Post by Cross Recoba on Jan 9, 2016 20:07:30 GMT -6
Originally Published/Aired: 10th December 2015
Ask the man on the street where business gets done and they’ll offer a range of suggestions – the golf course, an upscale restaurant, in fact almost anywhere except an office. For the Corporate Communications team at The Sands Hotel they would occasionally find themselves mulling over this misconception and it would raise a wry smile. There might be trips out to entertain journalists and industry opinion-makers but rarely would they need to leave the grounds of the hotel. For the most part the office gave them everything they needed to achieve their goals and more.
The place was never quiet, that was a given – while sports teams endeavored to make their properties turn over money every day of the year this was a foreign concept to The Sands Hotel. The casino gave it an easy money-maker and draw – when you factored in the extra attractions they put on at the venue to cater for those who didn’t want to sit at the tables and machines it became evident that they tried to cater for everyone. While that afforded employees the luxury of not having to worry too much about the bottom line it also meant that success was measured in more intangible measures than could be shown on the balance sheet.
Today was no different for the half a dozen millennials that operated within this room day-in and day-out. ‘Gooey’ by Glass Animals played from a stereo somewhere within the walls; hidden underneath the noise of a communications team at work.
They controlled what was written about the company, what was let out by the company, and who was put in front of journalists for local, national and global matters. On whether gambling would ever hit levels like the United Kingdom were seeing in exposure to the masses ,whether cage-fighting was safer than boxing, why Vegas was the one state that hadn’t outlawed Celine Dion.
“Did you speak to the man himself?...No? Well, when he decides to speak you’ll have your answer”
“Mr. Costello isn’t taking media opportunities right now’
“I’m afraid that isn’t right, he isn’t on Instagram?”
Each of them came from differing backgrounds, different colleges, different states. The only binding thing they had to bring them together was that they’d all been ‘recruited’ in their Freshman year by The Sands. Like athletes and pro scouts, The Sands had invested in people because from the valet parking your car to the guy thrusting a drink in your hand and telling you “The next spin’s a winner” Vegas was driven by people, not machines, by relationships, not transactions, and by playing the long-game over short-term gains.
“You’ll have to go through the proper channels, I can give you a number and a name”
“Have you got any proof of that? If not, I suggest you retract it”
“If there’s a story he’ll release a statement, if there isn’t then there won’t be and there isn’t an article to be written about a non-story”
The philosophy stemmed from when Costello was rising up in his youth – put your stock into those with high potential at a young age and help them realize it. Al had tweaked and adapted it over the years to suit his needs. College students in his pomp weren’t that much use or of that much interest to the business he was in back then. Now, however, the game had changed and what was needed was finesse and patience to accompany wits, ingenuity, and determination.
By the same token, Cross had again used the system that educated him and refined it to perform in the modern world. That in order to get the best talent within this generation it wasn’t about offering the most money, it wasn’t about offering perks that were double-edged like on-site massages, hammocks, or unlimited holidays - it was about investing in the person, making them feel valued and reaffirming them.
This was what made this generation, his generation, feel valued. They craved attention, affirmation, the ability to enact change. Remuneration only got you so far; there’d always be a company that could outbid you, perks were only as good as the role they were attached to, but – give them the ability to make a difference, receive instant gratification – that was what made The Sands such an exciting prospect.
The average attention span of a human was now estimated at eight seconds, less than a Snapchat. The next big thing is lucky to have time to breathe before the next big thing to follow is there to take away the limelight. The Sands philosophy aimed to eschew that. Market stats pointed to their hiring practices as paragons in youth leadership, the facts founded in boasting the youngest average age range across all major functions below board level. Anyone could sell a college kid a dream, selling a college student something tangible made them stand out from their competitors.
The clocked turned to eleven half a dozen phones chimed half a dozen alerts. Emails were curtailed and phone-calls drawn to a close as they turned to face the entrance to the office.
