Learning the Art of Business The Owners Biography from pools halls to cyber Security

A time filled with chess games and fishing adventures. I vividly recall those days when I was just seven years old, challenging my father and Al Nevins to countless matches. Al, who was fifty years my senior, was a brilliant CPA with a knack for numbers, but he would often find himself at a loss when it came to chess. My unusual talent for the game drove him and my father to the brink of frustration. I can still picture them, shaking their heads in exasperation as they knocked over the chess pieces in their frustration.
We often played at the Oakwood Beach Club in Baldwin Harbor; a private Beach Club reserved for the lucky few livings south of Northern Boulevard. It was a vibrant place in the late ’60s, buzzing with activity. The adult men would gather for serious poker games while I swam laps and competed on the swimming team. I was a little dolphin in the pool, winning trophies that gleamed with a gold swimmer atop and a white marble base. My coach would beam with pride, and my mother cheered from the sidelines.
In addition to swim meets, we played water polo every weekend in the deep end of the pool. The diving board was a favorite gathering spot, where we’d take turns launching ourselves into the water, splashing and laughing. But the highlight was watching the grown men dive for oiled watermelons, a hilariously chaotic game organized by the club. I couldn’t tell if my father participated in those antics; his focus seemed to lie in the high-stakes poker games where tempers occasionally flared.
Winning was everything back then; trophies were reserved for champions. Oakwood Beach Club had a sandy shore and a large bay, complete with a wooden raft anchored in the water. I remember carefully climbing onto it, avoiding the sharp barnacles that clung to its edges close to the surface of the raft. We would sunbathe, dive off, and hang out, soaking up the sun and the carefree spirit of summer.
Fishing was another adventure. My brother and I would have drag nets catching hermit crabs and fish, our buckets overflowing with treasures from the water. Those were the best days—endless play at the beach club, filled with laughter and competition.
Chess remained a constant, though. I could never resist teasing Al, playing a move and then darting off to join my brother, leaving him to contemplate the board in silence. I would return to find him still pondering his next move, only for me to declare checkmate moments later. My father used to lose while he was playing chess with me. Perhaps that’s why he took to using belt buckles and anything else he could find to express his frustration against me. I was just a kid, but on those summer afternoons, I felt invincible amidst the laughter, the games, and the freedom of childhood.
The summers at Oakwood Beach Club were a blend of innocence and mischief. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and sunscreen oil, a sensory reminder of childhood adventures. After my chess matches, I’d dash off to join my brother in our latest escapades. We’d race to the beach, the sand hot under our feet, we would leap into the cool embrace of the bay.
Drag netting for fish at the Oakwood Beach Club was almost every day. Armed with makeshift nets and buckets, we’d explore the shallows, turning over rocks and peering into crevices, always hopeful for a glimpse of some hidden treasure. I remember the thrill of dragging our nets through the water, watching as they filled with wriggling crabs and colorful fish. Each catch felt like a small victory, a tangible trophy from our summer explorations.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, painting everything in hues of orange and pink, the adults would gather for their evening poker games. I’d often sit on the periphery, listening to their banter and laughter, absorbing the serious yet jovial atmosphere. Their camaraderie felt inviting, even as they argued over hands and bluffed their way through the night. The stakes were high, and the tension in the air was palpable. It was a world where I was only an observer, I was too young to play cards. Longing to join in but knowing I was too young to fully grasp the intricacies of their games.
Evenings would often culminate in more chess matches, as I tried to squeeze in one last game with Al before the sun disappeared. I relished those moments, feeling both proud and guilty as I defeated him time and again. His brows would furrow, and I could see him grappling with the fact that a seven-year-old was beating him at a game he had mastered for decades. But there was always a twinkle in his eye, a hint of admiration mixed with his frustration.
And there was my father, often engrossed in his own world, yet always present. He would sometimes glance over, offering a nod of encouragement, or a light-hearted remark about my strategy. Those small gestures meant the world to me; they were his way of saying he believed in me, even if I didn’t fully comprehend the weight of those moments.
The Oakwood Beach Club wasn’t just a location; it was a tapestry of experiences woven from laughter, competition, and the simple joys of childhood. It was a place where friendships blossomed, and memories were etched in the grains of sand. As summer days melted into warm nights, I felt a sense of belonging—a connection to my family, to Al, and to a time that seemed suspended in perfect bliss.
