I want to begin with the obvious: L Ray was taken from us way too soon. I’m angry about that. And sad and frustrated. I miss my friend. But standing here today, honored to be given the chance to reflect on a life that brought so many of us joy, I mainly feel blessed to have been one of the many people to whom L gave so much. And that’s really what he was, wasn’t it? A giver. He was selfless, never looked for glory and was content to do everything he could to help those around him shine and blossom. I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say that while L was only with us 53 years he used that time to pour out 100 years worth of giving. By this measure – time spent personifying the golden rule – L lived a long and loving life.
If he’d been a pitcher, L wouldn’t have made a good starter or closer; too much preening and ego. But he would’ve been a world-class set-up man, an important teammate content to fire away in relative obscurity. In my business life, L was my set-up man in both small ways and big. He was always full of ideas and energy. In college he came up with the idea that Uki and I could buy sports cars on the cheap in Chicago which he could turn and around and resell at a profit in L.A. How we were going to buy and sell cars when no one had any money never came up. Later in life, L was my set up man in the restaurant business, a difficult undertaking where the only thing everyone could agree on was that they loved L Ray.
L was one of the primary reason I became a trader. My senior year at Yale he showed up having just gotten licensed to become a commodity trader in New York. I had been thinking about trading, but L’s visit, his enthusiasm, helped me make up my mind – although I still remember the confused look on his face when I asked him how you could sell something you didn’t own. Apparently this rather fundamental part of our business had escaped L during his training, which may explain why, although L joined me at the CBOT [Chicago Board of Trade] he spent most of his time there outside the trading pit playing liars’ poker. Or maybe, probably, he stayed on the outside looking in because he was simply too nice. Trading is a zero sum game: “I win, you lose.” Self-effacing and interested in promoting others, L was more of an “I lose, you win” kind of guy. Although – truth be told – he cleaned up at liars. I recently had dinner with a good friend who was a regular victim of L’s and he asked me how the great one was. He didn’t have to use a name. I knew he was referring to L.
In the 42 years I knew him, I can honestly say he was the only person who always greeted me with a smile or, as we got older, with a big hug and a kiss. And in all those years I never heard him raise his voice. Never saw him lose his temper. Never even saw him get into an argument. Ever. Not surprisingly, L had an incredibly calming influence on me. He radiated such peace that when vou were with him it was nearly impossible to feel anything but content.
It wasn’t that L was free of demons. Far from it. But he resolved at a very young age to suffer them in private. Perhaps that was the result of losing his father and an older brother when he was seven. Perhaps, because of that tragedy, he knew better than the rest of us how truly short life can be and resolved then and there to enjoy it as much as possible which, for as long as I can remember, is exactly what he did.
It’s no wonder my memories of L are a blur of good times. As teenagers following him to Adolph’s, a piano bar on Rush Street that was 20 years past its prime and featured Betty, a chain-smoking pianist 40 years past hers. Betty would always take requests and L would always request My Way. Our off-key sing-alongs play in my mind like a sound track over everything else: Pilgrimages to Phil Schmidt’s, a restaurant in some Indiana factory town that L found in his quest for the perfect frog legs. Or when UCLA’s tennis coach mistook L for the Yale coach. Or the time we went to Ceasar’s in Lake Tahoe with Edwin and John and, thinking we were comped, spent five days ordering lobster and champagne only to be presented with a seven thousand dollar bill as we attempted to make a clean getaway. The song plays over my memories of L dancing around a grill like Ali in his prime because when it came to the BBQ L had only two rules: You can’t use enough butter and while stove cooking required playing Pavarotti, you always grill to Sinatra.
L’s love of Sinatra went way past his music. He loved the whole Rat Pack vibe and together we chased their version of the good life with Champagne and turtle pie at Gibsons, a million three acrosses played on the small round table in the kitchen he shared with his mom on Lake Shore Drive, and on countless adventures to the Kentucky Derby, Jamaica and the nearest available craps table where I can still hear him screaming BOXCARS at the dice, willing them to roll into his favorite bet.
By the way, for those of you who don’t know, Boxcars is the outcome of rolling dice and getting a 6 on both dice. The probability of this happening is 1 in 36, or about 2.8 percent. Not exactly the odds you want for your favorite bet. But for L, life was never about the odds, about making the sure play, the safe bet. For him it was boxcars or bust. And while that guiding philosophy led to us having a wonderful time together, my only regret is that I didn’t try harder to help L understand that our chase, though grand and glorious, was only a part of life and not life itself. That most of life, most of the time, exists well inside the margins of boxcars or bust. Looking back, I wish I had been able to help him more with that.
Not that I ever had much influence. I spent years unsuccessfully trying to convince him that since he spent six months of the year living on a small island he might want to learn how to swim. I don’t know how many of you know this, but during the winters in Key West, L had a drive time radio show. A few years ago when I visited him in Florida I sat in the studio and watched the show. L was the straight man, the set-up guy; his job was to make his partner look good. Not surprisingly L was confident, comfortable and completely in his element doing what he did best – on the job and in life: making those around him shine and blossom. Rest well Darling and save me a seat at the table. I can’t tell you how comforting it is to know that when my time comes, you’ll be there to greet me with a smile, a big hug and a kiss.
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