“Sooner or later I would have been exposed as the liar I was.” The story of the creator of Reebok

BOMBORA Publishing published the book “The Inventor of Sneakers. The story of the founder of Reebok”. This is an autobiographical story of Joe Foster, who in 1958 founded the company, which became a giant in the market of sportswear and footwear.

This book is not just about business. It’s about true passion for what you do, brilliant decisions, luck and that life has a great sense of humor.

We thought we’d share an excerpt that talks about the threat that loomed over the company in the 60’s.

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Life was good. My brother and I both found our place in the business and worked harmoniously as a team. Jeff would “snap” – cut the uppers from pieces of leather, Joyce would sew them together, and I would machine them, then attach them to the sole to a rubber solution, and then stitch them on the machine. David, our apprentice, acted as messenger and helped wherever needed, while both Jean answered the phone and sorted out paperwork. It resembled a real family business, with what I assumed was the same spirit as in the early days of Foster’s when Dad and Bill worked for Grandpa Joe.

The number of orders for our cycling and running shoes grew steadily, and we could have easily settled into this relatively stable arrangement – as in the case of Dad and Bill: the business quietly running and generating enough income to support a simple lifestyle. I think it sounded tempting to Jeff. He was less ambitious and driven than I was, and I wondered how far we could go. I knew I had to provide for my family, but I wanted more than just a paycheck, a comfortable life, and an easy path.

I wanted to be challenged, eager to do battle not only with local companies but also with global brands. I wanted to prove to myself that I could win.

Although I felt that Reebok would break into the overseas market, I still had no idea how to do it. Bill’s orders from Yale were something of a fluke, and I didn’t know how to replicate. I couldn’t visualize this success, couldn’t describe it. I just felt it coming, felt the anticipation building, the excitement.

I heard the mail slot in the door open, followed by the rustle of envelopes scattering across the bare floorboards in the living room. Jean gathered them up, sat back in her original seat, and handed me a stack of letters. I set the plate on the armrest of the couch, blotted my mouth with a napkin, and opened the first few envelopes. They were the usual motley mix of typewritten receipts and invoices, plus a couple handwritten letters from customers with feedback or complaints. I handed them back to Jean.

Opening the fifth letter, I stopped, reread it. Reread it again. And then I turned pale, the room went dark in my eyes. All I could see were black block letters on a white background. The black that stood out the most was folded into the words “petition to dissolve the company.” The patent office of Wilson Gunn & Ellis wanted to shut down our company, Reebok Sports Limited, just like that.

– What’s the matter, darling? – Jean noticed the panic in my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to say the phrase. They were just words typed by a nameless secretary who was completely unaware of the devastating effect such an inky pattern could have on someone’s morning, on someone’s future. Jean put her hand on my forearm, “Bad news?” Realizing that her dreams and hopes depended on mine, I didn’t want to alarm her. I knew that if she started to worry, it would make me worry myself, and the vicious cycle would begin to spiral. She’d bring up the one topic everyone was trying to avoid – that I was making too much up as I went along, even though the business was growing little by little.

And sooner or later I would be exposed as the liar that I was, and then it would all go down the drain. And so here it was, this lie, delivered to my house on an ordinary Thursday morning, in black and white, without fuss or fanfare.

When I rose from my chair, I felt sick to my stomach. Jean glared at me:

– You haven’t finished your eggs yet.
I tried not to look her in the eye.
– What’s the matter? – She stood up too.

– It’s not a big deal. I’ll take care of it. – I grabbed my jacket hanging outside the door and hurried to our accountant’s office in the building across the street. It was only 8:30 in the morning. The door turned out to be locked. I couldn’t go back to the factory or to Jean. My face would give away the seriousness of the situation. Instead, I went to the café on the corner, ordered a cup of coffee, and reread the letter over and over again. Finally, through the fogged window, I noticed a fluorescent light flickering in the accountant’s office.

Peter, our accountant – a man of quiet disposition – answered my knock only after a while. His eyes looked comical as he peered out from behind the door. The frightened expression on his face was amplified by his thick, round-rimmed glasses.

– Is that what I think it is? – I shoved the letter at him. He ran his eyes over the page.
– Oh, my God. – He raised his head. – This is not good.

He opened the door fully to let me in and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Into it I plopped.

– I know it’s not nice, Peter. You didn’t have to tell me that. I want you to tell me how to stop it.

I immediately regretted saying it sarcastically. Peter was a nice man, shy but always willing to help.

– You need to hire someone to act on your behalf, a lawyer. If you don’t contest this motion, and soon, you’re finished. They’ll close Reebok and sell all your assets to pay off the debt.

I squirmed even more in my chair. The last thing I needed was attorney’s fees on top of the brand registration debt. That’s not really true. The last thing I needed was to have my company shut down.

– Who do you recommend… cheaper?
– You don’t need a cheaper lawyer, you need Derek Waller from Manchester,” Peter said. – He charges a lot for his services, but he’s worth it. He recently confronted us in a difficult case and achieved a reconciliation. I have no idea how, but he certainly knows what he’s doing.

I wandered back to the factory to take my mind off the pending litigation and its costs, and to focus on the tasks at hand. But first I had to make an appointment with the man who would try to save our company.

I wasn’t sure if the full man behind the mahogany desk was asleep. His eyes were half-closed
and his heavy jaw pulled their corners downward. His mouth was frozen in a motionless grimace, like a freeze frame of a man rasping something bittersweet. I glanced at the rows of leather-bound law books that lined the shelves of the floor-to-ceiling-high bookcases behind him, then squinted, trying to make out the documents hanging in frames on the wall to my right. They were all certificates, diplomas, and awards from Derek Waller, an intellectual property attorney.

– Okay,” Derek said, suddenly coming back to life.

I shifted my gaze back to his face. “Still awake after all!” It was a good three minutes before he spoke after I explained my predicament.

– I am thinking, Mr. Foster, I am thinking. There’s a lot to weigh.
– And are we going to win? – I asked.
– I am confident that we will achieve a satisfactory result.
– Like what?

But he withdrew into himself again, silently formulating an answer. He seemed a strange man, which I found difficult to comprehend, but I think it’s part of his winning strategy, like an unconventional chess player, unpredictable, calculating his actions six moves ahead. I stood up to say goodbye and waited for Derek to do the same, but he didn’t move, so I left quietly. Only time could show how good he was for Reebok.