By Eddie Brown
Beating the Odds is the unbelievable, inspiring autobiography of economic guru Eddie C. Brown, one of many nation's most sensible inventory pickers and funds managers. It info how Brown skillfully saved Brown Capital administration afloat in the course of the dot-com bust, 9-11 and the nice Recession. Born to a 13-year-old unwed mom within the rural South, this African-American funding whiz created a Baltimore-based monetary enterprise that collected greater than $6 Billion below management.
Brown delves into the profound heartbreak and disorientation upon the demise of his cherished grandmother – who used to be his surrogate mom -- and recounts how Brown's moonshine-running Uncle Jake to that end turned the dominant grownup determine in Brown's existence. His unflinchingly sincere, easy-to-read memoir information how highbrow interest, abiding self-belief, exertions and divine windfall helped Brown earn an electric engineering measure, turn into a military officer, and later a civilian IBM engineer. Readers will study of the strife that ensued whilst Brown give up IBM to earn an MBA, resulting in funding jobs that ready him to begin his personal funds administration corporation in 1983.
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Additional info for Beating the Odds: Eddie Brown's Investing and Life Strategies
One of the nice things about being an only child is never receiving hand-me-downs. One of the bad things about it is always looking like a freshly-scrubbed, black Lord Fauntleroy. As my buddy and I zoom down the bumpy, rut-filled road, Monkey’s large, surprisingly muscular body jounces up and down on the car’s bench seat, as does my more diminutive frame. It’s 1952 and passive restraint systems such as auto seatbelts have yet to be invented. Ditto airbags. Actually, Uncle Jake’s Ford does have one passive restraint—an unyielding, metal dashboard.
At some point, Uncle Jake must have called Granddad and passed along the tragic news, because Granddad gives me a stiff, teary-eyed hug in the driveway of his house following the long trip back to Apopka. I immediately burst into tears and run into the house, leaving Granddad—who now looks older than his 75 years—standing in the driveway. He probably needs solace as much, if not more, than I do. But like most 14 year olds, I’m primarily focused on my own well-being. If there was a member of the Big Three who was irreplaceable, it was Grandma.
I’m not sure if they think I’ll tell Uncle Jake what they’re saying, or if they feel I’m not smart enough to interact on their level, but it’s insulting either way. Two can play that game, however. Consequently, I don’t say a word to my grandparents after my uncle takes me aside and shows me how his pursuers got close enough to shoot out the back window of his white Plymouth. My silent admiration of Uncle Jake puts me in a distinct minority in my grandparents’ household. To my way of thinking, Uncle Jake is merely using his ingenuity and mother wit to carve out an existence superior to the depressing, back-breaking, hand-to-mouth existence of most black Apopka residents.