Cross Recoba walked through to the door, and in keeping with the setting, had dressed for the occasion. The tailored suits from Europe were not for meetings such as these, replaced with a China Pink V-neck Cashmere jumper, a plain white shirt and dark blue jeans. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and threw a packet of Lucky Strikes onto the table.
Following Recoba into the room was a blonde woman, who was barely old enough to gamble in the very place she worked, setting down a tray of Danish pastries, sandwiches and a family sized bag of chips onto the table. She leaned into Cross’ ear and whispered something inaudible before walking back out of the room and shutting the door.
Recoba headed to the fridge and lifted out a six pack of San Pellegrino and putting them on the table. He went back to the fridge and looked back at the group, they all bar one shook their head, the ritual well practiced, the cues understood. Cross retrieved only two Asahi bottles, he opened both and handed one over.
“Anyone got anything they want to put on the Sonos before we start?” Cross asked the room.
“Who was the DJ who played at the last fight after-party?” was unhelpfully put forward by a blonde girl.
“Bald head, Viking beard”
Despite not offering the name Cross knew who they meant. He shuffled through Spotify and the sound system began to play ‘The Great View’ by Mirrored Theory.
Cross lit up a cigarette; he took a deep drag looking expectantly round the table. Silence within this team indicated a problem, when everything was going to plan the chatter was forthcoming.
“Let’s begin – what’s stopping us from getting to our lives outside of work today?” Cross smiled as he asked the question.
He had educated his team to never be afraid of bringing up an issue, either with himself or the team. In this line of work hesitancy was worse than ineptitude, any mistake anyone made could be used as a learning experience not just for themselves but also the team.
The meeting took place nearly every day. When Cross was out of town he would attend by Skype, where that wasn’t possible he instructed them to get what needed to be done that day done and then make sure their phones were on them. That was an easy request, this generation would rather give up their wallet for the day than their phones.
“Boyer’s management team are talking up a potential injury he might be carrying, MMA sites are already talking like the card could be a failure.” The blonde girl delivered the news without embellishment.
The Boyer in question was Chris Boyer. He had originally been scheduled to be the co-main event for next month’s card, as a set-up to a Main Event contested by two hotly tipped female talents. That plan had now been nixed, the two matches switched after a result happened in the last few weeks that had shaken the confidence in the ability of female fighters to carry a card successfully in the future. Luckily it was a different promotion but it was enough of a concern to make the switch.
“Thanks, Cassie. Have we seen any proof of this injury? A medical professional come forward and spoken to confirm the validity?” Recoba was quick to make sure the team knew the issue shouldn’t be regarded as a major concern.
He flicked his cigarette ash into the ashtray in front of him and took a sip of his beer.
“Until we hear confirmation of this injury from someone qualified we work on the assumption that should be the most likely – he wants a better payday. He knows we were subsidizing certain fighters’ pay for the promotion and now his agent has most likely convinced him that, despite not being any better a fighter than he was before the switch, that he should be paid in line with the better placement on the card…Call his bluff, tell the promoter to put out feelers for potential replacements, nothing in concrete but he needs to know he’s replaceable and not in a position to dictate terms.”
Cassie was jotting down notes on her phone to make sure the task didn’t fall between the cracks.
“Lastly, invite his agent here, not today, not even this week – make it next week when I’m back from Imperial. If this injury is just a ploy we can use the extra time to erode any perceived leverage he thinks he has.”
Cross smiled at Cassie as she typed at her phone – already sending out the invitation.
“Anything else?”
“We’re being pressed about plans to completely abolish the Federal Wire Act.” The beer drinker informed Cross.
This act prohibited electronic transmission of information for sports betting across telecommunications lines and, broadly speaking, covered all forms of gambling.
Recoba rested his cigarette in the ashtray and let out a loud laugh.
“Why would we ever support that? People come here to gamble, you can’t recreate Vegas in a coffee shop! If the issue is brought to us again by hacks then ask them if, if they were us, they’d be behind the repeal?” Cross’ voice was incredulous.
Cross stubbed out his cigarette and placed down the now empty bottle of Japanese beer.
