XIX
Since nobody is born a leader, you need someone to teach you how to walk and talk and be one. You need a mentor. I was lucky enough to have three: Nicola Iacocca, Charlie Beacham, and Robert McNamara. They were my mentors. And sometimes they were my tor-mentors. Let me tell you what they taught me.
NICOLA IACOCCA: OPTIMISM
You couldn’t grow up the son of a man like Nicola Iacocca and not want to emulate him. My father was not an educated man, but he had an inner confidence that just blew you away.
I’ve written about my father before because he was my number one mentor in life. I can’t imagine who I would have been without his influence.
To this day, it’s hard for me to fathom how he managed—all by himself—to travel to America at the age of twelve. He came to live with his half brother in Garrett, Pennsylvania, and the first thing they did was put him to work in the mines. I guess there were a lot of stories like that—young kids sent here to become what amounted to slave laborers. But even that young, my father had a special spark of self-knowledge. He worked for one day in the mine, and he said to himself, “I left the farm and the open air of Italy for this?” So he ran away to Allentown, Pennsylvania, where another brother lived. He always said that his one day in the mines was the only day he spent working for somebody else.
My father was an unbelievable guy for someone who’d just been through the fourth grade. But I think he was a classic example of the way God gives some people more common sense and street smarts than others. He was gifted—a natural-born entrepreneur. He was always resourceful. By the time he was thirty-one he’d saved enough money to return to Italy to bring over his widowed mother. While he was there he fell in love with my mother, the seventeen-year-old daughter of a shoemaker, and he brought her back, too.
The voyage to America was hard on his young wife. She contracted typhoid fever on the ship. That could have been the end for my mother. Normally they were pretty strict about not letting sick people into the country. Ellis Island would have been her last stop. But somehow she made it past the inspectors. In later years I asked, “Pop, how did you get Mom through Ellis Island?” He never answered directly, just gave me a great big smile and said something like this: “I’d been here a long time. I knew this business. You do what you have to do.” In other words, he paid somebody off. I guess you’d call it minor corruption, but my father never regretted it for a minute, and I have to say that I didn’t, either. Who knows where I’d be if they’d rejected Mom. As it was, I had the luck of the draw. I was born in the U.S.A. three years after she arrived.
Soon after that my father opened a hot-dog restaurant called the Orpheum Wiener House. Pop believed the food business was a hedge against poverty because, as he always told me, “People have got to eat.” Also, there was no capital investment. He said, “You get a little grill, a little steam heater to heat the buns, and you’re ready to go.” He made a special chili sauce that he’d copied from a vendor on Coney Island. Later he brought my uncles over to help run the business. They were the hot-dog kings of Allentown, and they still are. Today the restaurant is run by their sons and grandsons. It’s called Yocco’s, which is pretty much how the Pennsylvania Dutch pronounce Iacocca. The family made a good living on the nickel hot dog. It’s a dollar hot dog now, of course.
My father couldn’t sit still for just one business. He had so many interests. He was nuts about cars, and he owned one of the first Model Ts. Even when I was a little kid, I can remember he had some cars that worked and some that didn’t. He bought into a fledgling national rental company called U-Drive-It, and at one point, he had a fleet of about thirty Model Ts. I’m sure that I inherited my love of cars from my father.
My father’s never-say-die energy and optimism left an imprint on me. You couldn’t watch him and not think the sky was the limit. Even during the Depression he got by. He always found a way. Maybe it’s because he never had time for self-doubt. The world was a big canvas, he always said. If an endeavor or a relationship didn’t work out, there was always something else to try and someone else to meet.
He was open to life. He’d say, “You’ve got to have adversity. Otherwise, how will you know the difference when things are good?” I didn’t inherit that gene. I was a worrier. Optimism wasn’t a natural state for me. When I was worried about something, he’d prod me. “Lido, you’ve got to roll with the punches more. Do you remember what was on your mind a year ago?” And I’d say, “How could I remember? A lot of things happen in a year.” He’d pull out some notes with a flourish, and say, “I have it written down.” Then he’d proceed to tell me about something that had made me unhappy a year ago, and deliver the punch line: “You can’t even remember it now.” He understood life’s ebbs and flows, and that core of optimism made him unstoppable.
