Nowadays, Gross’s flyspeck empire pales next to the $1.6 trillion Pimco. He manages $1.5 billion—less than 1 percent of what he used to—and much of that money is his own. He works out of a sparsely populated building in Newport Beach, not far from his former headquarters. His entire operation—Gross and four support staff—could fit into a conference room at Pimco.
Gross insists he’s not trying to build another Pimco. He doubts anyone could. And he readily admits he never had much interest in the day-to-day grind of managing people. “I just wanted to run money and be famous,” he says. That no one could replicate Pimco—and Gross’s decades there—is what makes what he did so extraordinary, he says. “I was always that way; I will go to the extreme to be special,” Gross says.
Ever since he was young, Gross says, he has tried to do things others couldn’t or wouldn’t do, such as spending three months at Las Vegas blackjack tables—16 hours a day, seven days a week—or running six marathons in six days. “Pimco was that in the extreme; nobody’s done this before, and nobody’s going to do this again,” he says.
Post-Pimco, Gross is trying to keep up appearances. He’s doing regular television and radio spots. (He was a fixture on financial TV while at Pimco, which placed cameras on its trading floor for him.) And he’s writing a monthly investment outlook similar to the one he did at Pimco.
He also seems keenly aware of his stage in life, even likening himself to the aging NBA legend Kobe Bryant, who, like Gross, is approaching the twilight of his career, with all the mental and physical baggage that comes with the territory.
Gross’s new boss at Denver-based Janus, CEO Dick Weil, calls him that company’s Peyton Manning, referring to the Denver Broncos quarterback known for his pre-snap histrionics and Jedi knight cool. That comparison may be apt. Manning once said: “I would like to think I will be the guy who knows when it’s time to stop. I don’t want to be a guy who hung on and hung on.”
Gross gets that. “If you can be actually honest with yourself, which I don’t think anybody can ever be, there comes a point where you would know, hopefully—to be crass about it—that you’re losing it, that you’re making mistakes, you’re not as focused as you used to be,” he says. “That hasn’t come yet, but I know that happens to people in their 70s and 80s. That’s how the cookie crumbles. So far, I think I’m OK.”
Gross sits at the table and stares at his cinnamon twist. He takes a nibble. Finally, he wraps the rest in a paper napkin and tosses it into the garbage can.
Gross is thinking about Pimco again. “I should know better,” he says. “I’m a wimp. I didn’t stand up for myself.” He goes on: “It’s like an alcoholic. You never stop believing people will like you if you concede this and concede that.”
A young man behind the counter recognizes him. Turns out, the kid has an internship at Morgan Stanley and says he’s coming to hear Gross speak at an upcoming event.