“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” “They are a bunch of misogynistic trolls!” “Seriously, you’re going from AOL, Yahoo!, Microsoft to … that place?” “Why on earth would you do that to yourself?” “You know you’re committing career suicide, right?”

These were just some of the less-than-enthusiastic responses I got in 2016 when I told friends and colleagues that I had accepted the job of CEO at Barstool Sports. 

While there was a lot to figure out, I loved that there were no rules. This allowed me—and everyone else at Barstool—to focus on what worked, what was efficient, and what mattered to move the company forward. What we built is an anomaly. No one was coming to help Barstool Sports—we had to help ourselves. This was probably the best thing that could have happened to us, and to me. We made our way forward with initiative, grit, gumption, and a defiant need and desire to do it all ourselves.

It was a wild time, an uncertain time, a loud time, and a stressful time, but we were smart, deeply motivated, and insecure, which made everyone at Barstool more resilient and that much more motivated to prove everyone else wrong. I’m positive our crazy rate of growth and success came out of that wildness, out of a scenario that couldn’t be believed or a situation that couldn’t have been less like one of those famous case histories at HBS.

The job consumed me. I got lost in it, disappearing into work because it was so dicey and so precarious and also so exhilarating and volatile. It required nothing less than total devotion. It was a world I felt safe in and confident about and where I could thrive. There was always something that needed to be done, fixed, or dealt with. I loved it. It was all I ever wanted. The heartbeat of the company was fast and loud; Barstool was a whole world unto itself. It was the difficulty and the sacrifice of those days and the days that came before it that made Barstool so special. I felt protective of everyone there and got angry when people slighted them or wouldn’t give us a chance. I saw how hard it was for our content people to stare down a blank page every day with no money, no set, no producer, and no resources and feel the pressure of having to make people laugh. And so, I gave my heart to this thing we were trying to create.

Like Dave, Barstool is both defiant and shows deep conviction. Many people hate Barstool (some for good reason). I get it. We aren’t perfect, we’re definitely not PC, but we do own our shit. I think it’s fair to say Barstool has offended most everyone. We lived through a lot of blowback, a lot of death-by-headline, and a lot of people with pitchforks calling for our cancellation. The one thing no one could kill and that Dave, Dan, and all the talent were ferocious about was Barstool’s relationship with its fans. And these fans were ferocious about Barstool in return.

What makes Barstool and most of the people there so brilliant is that no one is perfect; no one is all one thing or another. Barstool is confusing, and this is a good thing. There’s no one mindset or mantra or party line. Barstool is a collection of talented creators and businesspeople striving to be productive, authentic, imaginative, entrepreneurial, and able to defend themselves when they come up short.

The media has continually focused on the flaws and failings of Barstool (of which there are many). I’ve been made to feel—by both the media and the establishment—that I should be ashamed of Barstool and of Dave. I’ve been kicked off boards, lost friendships (both professional and personal), and have had to dig myself out of holes as a result of having a “perception problem.” That said, I am fiercely proud of what Dave and I built together, and I wouldn’t change that company for the world.

Deion Sanders once said something to the effect of, “Barstool is the winning combination of Dave’s attitude and Erika’s personality.” Maybe I’m flattering myself, but I would like to think that’s true. When I accepted the job, I trusted that Dave wanted a partner and that he wanted this thing he created to grow and evolve and be something bigger than he ever imagined, and that’s exactly what we delivered. I knew going into it that if I started to apologize, to rationalize, or to backtrack on everything everyone at Barstool had ever done or said, I would never be able to stop, and nothing would ever suffice. So, I never wanted to start to care, and I didn’t.

Long story short, this place has a lot of stories. We took a blog with five million page views and turned it into the sixth-biggest brand in the world on TikTok. We built the most defining media company of the last ten years. We did it on our own, in our own way, with very little investment, and without any real help. And we did it in spite of a lot of failure and obstacles along the way.

I went to college with this guy Glenn. He used to say, “Only the strong survive—OTSS” (usually before going on a twelve-hour bender). The same is true of Barstool. Caring too much, working too hard, getting knocked down, getting back up, and staying open to a lot of crazy shit made the journey wild, but also so worth it.

Whether you are aware of Barstool or not, care for Barstool or not, I’m confident that what I’ve witnessed and what we’ve done can empower you to have your own wild work journey. You can do anything if you’re willing to give yourself to it, fuck up a bunch while at it, be uncomfortable during it, and be reflective after it. This is what my book Nobody Cares About Your Career is about. The end. (Just kidding. I need you to read like twenty more chapters of this, please and thank you.)

Copyright © 2024 by Erika Ayers Badan