My father also had the quality that these days they call self-esteem. I never saw him hang back or think he wasn’t good enough to talk to anyone. I wish I could emulate him and be more easygoing. He was completely relaxed in every situation. Henry Ford II himself enjoyed my dad. He’d sometimes come over to the house—and he hardly ever did that because he was against fraternizing with the employees. I remember how he’d arrive with Christina, his beautiful Italian wife. We’d have a big Italian meal. My mother did the cooking, and my father did the talking. He and Ford got along. I remember Ford saying to Pop, “I don’t know how I could run this company without your son.” (Later on, I guess he figured out a way.)
Of course, my father had great expectations for his only son, and the other side of his warmth and benevolence was that he was a big disciplinarian. Maybe too much of a disciplinarian by today’s standards. Verbally he could assault me and hurt me, but he never touched me.
Sometimes he was just too hard to please. When I graduated from high school, I was number twelve in a class of more than eight hundred. I was proud of myself. I said to Pop, “Not bad, huh?”
Pop said, “Why weren’t you first?” It was his way of saying “never be satisfied.”
But what made the biggest impression on me was Pop’s optimism. No matter how bad things got, he always found the silver lining. I never knew the meaning of the word impossible. It wasn’t spoken in our home.
CHARLIE BEACHAM: COMMON SENSE
Charlie Beacham really broke the mold. If I learned from my father that you didn’t need a fancy education to be wise, I learned from Charlie Beacham that you could have a fancy education and still be street-smart.
Charlie Beacham was my first business mentor. I loved the guy—and I have to say I’d never met anyone like him. He was a big, warm, tough-talking Southerner who had such a talent for being a “regular guy” that it was a surprise to find he had a master’s in engineering from Georgia Tech.
His expansive personality and love of people convinced Charlie to shift his ambition from engineering to sales and marketing. He was the Eastern regional manager of Ford when I got a job as zone manager in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.
I was as green as grass. Charlie used to say about me and all the other newbies, “You boys are so green I’m worried when I send you out in the field the cows’ll eat you up.”
Charlie understood that book learning only got you so far. One of the first things he did was send me to a Ford truck center to work the showroom for three months. I wasn’t happy. I said, “I went to college. I got a master’s degree. What am I doing selling used trucks in the middle of nowhere?” And Charlie said, “Because that’s where the business is—on the showroom floor. To hell with all your book learning. You’ve gotta go figure out what happens when a guy comes in who’s willing to pay you thousands of dollars for a car or truck.”
Charlie impressed on me that in the car business there were no direct sales. Everything was sold through a network of independent dealers. Selling cars was all about the dealers. It was a lesson I never forgot.
In Charlie’s common-sense world people strove to be great, but everyone made mistakes along the way. That was part of the learning process, too. I remember once I was down in the dumps because my district had come in last in sales. Charlie saw me walking through the garage, slumped with defeat, and he came over and put a big arm around me. “What are you so down about?” he asked.
“Well,” I said dejectedly, “there are thirteen zones and mine was thirteenth in sales this month.”
“Aw, hell,” he said. “Don’t let that get you down. Somebody’s got to be last.” Then he gave me a sharp look. “But listen,” he added, “just don’t be last two months in a row.”
Charlie had that rare quality in a boss—the ability to motivate you even when you were struggling. He wasn’t like the boss who jumps on every mistake and rules by intimidation. The one thing he couldn’t stand was people who wouldn’t admit they’d screwed up. He used to grumble, “Everybody makes mistakes. The trouble is that most people won’t own up to them. They’ll try to put the blame on their wife, their mistress, their kids, the dog, the weather—anything but themselves. So if you screw up, don’t give me any excuses. Go look in the mirror, and then come to me.”
Charlie always encouraged me. If an idea was good—that is, if it passed the common-sense test—he was all for it. And that’s how I got my big break. In 1956 we were in the middle of a slump. Sales of the new Fords were lousy everywhere, but they were reallylousy in Pennsylvania. So I came up with a plan: Any customer could buy a 1956 Ford for a 20 percent down payment, followed by three years of monthly payments of $56. I called it “56 for 56.” At the time, financing the purchase of cars for more than a year was a new idea, and our sales really took off. Within three months, the Philadelphia district went from last in sales to first. Charlie was so proud of me that he wrote a personal note to Robert McNamara, the vice president of the Ford Division. (Charlie always said, “If you want to give a man credit, put it in writing. If you want to give him hell, do it on the phone.”) McNamara adopted “56 for 56” as a national program, and the program was responsible for selling an extra 75,000 cars. I was promoted to district manager of Washington, D.C., and my future suddenly seemed a whole lot brighter.
