[16th February 2000 – 8:50 AM, Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City]
The Waldorf Astoria stood as a monument to old New York money, its Art Deco facade and gilded interiors evoking an era when wealth was measured by one's legacy, not just in dollars. The upper echelons used places like this to remind newly rich individuals that there was a barrier between them that money alone couldn't breach. The hotel's lobby bustled with the usual morning crowd: businessmen in expensive suits, foreign dignitaries, and tourists craning their necks to admire the ornate ceiling.
Xavier James walked toward the main entrance with measured steps, cutting an impressive figure in his tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. In one hand, he carried a slim leather portfolio; in the other, a black coffee cup from a nearby Cofe house.
"Good morning, Mr James," the elderly black doorman greeted, straightening his cap with a smile.
"Good morning, Mr Richard," Xavier replied warmly, handing him the cup of coffee, something he had seen his father do hundreds of times. "Jacky's about to take her Bar Exam, isn't she? You must be proud."
The man's eyes lit up. "Very much so. She's starting at Gordon Schmidt Van Dyke next month. Couldn't be prouder."
"Then she's already doing better than most lawyers I've met," Xavier said with a smirk. "If I ever need legal rescue, I'll know who to call."
Mr Richard chuckled and opened the door for him. "You're too kind, sir. Best of luck with your meeting."
"Thanks, Richard. You too—tell Jacky I said congratulations." Xavier stepped into the marbled lobby, his polished shoes echoing faintly beneath the grand chandelier. The smell of roasted coffee, polished oak, and money filled the air. The past six weeks since his father's funeral had been a whirlwind of activity, managing his inheritance, restructuring his investment portfolio, and most importantly, laying the groundwork for what he was about to attempt.
Purchasing an NFL franchise at twenty years old was audacious, bordering on absurd. The league's ownership structure was deliberately designed to keep out young money, especially black folks' money, preferring the stability of established billionaires with decades of business acumen. But Xavier had advantages most people don't: a multi-billion-dollar inheritance that was more than some team owners in the league.
He went up to the second floor of the Lex Yard, where he was casually greeted by one of the impeccably dressed concierges. Following a brief conversation, he was guided to a table by the window where a white man in his mid-forties sat enjoying a cup of coffee with the morning's paper. James B. Hess looked up as Xavier approached, his sharp grey eyes assessing the younger man with scrutiny, probably wondering why this meeting had been called.
He was dressed conservatively in a navy suit, a pale blue shirt, and cufflinks that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. His dark hair was greying at the temples, yet he exuded the confidence of someone who inherited an oil fortune. "Mr James," Hess said, standing to shake hands, his grip was firm and businesslike. "You're punctual. I appreciate that."
"Mr Hess," Xavier replied, returning the handshake with equal pressure. "Thank you for taking the time."
~~~
[9:40 AM]
"Ok, you've bought me breakfast, so shouldn't you tell me why you dragged me out here?" Hess set his fork down beside the half-eaten eggs Benedict and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His voice carried the dry humour of a man used to boardrooms and battlefields of negotiation. "Let me guess, you need a favour entering the oil industry after cutting ties with your father's fund, or maybe you need some help in lobbying?"
Xavier smiled faintly, stirring his tea with unhurried composure. "Neither, I'm here to make you an offer that you can't refuse." His whole demeanour seemed to change as he lazily leaned back, clasping his hands as his elegantly crossed.
Hess's expression didn't change for a moment, his blue eyes locking with Xavier's auburn eyes. "Haha, you're Corleone impression has gotten better." His laughter instantly covered the table, easing the mood as Xavier also smiled.
"Ahah, I remembered how much you enjoyed Francis Coppola's works," Xavier replied once the laughter died down. "The Tigers, I hear you're selling them?"
Hess's eyebrow arched. "You want to buy the Jets?"
"My pops loved the sport; having a team under the James name in the greatest American sport would be a dream come true." He said, placing his slim leather portfolio on the table. "I only have one argument that should matter to you. This is my offer."
Hess didn't respond right away as he took hold of the portfolio and began reading its contents. It took him a good five minutes, but Xavier did not mind as he continued sipping his tea. He had planned to take things easy and look for an opportunity to buy a sports club, but the timing just happened to align.
With the current dotcom crash sending Wall Street into a crash landing, club owners who had made poor business decisions were in need of money. He had around a billion dollars in cash after making his bets on the crash early in January. Being able to purchase the team his family grew up loving and breaking through that barrier would be huge.
Hess set the final page down slowly, his expression unreadable, fingertips tapping once against the leather-bound portfolio before he closed it. For a moment, only the sound of soft jazz from the lobby below filled the air. Xavier simply adjusted his cufflink and waited for the man to speak first.
"You've given me an interesting offer," Hess finally said, his tone even but carrying the faintest note of intrigue. "Seven hundred million Dollars, no financing, and no consortium partners. That alone raises eyebrows."
Xavier leaned forward slightly, the edge of a grin flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Does it really matter? You want to sell, and I'm giving you the highest offer; you'd be a fool to take anything less. We're talking about your father's legacy after all."
Hess let out a low chuckle, "Still," he said, swirling his coffee absently, "even if I were to entertain this, you'd have to pass through thirty-one other owners. And you know how they think, they won't approve someone, well, let's say, pedigree."
"That's true, but half of them still owe my family a favour or two, so I'll just about make the vote," Xavier replied coolly, not at all worried about not surviving the vote. "My liquidity, combined with my father's old relationships in entertainment and media, will make sure the league knows I bring more to the table than symbolism."
"Hmm." Hess folded his arms. "And why the Tigers? You could've gone after something smaller, maybe a struggling expansion franchise, work your way up quietly."
"That was the plan, but as the saying goes, 'Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit.' Teams like this only come on the market once." Xavier replied without hesitation. "The Tigers are New York's underdog, the city's forgotten son. Reviving them is the kind of challenge my father would've called a story worth owning."
For the first time, Hess smiled genuinely. "You sound like him."
"And you like yours, may they rest in peace," Xavier said softly. There was a brief silence again, with neither of them saying a word, filled with the weight of memory. Hess and Xavier's father, Robert James, had been part of the same investment circle in the late '80s.
Hess sighed, finally sliding the portfolio back across the table. "You're bold, I'll give you that. The league is changing — television deals, the internet, sponsorships... It's becoming entertainment, not just sport. Maybe a young face like yours is what it needs."
"Then you'll sell?" He asked.
"Get the approval, and you have a deal. In fact, I'll help lobby some of my friends in the league," Hess said, standing as they shook hands. "Do me a favour and win a bowl game, my father only managed to win one at the start, but failed to do so when he finally owned the team."
"Hahah, I promise you that New York and the Tigers will become synonymous," firmly squeezing the man's hand, sealing the deal.
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To Be Continued...