“If that’s everything then you all know what is standing between yourselves and an easy finish to your day. I’ll be in the air in the next hour but reachable on WhatsApp for the rest of the working day. Keep up the great work guys, I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”
Recoba stood from the table and walked out the door knowing he had a job waiting for him in Burbank when he landed.
*****
The place was never quiet, that was a given – while sports teams endeavored to make their properties turn over money every day of the year this was a foreign concept to The Sands Hotel. The casino gave it an easy money-maker and draw – when you factored in the extra attractions they put on at the venue to cater for those who didn’t want to sit at the tables and machines it became evident that they tried to cater for everyone. While that afforded employees the luxury of not having to worry too much about the bottom line it also meant that success was measured in more intangible measures than could be shown on the balance sheet.
Today was no different for the half a dozen millennials that operated within this room day-in and day-out. ‘Gooey’ by Glass Animals played from a stereo somewhere within the walls; hidden underneath the noise of a communications team at work.
They controlled what was written about the company, what was let out by the company, and who was put in front of journalists for local, national and global matters. On whether gambling would ever hit levels like the United Kingdom were seeing in exposure to the masses ,whether cage-fighting was safer than boxing, why Vegas was the one state that hadn’t outlawed Celine Dion.
“Did you speak to the man himself?...No? Well, when he decides to speak you’ll have your answer”
“Mr. Costello isn’t taking media opportunities right now’
“I’m afraid that isn’t right, he isn’t on Instagram?”
Each of them came from differing backgrounds, different colleges, different states. The only binding thing they had to bring them together was that they’d all been ‘recruited’ in their Freshman year by The Sands. Like athletes and pro scouts, The Sands had invested in people because from the valet parking your car to the guy thrusting a drink in your hand and telling you “The next spin’s a winner” Vegas was driven by people, not machines, by relationships, not transactions, and by playing the long-game over short-term gains.
“You’ll have to go through the proper channels, I can give you a number and a name”
“Have you got any proof of that? If not, I suggest you retract it”
“If there’s a story he’ll release a statement, if there isn’t then there won’t be and there isn’t an article to be written about a non-story”
The philosophy stemmed from when Costello was rising up in his youth – put your stock into those with high potential at a young age and help them realize it. Al had tweaked and adapted it over the years to suit his needs. College students in his pomp weren’t that much use or of that much interest to the business he was in back then. Now, however, the game had changed and what was needed was finesse and patience to accompany wits, ingenuity, and determination.
By the same token, Cross had again used the system that educated him and refined it to perform in the modern world. That in order to get the best talent within this generation it wasn’t about offering the most money, it wasn’t about offering perks that were double-edged like on-site massages, hammocks, or unlimited holidays - it was about investing in the person, making them feel valued and reaffirming them.
This was what made this generation, his generation, feel valued. They craved attention, affirmation, the ability to enact change. Remuneration only got you so far; there’d always be a company that could outbid you, perks were only as good as the role they were attached to, but – give them the ability to make a difference, receive instant gratification – that was what made The Sands such an exciting prospect.
The average attention span of a human was now estimated at eight seconds, less than a Snapchat. The next big thing is lucky to have time to breathe before the next big thing to follow is there to take away the limelight. The Sands philosophy aimed to eschew that. Market stats pointed to their hiring practices as paragons in youth leadership, the facts founded in boasting the youngest average age range across all major functions below board level. Anyone could sell a college kid a dream, selling a college student something tangible made them stand out from their competitors.
The clocked turned to eleven half a dozen phones chimed half a dozen alerts. Emails were curtailed and phone-calls drawn to a close as they turned to face the entrance to the office.
Cross Recoba walked through to the door, and in keeping with the setting, had dressed for the occasion. The tailored suits from Europe were not for meetings such as these, replaced with a China Pink V-neck Cashmere jumper, a plain white shirt and dark blue jeans. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and threw a packet of Lucky Strikes onto the table.
