Once Al made a decision – whether I agreed with it or not – it was my responsibility to make the best of that decision. In those instances in which I disagreed with him, I did so prospectively and directly, before the decision was made. When I failed at my efforts to change his mind it was my job to turn his decision into the best decision it could be. I also believed that it was my responsibility to keep confidential the fact that I disagreed with a decision. It was neither right nor appropriate, in my view, to let it be known outside of the organization that I thought Al was wrong or that I disagreed with his decision. Once a decision was made, I proceeded as if it was the decision of the organization.
There are employees who don’t express disagreement before a decision is made, but who, after it is, whisper to the media, colleagues, and others that it wasn’t their decision or that they didn’t agree with it.
They do this in an effort to distance themselves from decisions in order to protect their own reputations, all the while taking a paycheck from the same owner and organization they are undermining. I didn’t respect that. I thought that if one disagreed, one should do so prospectively and directly in an effort to affect a decision, not to later distance oneself from it.
In 2009, we drafted Darrius Heyward-Bey. As is often the case in the weeks and days leading up to the draft, there are leaks, and the media predicts whom a team will select. This prospective draft pick was resoundingly and harshly criticized. It was condemned as a “typical Al Davis pick.”
(By way of note, Darrius was at all times a tremendous teammate. He was proud to be a Raider. It certainly was not his doing that we drafted him as high as we did, opprobrium should not have been directed at him, and he handled the situation maturely and magnificently.)
Just moments before it was our turn to draft, Al had someone who was with him in the draft room locate me. I was never in the draft room at any time during my career and in this instance I was downstairs entertaining our guests – civic leaders, sponsors, suite holders, business partners. The individual who located me instructed me to head to a phone in a private area, away from our guests, as Al wished to speak with me. “Trask, we’re going to take him,” he said. “It’s going to be hard on you, we’ll get hit, you’ll have to handle it.”
And then he hung up and I went back to our guests.
When Al said “we’ll get hit,” this was his acknowledgement that we would be excoriated by the media, analysts, and others. When Al told me “you’ll have to handle it,” I knew what he meant. I would have to mollify our fans, ticket holders, suite holders, advertisers, sponsors, and business partners. Even knowing what was to come, I smiled wryly as I noted Al’s choice of words: “You’ll have to handle it.”
I wasn’t surprised by that choice of words – that was Al’s view; that I’d have to handle it. I was, however, surprised by his recognition and acknowledgment that there would be adverse consequences to his decision. Al rarely acknowledged that we would be harshly criticized for our actions or inactions. In fact, I can recall only one other instance during my career in which he did so. Further, Al never believed that such criticism would impact our business and admonished me for suggesting that it would.
He told me that I’d have to handle it. He was right, it was my job.
* * *
In 2008, Al publicly accused the New England Patriots of tampering with Randy Moss. But they didn’t. A Raiders employee initiated discussions with the Patriots about Moss and the Patriots engaged in a dialogue, but they did not tamper. I explained that to Al but, to use one of his favorite phrases, he didn’t “see it that way” and he told the press that the Patriots had tampered. The Patriots were understandably incensed and a league employee informed me that they had indicated intent to file a tampering claim against us.
Shortly after Al publicly leveled those tampering accusations, I attended a league meeting. Prior to the start of the meeting, I searched for Robert Kraft, the owner of the New England Patriots, because I wanted to broach the issue of Al’s comments with him and to apologize to him and his organization. When I found him, it was quite evident that he was very angry and my distinct impression was that he would refuse to speak with me. But he did speak with me. He listened to me, he engaged in a conversation, and he responded in an understanding, gracious, and generous manner. The result of that conversation: no grievance, no litigation.
Someone once said to me that litigation signifies failure. I think that is wise and powerful, and I agree with that as a general rule. In my experience, admitting when one is wrong, engaging in an open, honest dialogue and apologizing are often all that’s required to avoid litigation.
Very early in my career, I also acknowledged that we did something wrong, I apologized, and we avoided litigation in that instance as well.
It was 1989 and we had named Art Shell as our head coach. Our merchandise and promotions staff quickly produced hats and shirts emblazoned with the words “Shell’s Angels” atop a logo that was obviously very similar to the Hells Angels logo. Almost immediately thereafter, I received a letter from the law firm representing the Hells Angels. That firm was (and still is) one of the most respected law firms in the country. My first thought when I received the letter was, Holy crap, the Hells Angels sure don’t mess around when it comes to legal counsel.