Reflecting on those summers, I realize now how they shaped me. The lessons learned at the chessboard—patience, strategy, and the understanding that every move counts—followed me beyond those sun-soaked days. I was learning more than just how to play a game; I was discovering resilience and the thrill of competition, the importance of teamwork while fishing, and the value of enjoying each fleeting moment.
Those memories of chess, fish, and summer sun are etched in my heart, a reminder of the simplicity and magic of childhood. They pull me back to a time when the world felt vast and full of possibility, where every game and every catch held the promise of adventure. As I close my eyes and revisit those days, I can still hear the laughter of my brother, the sound of waves lapping against the shore, and the clatter of chess pieces on a wooden board, echoing like a sweet refrain from a long-lost summer.

For a while, Baldwin Billiards felt like my second home. The clack of balls on the table, the laughter of friends, and the familiar faces created a comforting atmosphere. I loved the game and the camaraderie, the late nights spent perfecting my shots and sharing stories over drinks. It was a place where I felt I belonged, where I could escape the chaos of life. But as time passed, a nagging feeling crept in. I began to realize that, as much as I cherished the hall, I couldn’t see myself spending my entire life there. Ralph’s passing was a stark reminder of life’s fragility. Running the cash register and hustling games felt increasingly hollow without him around. I needed to move forward, to challenge myself beyond the comfort of the billiard tables. It was time to prove that I could carve out a different path.
That’s when I decided to take my GED. It was a pivotal moment—a chance to reclaim control over my future. I knew I hadn’t been the best student in high school; distractions and my love for the pool hall had taken precedence. But this time, I was determined to succeed. I threw myself into my studies, revisiting subjects I had once struggled with like math, reading, science. I set a rigorous schedule, often staying up late into the night, cramming and practicing sample questions.
When the day of the test arrived, nerves bubbled within me, but they were accompanied by a sense of resolve. I reminded myself that I had prepared as best as I could. With each question I tackled, I felt a mix of anxiety and excitement—this was my chance to change my narrative.
When I received the results, my heart raced. I had passed on the first try. The weight that had been pressing down on me for so long lifted instantly. I could hardly believe it. My mother’s pride was palpable; her smile radiated joy and relief. For the first time in years, I felt the stirrings of hope and possibility. It wasn’t just about passing the test; it was about taking a step toward a future I could be proud of.
Together, we began to explore the next chapter. College felt like a dream, but it was one I was ready to chase. After researching various programs, we settled on Johnson & Wales University in Rhode Island, renowned for its culinary arts program. Cooking had always been a passion of mine, a creative outlet that brought me joy. The idea of honing my skills in a structured environment thrilled me.
The transition wasn’t easy. Leaving Baldwin Billiards meant stepping away from a place that felt safe, but I knew it was necessary. As I packed my bags for Rhode Island, I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was the beginning of a new journey, a chance to learn and grow in ways I had never imagined. Each step forward felt like a victory, and I was ready to embrace whatever lay ahead, armed with the knowledge that I could achieve more than I ever thought possible.
As I settled into life at Johnson & Wales University, a whirlwind of new experiences enveloped me. The campus buzzed with energy—students hustling to classes, the aroma of fresh ingredients wafting through the air from the kitchens, and the sounds of laughter echoing from the dining halls. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who shared my passion for food and cooking, and it ignited a fire within me.
The culinary program was intense. Each day brought new challenges, from mastering knife skills to experimenting with complex recipes. I found myself immersed in a world that demanded creativity and precision, where every dish was a canvas waiting to be painted with flavors. I felt invigorated as I learned from seasoned chefs who pushed me to refine my technique and broaden my palate. The hours were long, but the exhilaration of creating something delicious made every moment worth it.
The friendships I formed during those early days were as nourishing as the meals we prepared. My classmates became a support system—fellow dreamers and aspiring chefs who understood the late-night study sessions and the joy of a perfectly executed dish. We spent evenings cooking together, sharing recipes and tips, and finding solace in our shared ambitions. Those bonds became an integral part of my journey, reminding me that I was no longer alone in pursuing my dreams.
Yet, as I adapted to this new life, remnants of my past would occasionally surface. I missed the familiarity of Baldwin Billiards—the laid-back atmosphere, the camaraderie, the games. Sometimes, I found myself longing for the comfort of a place where I was known and where I had felt a sense of belonging. But I also recognized that this was a different kind of belonging, one rooted in shared aspirations and growth.
