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After years of hearing my father rant at my flaws, one loss has caused me to take up his rant. I’ve internalized my father—his impatience, his perfectionism, his rage—until his voice doesn’t just feel like my own, it is my own. I no longer need my father to torture me. From this day on, I can do it all by myself.
I always felt Michael’s legendary trash talking wasn’t meant for the other guy; it was another way for him to heighten the pressure he put on himself, because once you’ve told others how bad you’re about to fuck them up, you’re gonna have to deliver on that promise. I tell my guys, “Pressure, pressure, pressure.” Most people run from stress. I run to it. Stress keeps you sharp, it challenges you in ways you never imagined and forces you to solve issues and manage situations that send weaker people running for cover. You can’t succeed without it.
All my original stockholders got back $20 for every dollar they had invested. For one minute, I held a check for $1,000,000 in my hands, made out in my name, the end product of the $1 I had started out with in Milwaukee. That million dwindled fast. To begin with, the tax bite took 25 percent of the profits off the top. In addition to turning over half of what was left to Eleanor, I also bought the ranch, which was in her name, from her. Add it all up—or, more to the point, subtract—and you can see
Veeck--as in Wreck
Bill Veeck, Ed Linn
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