The letter stated in no uncertain terms that we had violated the intellectual property rights of the Hells Angels. They were right – we did.
Rather than sending back a “lawyer letter” in which I endeavored to justify our conduct, saber rattle, or posture, I picked up the phone and called the firm that had sent the letter. I said two things to the lawyer with whom I spoke: “You are right,” and “We are sorry.” The lawyer was silent for what seemed to be a long time. I assumed that was because he was surprised by my admission of wrongdoing and my apology – those aren’t typical responses to such a letter. Ultimately, a lawyer from the firm called me back and explained that their client appreciated our apology and wished for us to sell what we had in stock but not produce any more. Wow. I was stunned. It would have been entirely customary and appropriate for them to demand that we destroy what we had in stock. That was what I had hoped would be the response: destroy it and we won’t sue you. Instead, the Hells Angels suggested that we sell what we had.
The lawyer noted that the Hells Angels appreciated the apology I offered and didn’t want us to suffer economic harm. Wow.
Sometimes, acknowledging that one is wrong and apologizing solves a lot of problems. Saying “I am sorry” matters. I told Robert Kraft that we were wrong and that I was sorry. But I still believe – and always will – that it was a fumble.
* * *
In meetings and discussions with others on staff, I often analogized our business to the human body – there are parts one wants the public to see and parts one does not want the public to see. Our tax, finance, banking, legal, and compliance work were, I explained, analogous to internal organs – the kidney, the liver, the spleen – parts of the body one hopes are never seen. Our community, social media, Internet, broadcast, and fan engagement work were analogous to extremities and facial features – arms, hands, fingers, eyes, ears – parts of the body the public will see, that we want the public to see. I enjoyed working on both.
Some people think that finance and banking work is dull and find it odd that I enjoyed it as much as I did. It was one of my favorite parts of my job. I loved it because it was interesting, complex, challenging, and of intrinsic importance to the organization, and because I had the privilege of working with remarkable people.
I worked with a phenomenal lawyer who is one of the smartest people I have ever met and who I believe is one of the best lawyers in the world. I called him innumerable times – often at crazy hours – with a very direct request, which I often stated in a pleading tone: “Help me.”
I am never hesitant to acknowledge when I need help, and I am never hesitant to enlist those best suited to provide it. Had I failed to do so, it would have been a disservice to the organization. Seeking help from those who are smarter, had greater expertise, or were more capable than me of solving a problem strikes me as obvious and ethical. It never ceases to amaze me when people opt not to do that. Rather than shying away from enlisting help from those better able to provide it, I eagerly did so.
The gentleman to whom I referred above did just that – he helped me and he helped our business. He made me and he made us far better than I or we would otherwise have been. That’s what good teammates do – they make one another other better. If the left tackle is having trouble blocking his man, the guard beside him will handle his man and also help the tackle with his, as teammates working toward a common goal should.
I also worked with a terrific banking lawyer and I relied upon her to help me and to help our business and she did just that. This work was complicated and crucial and she too made me better than I otherwise would have been.
We had fantastic bankers who knew and cared about our business. Together, we fashioned creative solutions to a host of considerable challenges. I relied upon these individuals to help me problem solve in every way, so much so that I was acting instinctively when, during a game, I grabbed the arm of one of our bankers and pleaded with him: “Do something.”
We were in Tennessee and we were letting the game slip away – we really needed to make a play to seal a victory. I was frantic and grabbed the banker who had accompanied us as our guest and who was sitting next to me, and I beseeched him to “do something.” My request probably sounded like a cross between a whine and a wail. Well, on the very next play, we forced a turnover. We won. I turned to him and said: “Now that is full-service banking.”
I knew that there was nothing our banker could help us do to win that game. My request for him to “do something” was utterly instinctive on my part. I routinely requested all sorts of assistance from individuals who provided it spectacularly and without fail, so it was natural to ask for help.
Our bankers also helped me replace lipstick that I had managed to lose on the team charter from Oakland to Charlotte. On Saturday morning, I dragged them to a drug store so that I could purchase a new one. Why am I recounting this story? Am I proud or bragging that I dragged the organization’s bankers with as I shopped for lipstick? No.
I shared this story because while one might think that the last thing a businesswoman should do is ask men who bank the business for which she works to join her on a lipstick run, it never occurred to me that so doing would affect our working relationship and it didn’t. In fact, as I perused the collection of available lipstick, our bankers jumped right in, sharing with me their thoughts about the best color. Once again, full-service banking.
