Where Have All the Leaders Gone?

by Lee Iacocca

  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 really lousy 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 MENT
OR

  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?”

  XX

  Get off the golf course and DO something

  I flunked retirement. If there was a handbook of the Dos and Don’ts of retiring, my picture would be on the front cover of the Don’t section. In the space of a couple years, I retired, remarried, and moved to a new planet called L.A. I pulled up my roots, said goodbye to my friends, and left behind the world I’d known for almost fifty years. Was I nuts? Well, I must have been temporarily insane to think it was a good idea.

  Los Angeles was foreign to me. I didn’t speak the language or understand the customs. My friends in Detroit were all in the car business. In L.A., everyone was in the movie business. They read Variety. I read Automotive News. Almost right away I knew I was in trouble. Holy shit, I thought. What the hell have I done?

  I’d saved Chrysler. Now the question was, could I save myself?

  My retirement fiasco happened more than a decade ago. Since then, I’ve learned some lessons about what not to do. But most important, I figured out what to do. It has been a revelation to me that you can be retired and still have a life of meaning. Today, at eighty-two, I’m in good health, I’m active, and I’m engaged in the world around me. I guess that’s why so many people in their late fifties and early sixties come to me asking for advice. When they get close to retirement, they start to panic. They wonder what they’re going to do with the next twenty or thirty years. Fear grabs them in the gut. For some of them it’s the first time they’ve ever been afraid of anything. And what is the fear? That their lives will stop mattering.

  I know the feeling. Work is like oxygen. Even if you have a family you love, and hobbies you enjoy, and you go to church or synagogue every week, there is nothing that replaces work. Your work holds it all together. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

  When you’re a CEO, it’s even more intoxicating—and somewhat unreal. You never wash a car, you never fill a gas tank, you never pick up a tab. When you travel, there’s always an entourage leading you around. You go to the finest restaurants. You stay in the presidential suite. People wait on you hand and foot. You live in a bubble. You go all over the world, but you don’t see much beyond the airport, the hotel lobby, and the convention center. You may be at the hub of your little universe, but you’re isolated. Then you retire, and you don’t know how to be an average Joe.

  A lot of people would just as soon not retire. They’d like to keep doing what they’re doing until the boys in the white coats carry them out of the corner office. But you’ve got to be realistic. There isn’t a business in the world that can’t use an infusion of fresh blood at some point. And the only way that happens is for the old blood to move out.

  Someone once said they had to force me to retire from Chrysler. Not true. I was turning sixty-eight, and I wanted to retire. I didn’t have to. I was on top of the world. I could have stayed around forever. But I felt like I’d done everything. I was getting impatient. The young guys came in to see me, and they were all full of piss and vinegar. Everything was new to them. I couldn’t help feeling impatient, and a little bored. I’d listen to their great plans, and I’d be thinking, Yeah, we tried that about twenty times and it didn’t work. But I didn’t want to just sit around sounding like a grumpy old man.

  I was lucky. I probably could have done just about anything I wanted. I had plenty of offers. Tex Colbert, who’d been the chairman of Chrysler in the early sixties, asked me how I’d like to be president of Harvard. I don’t know how serious he was, but I never explored it. Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, who was an old friend, was on the selection committee for a new baseball commissioner, and he asked me if I’d be interested in that. Looking back, I think maybe I should have considered that one, but at the time it didn’t appeal to me.

  I almost got into politics. In 1991, Pennsylvania senator John Heinz died in a plane crash. My friend John Murtha came to me with a proposition: Robert Casey, the Democratic governor of Pennsylvania, wanted to appoint me to complete Heinz’s term, and then I’d have to run on my own in the fall. Murtha would see to it that I got some juicy committee assignments, and he thought it would be a stepping stone to the presidency for me.

  They sent in a brash young guy named James Carville to explain things to me. Carville was blunt and fast-talking. Didn’t even stop to ask me what I thought about the issues. He shoved some papers at me. “Here is your position on abortion,” he said. “Here is your position on jobs. Here is your position on—”

  Finally, I interrupted. “Wait just a minute,” I said. “Don’t I get to—”

  “No, no,” he dismissed me, “we’ve already done all the studies and focus groups.”

  “So, you want me in office, but you’ll tell me what to believe?” I asked.

  Carville shrugged, and started to continue his lecture. At which point I told him where he could shove it. That was my short-lived flirtation with the U.S. Senate. Senator Iacocca was not to be.

  What I did decide to do after retirement was work as a consultant for Chrysler for another two years. At the time, I thought it was a pretty good plan. I was relieved to have at least that. The point is, you’ve got to do something.

  IS THE GRASS GREENER ON THE GOLF COURSE?

  I talk to guys who have worked sixty to eighty hours a week for fifty years, and I ask them, “What are you going to do when you retire?” They say, “I think I’ll have some fun. I always dreamed of being able to play golf every day.”

  Well, I’ll tell you what. Anybody who says that is a nut—because it’ll bore you in a hurry. It’s okay when you’re working
hard and you take in a round of golf on a Wednesday afternoon, like all the doctors. But if you think you can spend twenty years doing nothing but putting a little white ball in a hole three hundred yards away, you’re in for a shock.

  Luckily, I never got bit by the golf bug, although it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. Henry Ford II decided he wanted to learn golf, and he had access to the greats. When I was a young executive he set me up with the best teachers money could buy. It was kind of amazing, considering I was just an amateur. For a while my instructor was George Fazio, who’d tied Ben Hogan in the U.S. Open before he lost in a sudden-death playoff. I was also coached by Claude Harmon, another great player and teacher. All of this high-level training perfected my golf swing. I guess I was the most overtrained amateur in the world.

  The problem was I didn’t play much. In the auto business there was never time for a lot of golf. I traveled constantly, and weekends were for my family. If I played golf on a Saturday, the whole day was shot. You were on the course for a few hours, then you had to have a drink with the boys, and if you got a hole in one, you’d have to celebrate forever, and before you knew it, your family time was shot. That wasn’t for me. I once got some lessons from Arnold Palmer himself. He told me, “You’re pretty good, Lee, but you’ve got to play.”

  But there was just never time. So all that great training went nowhere. Once I retired, I could have spent more time on the golf course, but as I said, the bug never bit me.