Balancing school with my responsibilities was a challenge. I worked part-time in a local restaurant, where I could apply what I was learning in class. It was a grueling but rewarding experience, juggling late-night shifts with early morning classes. There were days when I felt overwhelmed, questioning whether I could keep up with the pace. But each time I faced a difficult situation—a challenging service or a complex dish—I reminded myself of the journey that had brought me here. I was no longer just a kid hustling games; I was a student with dreams, determined to carve out a future in the culinary world.
As the semesters progressed, I found my footing. I began to thrive, discovering my culinary style and embracing the creativity that came with it. Each project, from menu planning to plating techniques, fueled my passion even further. I learned not just about cooking but about the artistry and culture behind food—how it could connect people, tell stories, and evoke memories.

Starting culinary school at Johnson & Wales University was an entirely new world for me. After years at Baldwin Billiards, where my life had been structured around the game of pool, stepping into the kitchen felt like both an exhilarating challenge and a refreshing change. The first day in culinary school was a sensory overload—much like my first day in the pool hall. The scent of fresh ingredients—garlic, onions, basil—swirled through the air, mixing with the heat of ovens and the metallic clink of knives on cutting boards. Just like pool, cooking was an art form. And just like pool, it was all about precision, discipline, and creativity.
In the kitchen, I had to learn everything from the ground up. At first, the fast-paced environment overwhelmed me. Cooking wasn’t just about following a recipe; it was about understanding ingredients, timing, and technique. The chefs at Johnson & Wales were tough, but that toughness sharpened me. Just like Ralph had pushed me to perfect my pool game, my instructors pushed me to reach my potential in the kitchen.
The camaraderie I found among my fellow culinary students was something I hadn’t felt since Baldwin Billiards. We were all learning, all striving for the same thing—excellence. Late nights in the kitchen, working on assignments or perfecting a dish, felt a lot like those late nights practicing pool in an empty pool room. There was the same drive, the same hunger for improvement. I began to see that the discipline I’d learned from playing pool was directly transferable to cooking. In both worlds, attention to detail was key, whether it was lining up a shot perfectly or balancing the flavors in a dish.
But as much as I was settling into culinary school, the mischievous streak in me hadn’t disappeared. My most infamous stunt during my time at Johnson & Wales came when I bought an old Pinto for $50. I didn’t think much of it at the time—I just wanted a cheap car to get around. But being the kind of person who couldn’t leave well enough alone, I decided to modify it.
I put shackles on the back and, during one of Rhode Island’s infamous snowstorms, chained the back tires. I drove that Pinto straight to the college football field, where I spent hours doing 360s in the snow, tearing up the field in the process. In that moment, it was pure adrenaline. I wasn’t thinking about the consequences—just the thrill of the moment, the feeling of being free in that snow-covered field. But, of course, the school didn’t take kindly to my little stunt. When they found out what I had done, they kicked me out.
It was a crushing blow. For a while, I felt like I was right back where I started—another dropout, another kid who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. But just like in pool, you don’t win every game. Sometimes, you lose, and the important thing is how you bounce back from that loss.
With the support of my family, especially my brother, I found the resolve to go back. I wasn’t going to let one mistake define my future. My brother was my rock during this time—he helped me stay focused, even when I felt like giving up. When it came time to write a 15-page term paper, he stepped in and did it for me, something I’ll always be grateful for. Without him, I’m not sure I would have made it through.
Returning to Johnson & Wales was a turning point. This time, I was more determined than ever to finish what I started. I worked harder, stayed out of trouble, and kept my eyes on the prize. And when I finally walked across the stage at graduation, wearing that cap and gown, it was one of the proudest moments of my life. I had done it. I was officially a chef.

Becoming a chef was more than just a career move for me—it was a new way of life. After spending years at Baldwin Billiards, where the stakes were high and the competition fierce, I found that the kitchen offered a similar sense of challenge and adrenaline. Every dish I prepared, every meal I served felt like a game of pool—every element had to be perfectly aligned, every step executed with precision. It was a new game, but one I was ready to play.
My first jobs as a chef weren’t easy. Working in a restaurant kitchen was tough, and I had to start at the bottom. Long hours, hot kitchens, and high-pressure environments tested my endurance. But I thrived in it. Just like on the pool table, I found that the more I practiced, the better I became. I started to get a reputation for being meticulous, for creating dishes with the same kind of attention to detail I’d given to lining up a perfect pool shot.