My experiences throughout my career suggest to me that some accepted truisms aren’t always true.
Tremendous lawyers and full-service bankers notwithstanding, it was a challenge to work with Al on financial issues. Okay, it was a challenge to work with Al on a lot of issues, but working with Al on banking matters was especially difficult.
You see, banking agreements contain covenants and commitments, and Al rarely accepted any constraints – banking, league, or otherwise – on the manner in which he chose to do business.
I repeatedly explained our responsibilities and the commitments we had made. I was clear. I was explicit. He would acknowledge that he heard me and that he understood me, and then he would go on to do precisely as he pleased without regard to what I had communicated. Again and again, I would remind him of our contractual obligations. It didn’t help. On one occasion on which I reminded him of a central covenant in our agreements, he responded by saying: “Oh fuck, you’re the only one in the world who makes that a big deal.” Yes Al, I’m the only one in the world who thinks EBITDA (earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation, and amortization) is a big deal. Good to know.
When Al knew that I was working on a banking or financial matter, he would check in with me periodically and ask, “How are you coming with your little problem?” My little problem? First of all, these weren’t “my” problems, they were our problems, organizational problems, and they weren’t “little” problems; they were really big problems. But Al really did believe that financial and banking issues were my problems, and to my great relief and appreciation, he generally left me alone to work on them with the legal and banking experts I gathered to assist us, which was distinctly different than in other areas of our business. I think – and I hope – that this was because he knew that he could count on me to handle these matters. Once, while we were in the midst of a particularly stressful banking transaction, I asked Al, “How come you’re not up all night, every night, unable to sleep, worried about this like I am?” He responded: “I have you to do that for me.” That actually made me feel good.
It was very meaningful – very significant – to me that Al trusted me and relied upon me to figure these things out. I remember his tone of voice when he said, “God bless you, little girl,” after I shared with him that I had found a solution to a big problem. That remark meant more to me than any salary could.
Clubs are required to provide a tremendous amount of financial information to the league office. At varying times throughout the year, clubs provide a number of audited reports, financial statements, projections, forecasts, analysis, and more. Clubs are also required to meet with the league office on a periodic basis to discuss that material and to respond to league inquiries.
During these meetings, as I sat there listening to league executives raise questions and concerns about the state of our finances and league financial issues, I thought how fun it would have been to see the expressions on their faces if they had heard Al tell me that I was the only person in the world who thinks that EBITDA is a big deal.
* * *
Someone for whom I have tremendous respect once told me, “You need to have a five-year plan.” He was not suggesting a five-year plan for the Raiders, but a five-year “Amy plan.” My response: “What the fuck am I, Russia? I don’t need a five-year plan.” I did not have a five-year plan when I took my job and I didn’t have one at any time while working for the organization. I don’t have a five-year plan now.
I want to be very clear: I do believe that businesses should engage in long-term, strategic planning. In the last years of Al’s life the organization made – and failed to make – some decisions that suggested that we weren’t engaging in long-term, strategic planning – or, if we were, we weren’t doing it well. Those are fair observations and criticisms in some regards. Although I never responded or otherwise commented at the time, I did note to a few people after Al passed away that when someone is older and in poor health, long-term has a different meaning than when one is younger and in good health. Most of us can but imagine what it is like to confront one’s own mortality, let alone run a business knowing that for us, long-term was not particularly long.
So, although I do believe that businesses should have long-term, strategic plans, I didn’t want nor have one for myself. I still don’t want one and I still don’t have one. There is no “Amy plan.”
Besides, as I reminded the person close to me who suggested that I should have one: that the whole five-year-plan thing didn’t work out so well for Russia.
* * *
I mentioned earlier that I once quit my job.
I was furious with Al. I was livid. And he was as angry with me as he had ever been.
Our disagreement on this subject came to a head on a Monday morning in September, the day after we had lost a game on the road.
We were on the phone and again, the topic of a prospective coaching change arose. It was one of our more vicious arguments and finally, furious and frustrated, I said: “Well, I resign.”
“Okay, alright, you resign, fine,” Al said. “You can resign in January.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me,” I responded, “I just quit…I don’t work for you anymore, so you can’t tell me when I can resign, because I just did.”
As we were screaming at one another, I sent an email to my husband explaining that I had just quit my job and that he needed to come to the office. I wanted him there. Just as I concluded my phone call with Al, my husband arrived. We sat in my office. I was stunned and shaking – we didn’t speak. A fellow staff member with whom I worked very closely joined us. We all just stared at one another and barely spoke and then I went home. I was a wreck all night. I’d just quit my job – a job I loved.