Following Recoba into the room was a blonde woman, who was barely old enough to gamble in the very place she worked, setting down a tray of Danish pastries, sandwiches and a family sized bag of chips onto the table. She leaned into Cross’ ear and whispered something inaudible before walking back out of the room and shutting the door.
Recoba headed to the fridge and lifted out a six pack of San Pellegrino and putting them on the table. He went back to the fridge and looked back at the group, they all bar one shook their head, the ritual well practiced, the cues understood. Cross retrieved only two Asahi bottles, he opened both and handed one over.
“Anyone got anything they want to put on the Sonos before we start?” Cross asked the room.
“Who was the DJ who played at the last fight after-party?” was unhelpfully put forward by a blonde girl.
“Bald head, Viking beard”
Despite not offering the name Cross knew who they meant. He shuffled through Spotify and the sound system began to play ‘The Great View’ by Mirrored Theory.
Cross lit up a cigarette; he took a deep drag looking expectantly round the table. Silence within this team indicated a problem, when everything was going to plan the chatter was forthcoming.
“Let’s begin – what’s stopping us from getting to our lives outside of work today?” Cross smiled as he asked the question.
He had educated his team to never be afraid of bringing up an issue, either with himself or the team. In this line of work hesitancy was worse than ineptitude, any mistake anyone made could be used as a learning experience not just for themselves but also the team.
The meeting took place nearly every day. When Cross was out of town he would attend by Skype, where that wasn’t possible he instructed them to get what needed to be done that day done and then make sure their phones were on them. That was an easy request, this generation would rather give up their wallet for the day than their phones.
“Boyer’s management team are talking up a potential injury he might be carrying, MMA sites are already talking like the card could be a failure.” The blonde girl delivered the news without embellishment.
The Boyer in question was Chris Boyer. He had originally been scheduled to be the co-main event for next month’s card, as a set-up to a Main Event contested by two hotly tipped female talents. That plan had now been nixed, the two matches switched after a result happened in the last few weeks that had shaken the confidence in the ability of female fighters to carry a card successfully in the future. Luckily it was a different promotion but it was enough of a concern to make the switch.
“Thanks, Cassie. Have we seen any proof of this injury? A medical professional come forward and spoken to confirm the validity?” Recoba was quick to make sure the team knew the issue shouldn’t be regarded as a major concern.
He flicked his cigarette ash into the ashtray in front of him and took a sip of his beer.
“Until we hear confirmation of this injury from someone qualified we work on the assumption that should be the most likely – he wants a better payday. He knows we were subsidizing certain fighters’ pay for the promotion and now his agent has most likely convinced him that, despite not being any better a fighter than he was before the switch, that he should be paid in line with the better placement on the card…Call his bluff, tell the promoter to put out feelers for potential replacements, nothing in concrete but he needs to know he’s replaceable and not in a position to dictate terms.”
Cassie was jotting down notes on her phone to make sure the task didn’t fall between the cracks.
“Lastly, invite his agent here, not today, not even this week – make it next week when I’m back from Imperial. If this injury is just a ploy we can use the extra time to erode any perceived leverage he thinks he has.”
Cross smiled at Cassie as she typed at her phone – already sending out the invitation.
“Anything else?”
“We’re being pressed about plans to completely abolish the Federal Wire Act.” The beer drinker informed Cross.
This act prohibited electronic transmission of information for sports betting across telecommunications lines and, broadly speaking, covered all forms of gambling.
Recoba rested his cigarette in the ashtray and let out a loud laugh.
“Why would we ever support that? People come here to gamble, you can’t recreate Vegas in a coffee shop! If the issue is brought to us again by hacks then ask them if, if they were us, they’d be behind the repeal?” Cross’ voice was incredulous.
Cross stubbed out his cigarette and placed down the now empty bottle of Japanese beer.
“If that’s everything then you all know what is standing between yourselves and an easy finish to your day. I’ll be in the air in the next hour but reachable on WhatsApp for the rest of the working day. Keep up the great work guys, I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”
Recoba stood from the table and walked out the door knowing he had a job waiting for him in Burbank when he landed.
*****