There’s a certain pride that comes with being able to call yourself a chef. It wasn’t just about earning a degree or landing a job—it was about mastering a craft. The kitchen became my new arena, and every dish I made reflected the journey that had brought me there.
But as much as I loved the work, there was a part of me that still longed for something else. The hustle and bustle of restaurant kitchens didn’t offer the same sense of community that Baldwin Billiards had. I missed the camaraderie, the late-night games, and the feeling of being part of something bigger. That’s when my life took yet another unexpected turn.

After graduating from culinary school, I returned to Baldwin with high hopes and dreams of becoming a chef. However, life had a way of redirecting my path. My mother was dating Irving, a warm and generous man who owned a successful wood flooring business. At first, I didn’t think much of it. I had just completed my studies and had been working in a few restaurants, eager to dive headfirst into my culinary career.
But as I spent more time with Irving, my perspective shifted. He had a passion for his work that was infectious. Whether we were discussing the intricacies of different wood types or the best tools for the job, he made even the most mundane tasks feel engaging. I found myself intrigued by the craftsmanship and artistry involved in wood flooring, from the careful selection of materials to the satisfaction of a job well done.
Before long, I had made the unexpected decision to leave the restaurant world behind and join Irving full-time. The transition was seamless. I started driving around New York City and Long Island with him, providing estimates for various wood flooring jobs. There was a rhythm to our workdays—a flow that came from navigating bustling streets, interacting with clients, and forging connections in the community.
One of the highlights of our days was visiting Santos, a cheerful wood flooring installer who had a wealth of knowledge and connections in the flooring industry. He had a knack for turning even the toughest jobs into something manageable. I can still picture us in his two-family home in Queens, loading heavy boxes of flooring nails into the car. Each box weighed about fifty pounds, and there were times we struggled under their weight, but the effort felt good. Santos always had a smile and a joke to share, making even the hardest days feel lighter. I often think of him, remembering the way he approached life and work.
As I immersed myself in the business, I realized I wanted to carve out my own niche in the wood flooring industry. Irving, my mentor, encouraged me to pursue my ambitions. He shared stories of his own journey and the possibilities that lay ahead, reminiscent of the encouragement Ralph had given me years ago at Baldwin Billiards. Irving introduced me to Gary Wexler, a seasoned wood flooring contractor based in Westbury, who ran two crews sanding wood floors daily. Working with Gary for six months taught me the ins and outs of the trade and gave me the skills I needed to branch out on my own.
During our drives, Irving often reminisced about Santos and mentioned that he had a wood flooring sanding machine and a spinner for sale. This equipment was exactly what I needed to expand my business. Santos was willing to sell it to me on a payment plan, making it more accessible. With my mother’s support, I managed to get a Chevy Malibu—a reliable car that would serve as my mobile base of operations.
With the sanding machine and the Malibu ready, I took the plunge into entrepreneurship. I hired Steven Bonano, a hard-working friend from Rockville Centre, to help with the jobs. Each morning at 5:30 AM, I’d pick him up, and together we’d drive into the city, the early morning quietly broken only by our chatter and the anticipation of the day ahead. The work was challenging but fulfilling; I relished the hands-on nature of sanding and finishing floors, transforming spaces with each job.
Irving was right. The work was steady, and soon I found myself in a rhythm. Each job Irving sold for $1,500 meant I would earn $750. The steady flow of work kept me busy and motivated. I was no longer just a kid figuring things out; I was building a business, and with every floor we completed, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment.
Looking back, the shift from culinary arts to the wood flooring business felt serendipitous. I still cherished the lessons I learned in the kitchen, but now I was discovering new passions in craftsmanship and design. As I drove through the familiar streets of Baldwin, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The journey had brought me full circle, and I was ready to embrace the challenges and rewards of my new path.
The transition into the wood flooring business was both exhilarating and demanding. Each day brought a new challenge, whether it was working on a high-profile installation in Manhattan or transforming a cozy home in Long Island. I quickly learned to appreciate the nuances of the craft—the importance of precision in measurements, the art of selecting the right finish, and the satisfaction of seeing a floor come to life under my hands.
With Steven by my side, our partnership blossomed. He brought a sense of humor and camaraderie that made the long hours fly by. We shared stories and laughter, often reminiscing about our youthful days, while also dreaming about the future. I appreciated having someone I could rely on as we tackled job after job. His work ethic mirrored my own, and together, we made a formidable team.