The next morning, I got up and started getting ready in the manner I did every day. My husband asked me what I was doing and when I responded in a very matter-of-fact manner – as if nothing was out of the ordinary – that I was going to the office, he dryly stated: “Perhaps this fact escapes you, but you quit your job yesterday; you have no office.”
But I went to the office and I sat at my desk, working. At roughly 10:00 am, the phone rang. It was Al. In one of his warmest, nicest tones, he asked about a few projects that he knew were important to me, offered his input and assistance, and volunteered to do something that he’d previously refused to do.
I had been trying for quite some time to convince Al to give an on-camera interview for an ESPN 30 for 30 project (Straight Outta L.A.) that Ice Cube was directing, but Al had been steadfast in his refusal to do so. In this nice, warm tone, Al asked when I’d like him to get together with “(my) friend Ice Cube” for the interview. The second I hung up, I called and made the arrangements, before he could change his mind. Al and I never, ever spoke of the fact that I had quit.
* * *
I mention my husband quite a bit throughout this book – but I don’t mention him by name. That is because he might seek a cease-and-desist order if I did. Of course, I’m teasing – he wouldn’t actually do that, I don’t think, but he did once tell me that he might do so.
I was working on a project at home, and I left our media guide out on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and, as he was flipping through it, saw that his name was in it. The guide stated something to this effect: Trask is married. Her husband’s name is ____. (Only there wasn’t a blank, it actually said his name.) As innocuous as that reference was, he didn’t like it. So, he very humorously stated that he intended to seek a cease-and-desist order prohibiting us from including his name in future years. (We never did again include his name in the media guide.)
So, without using his name, I’ll share a story.
When Al decided to move the team from Los Angeles back to Oakland, I was overwhelmed by the amount of work to be done. After one particularly stressful and long day, I arrived home at about 1:30 am and woke my husband to share with him that I had too much to do, that I couldn’t get it all done, and that I was panicked. He looked at me like I was dense and said: “Then why are you home? If that’s the case, you should be at the office.” He didn’t coddle me; he didn’t suggest that it was unreasonable of anyone to expect me to work that hard; he didn’t complain that I was, in essence, living at the office. He led me to our kitchen, we ate a snack, and then he saw me off to the office at two in the morning.
My husband encouraged and helped me in every way imaginable throughout my career and he continues to encourage and to help me in every way imaginable now.
I am often told, “Your husband is so supportive.” “No, he’s not,” I respond. Of course, that response always engenders surprised looks. I then explain that to describe him simply as supportive is an insulting understatement. Look, supportive is good – supportive is terrific – and many people would love to have a partner who is supportive. But my husband was and is so much more than supportive. He encourages me and he rolls up his sleeves to help me in every possible way. My husband believes in me when I don’t believe in myself. He believes that I can accomplish things when I am not entirely sure that I can. He inspires me and makes me strive to be the very best I can be.
Many times throughout my career, many people – fans, media, those with whom I interacted in business – shared with me that it was their impression that the Raiders were “my life” and that I cared more about the Raiders than I cared about anything else.
I loved being a Raider. Being a Raider dominated our lives for almost three decades and we loved that it did. During that time, it defined our schedule and created our routines; our lives revolved around football and around the Raiders.
I never wanted to celebrate the New Year on January 1; I considered the day after the Super Bowl, when every team went back to 0–0 to be the first day of the New Year. My favorite day between the end of one season and the start of the next was the day the schedule was announced. I absolutely loved schedule release day and was a dork about it. Each year I called a meeting – it was an annual rite of spring – and asked every business operations employee to engage in all sorts of schedule guessing games. I created spreadsheets with the schedules of each team in our division, our conference, and the league as a whole. I loved that day.
For months leading up to the start of the season, I would anticipate that moment when the kicker’s foot would make contact with the ball on the first play of the first game and the first game of the season would be underway. No matter where in the stadium I was, I could hear – or at least I imagined that I could hear – the sound of his foot on the ball. That is a magical moment. I eagerly anticipated that same moment of each game. I never slept the night before games.
Games are full of magical moments. Some plays seem to be in slow motion; some plays are like the most magnificent ballet; some plays seem to happen at the speed of light. I always likened games to snowflakes – no two are the same.