Another thing that made it brighter was love. I’d met Mary McCleary when she was a receptionist at the Ford plant in Chester. She was a beauty—with auburn hair, green eyes, and a sparkling personality. We were planning to get married and we had purchased a house in Washington, D.C. Once again, I was the luckiest guy in the world. Then Charlie called me. He’d been promoted to car and truck sales manager for the Ford Division, and he wanted to bring me to Dearborn as his national truck marketing manager.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I sputtered. “I’m getting married next week and I just bought a house.”
He chuckled, and then said gruffly, “I’m sorry, but if you want to get paid, your paycheck will be in Dearborn.” I may have protested, but I think Charlie knew how thrilled I was.
Charlie was my angel. He made things happen for me. He loved me, and he sold me to McNamara. I realize now that the smartest move of my career was to follow the leader—Charlie Beacham—to Detroit.
ROBERT MCNAMARA: DISCIPLINE
When Robert McNamara’s name comes up, most people say, “Oh, yeah, wasn’t he the guy who got us into Vietnam?” It’s a tough legacy, but it’s only part of the story. Robert McNamara had a life before JFK picked him to be secretary of defense, and that life was at Ford Motor Company.
McNamara joined Ford the same year I did—in 1946. The difference was that I was just a student engineer and he’d already made a name for himself. He was one of a group of army officers in World War II known as the “Whiz Kids.” He was a statistical genius who helped plan weapons strategy. McNamara had that rare gift for analyzing a situation and setting the right course—which was just what Ford needed after the war. Henry Ford II had just come on board to run his grandfather’s company, which was hobbling along and losing money. He brought in the Whiz Kids to help him do it.
McNamara quickly became one of Henry Ford’s key go-to guys. He was also kind of an odd duck in the Ford culture. He and his wife didn’t live in Bloomfield Hills or Grosse Point like the other execs. They lived in Ann Arbor, near the University of Michigan. Bob had the mentality of a professor and the soul of a liberal. And he was way ahead of his time. He was pushing for small cars, safety features, and the environment back in the fifties, if you can imagine that. He used to say that business leaders had a duty to serve society as well as their shareholders, and that a company could drive for profits and at the same time meet social responsibilities. He was guided by this principle: “There is no contradiction between a soft heart and a hard head.”
My first impression of Bob McNamara was pretty much like everyone else’s—the guy lacked a certain warmth. He was so focused that he didn’t always have time for niceties—and he hated golf. He once said, “It’s crazy. You don’t use your mind on a golf course. You take this little white ball and you try to put it in a little hole a couple hundred yards away, and you spend your whole life doing that. What’s the point?” It didn’t make sense to his logical mind.
I got along with McNamara, though. First of all, he loved Beacham and Beacham loved me. So I was in. But we also developed a strong relationship because I learned so much from him, and I took those lessons to heart.
Bob was a visionary, but there was no pie in the sky where he was concerned. He was the original “show me where it’s working” guy. Bob never let me get out of the room with an idea that hadn’t been analyzed a hundred different ways. He used to tell me, “Lee, you’re so effective one on one. You could sell anyone anything. But we’re about to spend one hundred million dollars here. Go home tonight and put your great idea on paper. If you can’t do that, then you haven’t really thought it out. Don’t sell me with the force of your personality. Sell me with the facts.”
It was one of the most important lessons I ever learned. From that time on, whenever one of my people had an idea, I’d tell him to put it in writing.
Bob became a great ally of mine, and he taught me discipline. You have to have a vision, but it’s got to be grounded in reality. Put it in writing. Put it in writing. To this day it’s my motto.
