsible for telling traders about the errors they made in their accounts. My manager was a nice enough guy, an expatriate who seemed to like having someone to talk with about American sports. When it was time for me to return to the States, I asked him for a letter of recommendation. The first one (shown on the next page) was handed to me as a joke. The second one—the real one—provided the key to the vault.
I looked forward to stepping onto the loud and chaotic floor to absorb the energy each day. There was something uniquely powerful about the way the business was transacted. It felt like I was standing at the very center of capitalism and commerce. I lifted weights in college, and I wasn’t a small guy, and while that had proved helpful at Harry’s, it provided little utility in the high-stakes world of trading. The environment was scary yet exciting, and unlike anything that I had ever experienced.
By the end of the summer, I was physically drained, emotionally spent, intellectually challenged, and completely sold. When I returned to the States, accounting was no longer an option.
I didn’t want to crunch the numbers. I wanted to create them.
The Relationship Business
My senior year was supposed to be a final stretch of innocent fun before I embarked on a career path. I had the college experience down and looked forward to my Syracuse finale. While I had one eye on the future, my other body parts were firmly committed to squeezing every ounce of enjoyment from my remaining time in upstate New York.
The weekend after I arrived home from London, I was at my girlfriend’s home in New Jersey. It was raining, there wasn’t much on television, and we had already eaten, among other things. Bored, I decided to call my aunt, who lived nearby, to see how she was doing. As we caught up, she told me about a friend of hers who worked at Morgan Stanley. “You should give him a ring,” she said. “He’s a great guy.”
I called Chuck Feldman, who I would later learn was a legend on Wall Street. He pioneered the equity derivative business and ran the show at Morgan Stanley; he was the quintessential old-school trader, a guy who worked his way to the top and stayed there. He was, as we used to say in the day, “the man.” His high-pitched voice was extremely soft-spoken when we were on the phone. That’s the first thing I remember about Chuck, how soft-spoken he was. It would be the last time I ever had that thought.
He lived in a neighboring town and invited me to swing by to shake his hand. We met for an hour, took a ride to the supermarket and had a pleasant enough conversation; I remember thinking that he wasn’t a large man, but his presence cast a long shadow.
It was an hour that would forever change my professional path.
It was an hour that ultimately handed me the keys to the cash register.
The Fast Track
I was preparing for the annual Zeta Psi toga party at the end of the first semester of my senior year when the phone rang.
“Hey, Todd, it’s Chuck. Listen—we have an opening on the desk, and I need to know if you’re interested.” I was surprised at how noisy the trading room was in the background. His voice was no longer soft.
“Uh, I’m very interested,” I said as I held the phone in one hand and a Coor’s Light in the other, “but what about school?”
“You can finish up by mail.” he shot back, seemingly wanting an immediate answer. He paused to bark an order at someone and then mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch. “Let me know if you can start next week!”
It was the shot I had been waiting for, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bypass the rigorous two-year training program at a top-tier firm, which would have spit me back out to get my MBA. It was a chance to sit on the trading desks of one of the best financial institutions in the world.
I spent the next day chasing down my professors, pleading with them to shift my course load so I could immediately start at Morgan and still graduate with my class. One by one, they agreed, and by the next day, I was set. My girlfriend cried in the background as I picked up the phone to deliver the news to Chuck.
“I’ll be there Monday morning,” I said in the most confident tone I could muster, trying to mask my nervousness. There was silence.
“Hey kid,” he finally said, “why don’t you finish school and call me when you’re done.”
I didn’t know what that meant—was I getting the job? Did I do something wrong? Did he change his mind? All these thoughts raced through my mind before I realized he already had hung up.
I finished my senior year, occasionally calling Chuck in hopes of staying on his radar. Each time he was cordial, but at no point did he renew his offer. I tried to enjoy the rest of my college experience despite the anxiety that emerged every time one of my classmates landed a job.
Finally, in the spring of 1991, I got the call: “Come in kid, we’ll see what we can do.” To this day, I don’t know if Chuck’s initial offer was a test to see how badly I wanted the position or an impetuous gesture he later second-guessed. It didn’t matter; I had my foot in the door and the opportunity to prove myself, much like at Harry’s but with entirely more on the line.
The Monday following my graduation, as my friends left to backpack in Europe and I nursed a wicked hangover, I paced the pristine lobby at 1251 Avenue of the Americas.
I could almost smell the money.