The Raiders were indescribably important to me and I cared about the organization more than I believe anyone will ever understand. I loved being a Raider; I was proud to be a Raider. But all of that said, nothing has ever been or will be as important to me as my husband. I care about him more than anything. That surprises some people, but not those who know me well. My hunch is that I will receive some criticism for referencing my husband as much as I do in this book – a book about my career with the Raiders. It won’t bother me one little bit if I do.
* * *
There was an instance in which I was prepared to resign.
Al observed the way I interacted with animals over the course of many years. Very early in my career, as he drove into the parking lot of our facility, he saw me sitting on the pavement playing with a stray cat. Another time, he saw me doing the same thing in the walkway between our football and administration buildings. On each of those occasions, he muttered in a voice clearly intended to be heard something about hoping that didn’t bring us bad luck, noting in each instance that the cat was black. But each time, he stopped to look at the cat.
Early in my career, I learned that he too had a soft spot for animals, as one night, while he was being driven home from an event, he called me from the car. As we were speaking, I heard a loud thump. “What was that?” Al called to the driver. “It was a possum, Mr. Davis,” I heard the driver respond. “Let’s go back,” I heard Al beseech the driver several times. “Let’s see if we can help it.” Al wanted to help the opossum.
Al also knew that I was an avid equestrian, as on most Saturdays, I came to the office straight from the barn and I both looked and smelled as if that was the case. On one such Saturday, Al called me as he was headed in to the office and asked me to join him in a meeting. I responded that I had come straight from the barn and wasn’t dressed appropriately for a meeting. “Aw fuck, I don’t care about that,” Al responded, “I don’t think of you that way.” What a tremendous message to a young woman and new employee: he didn’t care how I looked (or smelled) and he didn’t think of me “that way.”
Al also knew of my passion for animal rescue and of my work with Tony La Russa and his Animal Rescue Foundation.
In 2009, Al called me to discuss Michael Vick, who had been cleared to play following his indictment for dogfighting. There had been suggestions in the media that the Raiders were a perfect and likely spot for him to resume his career.
I was surprised that Al called me to discuss this, and I was also very touched, as his call suggested to me that not only was he cognizant of my views, but that he cared enough to elicit my thoughts and consider this subject with me.
Al raised the topic in a very direct manner and asked me my thoughts.
I told Al that I had read the indictment and that although the public discourse on this topic referenced dogfighting, what Vick was alleged to have done (and ultimately admitted he did) was exceedingly more horrific than anything I ever could or would have imagined. I also told Al that although the public discourse on this topic included commentary that dogfighting was acceptable in certain parts of the country, what Vick did was far more heinous than dogfighting (as bad as that is) and could in no way be justified based on norms. What Vick did was unspeakably cruel. He pled guilty to killing dogs with his own hands by drowning dogs and by hanging dogs. I also told Al that the indictment stated that his group committed unthinkable atrocities, including electrocuting some dogs and slamming others into the ground until they died. “What kind of person can kill a dog with his own hands?” I asked Al. As I was talking, Al was pleading with me, “No more, baby, please, please, no more, stop.” His emotion was raw and palpable. He indicated that this topic was now closed; Michael Vick would not be a Raider.
I never shared with Al that prior to that conversation I had decided that if we did sign Michael Vick, I would resign. In fact, I had drafted my resignation letter, explaining why I would not remain with the organization were we to sign someone who committed such unspeakably cruel atrocities. I believe in second chances. One of the things that initially attracted me to the Raiders as a fan was the organization’s tradition of providing second (and third and fourth) chances to those others would not. But I also believe it’s a privilege to work in the NFL and to be a Raider. I believed that being a Raider mattered. I did not think that Michael Vick should be a Raider and I decided that were he to become one, I would not be his teammate. What was and shall always be so special to me is that Al initiated this conversation, that he sought my input before making any decision, and that he too concluded that this man should not be a Raider.
* * *
I also once offered to fire myself.
I had screwed something up. I considered it a big screw-up. I misjudged the human dynamics of a business situation and my mistake cost the organization approximately one million dollars, an amount that I considered very significant.
No one could have been angrier with me than I was with myself. I have always beaten myself up over what I believe to be my mistakes or misjudgments and when I believe that I could have handled something better than I did. I beat myself up far more and for far longer than anyone else has ever beaten me up for such things. I am more critical of myself than others are of me. I was inconsolable.