Bob had just become president of Ford when JFK tapped him for the job of secretary of defense. You can’t help but wonder about the kind of company Ford might have become if McNamara had been at the helm for a decade or so. If he’d lasted that long. I didn’t appreciate until after Bob had gone just how difficult it was to work for Henry Ford II. Ford liked to attract the best and the brightest. The problem was, he couldn’t stand to have strong leaders around who might outshine him. It increased my admiration for Bob knowing how smoothly he’d skated over the treacherous surface of Ford’s executive office.
A SPECIAL THANKS TO THE WOMEN
I started my career in an era when there were no women leaders in the car business. If you ask me, it’s still behind the times in that respect. We like to romanticize the “car guy,” but are resistant to the idea that maybe we need a few more “car gals.”
My mentors in business were all male, but there were two women who became my mentors in life—my mother and my wife Mary.
My mother taught me LOVE. And the way she did that was by showing love every day of her life.
We were always close, but we grew even closer when I got older, especially after Pop died. I really enjoyed my mom. When she was in her seventies, she could still run circles around me. I loved taking her along to business conventions and on vacations. There was almost no one I’d rather spend an evening with than Mom, and I talked to her on the phone just about every day.
Like everyone else in the Iacocca family, Mom always spoke her mind. She did her best to keep me on the straight and narrow. She thought I worked too hard. She disapproved when I got a divorce from my second wife. She made virtue sound like common sense. Her moral code was from a simpler time—but we could sure use more of it today.
They say that when a parent dies—even when the parent is ninety and you’re seventy—you feel like an orphan. I can attest to that. When Mom died in 1994 at the age of ninety, I was bereft. I think she knew me better than anyone—not the public persona, but the real me. It’s good to have someone around who knows the real you.
The other woman who taught me about life was, of course, my wife Mary. I’d have to say that Mary’s greatest gift to me was a lesson in COURAGE. Mary had a fiery spirit. Nothing daunted her. In fact, it almost seemed like she was energized by adversity. Mary wasn’t a hand-wringer. She was a doer.
Even in the final years, when life was so hard for her, she’d just shrug and say, “You think I have it bad. You should see the other patients.” Mary never spent a moment complaining, and her thoughts in the final days were of me and the girls. “I’m so proud of you,” she said to me a couple of weeks before she died. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to say how proud I was of her.
I hope when my time comes I can face death with even a little bit of the same courage Mary showed. She was a shining light until the end.
HAVE A MENTOR, BE A MENTOR
So, I was the luckiest guy in the world. I had three devoted mentors to teach me optimism, common sense, and discipline. I had wonderful, strong women to teach me love and courage. I’ve tried to return the favor by being a mentor to others. I want to challenge everyone now—whether you’re a parent, an educator, an executive, an uncle or aunt—to find that lesson of lasting value that you can pass along. And if you’re a young person getting started today, the first thing you need to do, before you even find your desk in a new company, is to find the person who is going to be your teacher and advocate.
I admire leaders who take time out to be mentors. One example is New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. I know that people think George is just a bombastic, volatile guy, but he’s been my friend for many years, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s a big softie. George doesn’t wear his good deeds on his sleeve, but in his lifetime he has helped many young athletes achieve their dreams. He has dedicated himself to supporting kids who have the talent and drive to succeed. I’ll bet that legacy will have more long-term impact than his team’s World Series titles.
When I was thinking about how important mentors are, I realized that kids have to be guided to seek out the right mentors. In the Catholic Church, every newborn baby has a godfather (no, not that kind) and a godmother who promise to guide the child’s moral and spiritual development. When I was a kid, godparents took their role seriously. I think we’ve lost some of that dedication in raising our kids.
Parents have to provide some direction for their children about the people they emulate. You have to talk openly with them about the people they admire. Who are their heroes? Why do they want to emulate a particular person? We’re a celebrity-driven culture, so chances are your kids admire sports and entertainment personalities. Push them to defend their heroes. What qualities—apart from the shallow values of money, fame, and good looks—make them worthy of emulation? Ask them to name real people they actually know—teachers, merchants, coaches, pastors, neighbors—who they look up to. Keep having this conversation every chance you get. Your children may roll their eyes, but trust me, they’re listening and thinking about it. It’s a start.
Remember, leaders aren’t born, they’re made. It’s up to all of us to work at making good leaders. I, for one, can’t sit by and ask, “Where have all the leaders gone?” if I’m not ready to look to myself and say, “What have I done lately to mold a young mind?”