Massachusetts' sneaker king, Paul Fireman, was on the front page of The Wall Street Journal last month talking about building one of America's most expensive golf courses, a $129 million ''Rembrandt," as he calls it, on a toxic waste site on the banks of New York Harbor. The Reebok boss lives in a 27,000-square-foot palace off the 11th green at The Country Club in Brookline, another of the nation's great golf courses. And Forbes just listed him as one of America's richest people with an estimated net worth of $830 million.
There is one thing Fireman's millions can't buy him: the title of wealthiest sneaker maker in Massachusetts. That distinction belongs to the low-profile chief executive of New Balance in Brighton, Jim Davis, a man who is delighted not to show up on lists like the Forbes 400. ''We like to stay below the radar," says Davis. ''We work real hard at that."
The numbers, though, are compelling. New Balance, the world's fourth-largest athletic footwear maker, is a private company owned entirely by Davis and his wife, Anne, who heads human resources and the company foundation. While New Balance does not report profits, sales last year were $1.3 billion. Using a conservative industry benchmark for valuation of one times sales, New Balance -- that is the Davises -- would be worth well north of $1 billion. The company has no debt. Davis, as is his way, will have no part of talking about his wealth.
But Jim Davis is one great story. In the early 1970s, Davis started searching for a business to buy. The first company he looked at was New Balance, which then had six employees and turned out 30 pairs of shoes a day. Davis knew nothing about shoes, and he passed. But he was running and bought a pair of the shoes. A year later, after hearing runners rave about New Balance and unable to find another deal, Davis bought the company on the day of the Boston Marathon in 1972. The price: $10,000 down and $90,000 out of later cash flow. ''The guy was desperate to sell the company," he says.
Davis prospered by going his own way. He refuses to hire celebrity athletes to endorse his shoes and offers sneakers in varying widths, which is popular with middle-aged buyers. About one-quarter of his manufacturing remains in the United States, long after his competitors have abandoned making anything here.
The Davises are remarkably unpretentious mom and pop billionaires. They live in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Newton and drive themselves to work. Davis, 61, the son of a Greek immigrant who ran a local restaurant, likes khakis and dislikes ties. They hope their two teenage kids will run the business one day. They give away lots of money, though you never read about it. ''He is the quintessential anonymous donor," says US Representative William Delahunt, a fraternity brother at Middlebury College.
The investment bankers have stopped calling; Davis has no intention of going public. What would be lost if he did? ''Domestic manufacturing," he says immediately. ''If we were a public company, I am sure the shareholders would say, 'Close your factories and make the product abroad because you will make more dough for me and my quarterly dividend.' Right off the bat I am sure that would happen."
New Balance is all about thinking long term. Most of Davis's top executives have been with him 20 years; two of the six employees working at New Balance when Davis bought it are still there. The company, with 2,600 employees, has no unions. Davis avoids acquisitions because they disrupt the culture.
''We are never going to go public as long as I run the company," he says. ''There is no question about that."
Steve Bailey is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at bailey@globe.com or at 617-929-2902.