So, I approached Al to let him know that I had screwed up and that my misjudgment was costly. I waited for a quiet moment in hopes that I would have his full attention and wouldn’t be rushed, and I went into his office and stated that we needed to discuss something. He briefly looked up from what he was doing. I think he understood that I wanted to raise a topic of serious importance to me – but he continued what he was doing and started telling me his observations about that afternoon’s practice.
Every time he paused, I tried to change the topic and tell him about my screw-up. Finally, unable to wait any longer, I blurted out that I had made an enormous mistake in judgment that would cost the organization about a million dollars, and that I certainly understood he might decide to fire me.
He said nothing and kept working and talking. He asked me a few questions about ticket sales for the upcoming game, where we were in terms of profit and loss, the weather forecast for game day, and a few other things.
I answered all of his questions, and then tried again to explain my mistake, and what I believed to be its magnitude.
Without looking up, he said, “I heard you,” and he continued what he was doing.
That was it. That was how he made clear that he was done with the discussion and, at least for the moment, with me.
The next day, I raised the topic again, again expressly stating that I fully understood that he might wish to terminate me, and that I would understand. He said nothing.
Finally, a day or two later, I went in and again raised the topic – only this time, I told him that to make this easier for him, I would fire myself. He finally looked up and said, “No one’s firing you…you fucked up…it happens…I know you won’t make this mistake again.”
I had started walking out, and heard Al say one last thing: “You’ll fuck up even bigger things.”
And he was giggling. Yes, he giggled.
* * *
I also once offered to walk away, to make things easier for Al.
I have always embraced the concept of teamwork. I have never worked as what some describe as a lone wolf. When problem solving, looking for new ideas, attempting to engender creative thoughts, thinking through and addressing challenges, I gathered together varying groups of employees from varying departments and enlisted their participation. To the great chagrin of those who believed that there should be a “pecking order,” I mixed senior staff with junior staff, as I thought that so doing was healthy and productive.
Some employees expressed to me that they thought I was too collaborative. I don’t believe that to be the case, but if and to the extent that it was, I believe it preferable to err on the side of being too collaborative rather than not collaborative enough. Business is, in my view, best conducted as if it is a team sport. My teammates made me better than I otherwise would have been. I hope I made my teammates better than they otherwise would have been too.
Some people have suggested to me that collaboration is a distinctly feminine approach to doing business – an approach embraced only by leaders who are women – and that men are more likely to work as lone wolves. I don’t agree with that. I have worked with women who are collaborative and women who are not. I have worked with men who are collaborative and men who are not. I also don’t care whether it is true or not. Whether being collaborative is a “female approach” or not it is the approach that I like.
One of my coworkers was the antithesis of collaborative; he worked as that proverbial lone wolf. He was also very strategic in his efforts to advance himself. There were times I wished that I were more adept at such strategizing but after a bit of thought, I realized a few things: (a) not only wasn’t I adept at it, I sucked at it; and (b) that was absolutely fine with me because I needed to follow my favorite words of advice: to thine own self be true.
I also don’t think that time spent strategizing for one’s own benefit is fair to one’s employer. This employee spent what I considered an incomprehensible amount of time on such things and he was masterful at it. Most often, his efforts were at my expense. I know this because league office employees, employees of other clubs, and people in the media told me this. Eventually, Al told me that he too knew this.
It was brought to my attention on a number of occasions that this employee was working to persuade Al that he must select one of us (to wit: him) to be, or at least to be perceived as, Al’s top advisor. I didn’t take this personally; my presence was precluding him from getting what he wanted. Some people I respect have told me that this individual was comfortable engaging in the behavior he did because of my gender. I don’t know if that was the case, but even if it was, that wasn’t what concerned me. What concerned me was the effect his behavior was having on the organization.
Finally, after hearing about this for the umpteenth time and thinking again about how deleterious to the organization it was, I decided that enough was enough and I called Al to address this in the only manner I know how: directly.
When I called him and asked if he had a moment to speak, I sensed that he was in the middle of something, as he responded as he often did in those instances, with a brisk “What’s up, kid?”
I told him that I was aware that this other employee wanted Al to make a “him or me” choice and I said: “I’ll make this easy for you,” and went on to say that if he thought that this employee would continue his efforts to force a choice, that if he believed as I did that those efforts were harmful to the organization, and if it would make things easier for him and be better for the organization, I would step away.
I wrote down Al’s response verbatim and I still have the piece of paper on which I did so. I will keep it forever. He said: “Next time you call, make sure it’s about something intelligent.” He hung up without saying another word.