This week I've been a bit obsessed with the idea that the manager's job is to represent the interests of shareholders. It brings to mind the Yogi Berra epithet:
In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.
In theory it makes sense. Companies are vehicles for invested capital to find returns. We entomb that concept in law and in corporate structure where the board of directors is explicitly charged with representing shareholders. Managers run the day-to-day and should have investors' interests on their minds, remaining on constant look out for ways to increase shareholder value.
But we put the idea in play, how does a manager best represent investor interest? Indeed, which investor?
Investors are far from a like-minded group bound together by common interests in the business' success and united in their opinions on how that success is best achieved. Oh no. To highlight just a few investor archetypes:
There are the hedge fund traders, moving in and out with positions measured in millions of shares and closed out within minutes or hours when the stock moves up or down by a penny or two.
There are the pension funds for (as an example) retired nuns. They hold shares for years but issue measure after measure for shareholder consideration on such social issues as whether you should offer health benefits to your lowest paid employees.
There are the corporate raiders that accumulate massive positions, gain board representation, and then force management to monetize assets and distribute the cash. This pushes the share price up for a time, during which the raiders sell out and move on to their next target.
All are investors in your public company. Each has very specific objectives. And those objectives are divergent and irreconcilable.
So, how does management effectively represent investors when their interests don't align?
As a frequent visitor of Charleston, South Carolina, I've been required to read the works of native son Pat Conroy. My favorite book is his memoir My Losing Season in which he details his time playing basketball for the Citadel.
The Citadel, a military prep college in Charleston, is hard on its first year students (called "Knobs"), believing it must break each of them down and build them back up again in its own disciplined model. Conroy was not spared the hazing rituals. In a particularly poignant scene from the book he recalls being surrounded by several upperclassmen who begin demanding he do a variety of conflicting activities. As I recall, one would get in his face and scream that he do push-ups. Another would degrade him for doing push-ups, telling him he's supposed to jump up and down. And yet another would scream at him for jumping; he should be reciting the school's creed.
The demands came rapid fire. After several minutes of this Conroy was a wreck. He instinctively fell into fetal position on the floor, his mind unable to process another command. The older cadets walked away, satisfied that they had broken this cocky Knob.
The human mind cannot process conflicting orders without freezing up. It's simply not how our wiring works. And so, while the idea that management works for investors sounds good in theory, in practice it's unworkable. Many an executive has driven himself to exhaustion trying to appease these feckless masters.
What's a manager to do?
Focus on the business itself. Use the overall health of the business as a proxy for the long-term investor...that investor whose interests are aligned with the company investing in its advantages, foregoing immediate gratification en lieu of higher earnings further down the line.
These are the businesses I want to invest in. The opposite are those that pledge allegiance to blind total shareholder return, returning cash to investors that could be reinvested in the business to fortify its barriers to entry, improve its offerings, or make itself invaluable to its customers.