As our reputation grew, so did the demand for our services. Clients began to seek us out, impressed not only by the quality of our work but also by the personal touch we brought to each project. We took the time to listen to their needs, offering suggestions and solutions that turned their visions into reality. I discovered a new joy in customer interaction, finding fulfillment in helping people create beautiful spaces.
However, the challenges of running a business were not without their hurdles. Some days, the workload felt overwhelming. There were moments when equipment malfunctioned or unexpected issues arose on-site. I remember one particularly grueling job where we had to strip and refinish an entire floor just days before a client’s big event. The pressure was on, but I channeled the determination I had learned from my culinary days. We worked late into the night, fueled by takeout and a shared commitment to deliver quality.
Irving remained a crucial mentor throughout this journey. He would check in regularly, offering advice and encouragement. I appreciated his insight, especially as I navigated the complexities of running a business—managing finances, hiring additional help, and maintaining the quality of our work. He had a knack for seeing potential where I sometimes saw obstacles, and his belief in me bolstered my confidence.
As the months rolled by, I began to envision the future of my business. With the sanding machine I had purchased from Santos, I started taking on larger projects. I even considered expanding my services to include more intricate flooring designs and custom installations. It was thrilling to imagine what I could accomplish, but I also knew I had to approach this growth strategically.
One day, while driving back from work, I had a moment of clarity. I wanted to create not just a business, but a brand that represented quality and craftsmanship. I began sketching ideas for a logo and thinking about how to market our services effectively. I realized that I could blend my culinary background with this new venture by incorporating an emphasis on aesthetics and design—just as plating a dish is an art, so is laying a floor or sanding a floor.
Inspired, I started networking within the community, attending local business events, and connecting with other tradespeople. I reached out to designers and real estate agents, seeking partnerships that could lead to referrals. The more I engaged with others, the more I understood the importance of building relationships in this industry.
My hard work paid off when I landed a significant project for a boutique hotel in the city. It was a game-changer. The management was impressed with our initial proposal, and I felt a mix of excitement and nerves as I prepared for the job. We spent weeks meticulously planning and executing the installation, ensuring every detail was perfect. When it was complete, the owners praised our work, and I couldn’t help but beam with pride.
That project opened doors to more opportunities. I began to receive inquiries from other businesses and homeowners looking for quality wood flooring. As my client base expanded, I realized I had created something meaningful—a business that not only supported me but also allowed me to express my creativity and passion for craftsmanship.
Reflecting on my journey, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. I had come a long way from my days in the restaurant industry. The lessons learned in culinary school—the importance of hard work, attention to detail, and creativity—had seamlessly translated into my new venture. I was building a life that aligned with my values and aspirations, and with each completed project, I felt more confident in my abilities.
With the support of Irving, Steven, and the lessons of my past, I was ready to take the wood flooring business to the next level. I was not just laying floors; I was crafting a legacy, one that intertwined my love for artistry, community, and the relentless pursuit of excellence.
As my wood flooring business gained momentum, I found myself in a whirlwind of activity. Each day brought new projects, from high-end residential installations to commercial spaces eager for a fresh look. With Steven’s continued support, we were able to tackle more complex jobs, often working late into the night to meet deadlines. The camaraderie we shared only strengthened as we faced challenges together, each successful project reinforcing our bond.
One afternoon, as we were wrapping up a job at a quaint café in Baldwin, I received a call from Irving. He had a lead on a large project that could be a turning point for my business—a historic building in downtown Brooklyn that was being converted into luxury apartments. The owner wanted to preserve the building’s charm while updating the flooring, and Irving thought I would be perfect for the job.
I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was a significant opportunity, and the pressure was on. I gathered my thoughts and prepared a detailed proposal, showcasing my vision for the space and emphasizing my commitment to quality and craftsmanship. With Steven’s help, we put together a portfolio of our past work, highlighting our attention to detail and customer satisfaction.
When I presented my proposal, the owners were receptive. They appreciated my enthusiasm and vision, and soon after, I received the green light to begin the project. The excitement was palpable; this was my chance to elevate my business and make a name for myself in the industry.
As we began work on the historic building, I immersed myself in the details. I researched the best materials that would honor the building’s legacy while providing durability. Every day on-site felt like a new adventure, as I navigated the unique challenges that came with working in an older structure—uneven floors, hidden pipes, and the occasional surprise from the building’s history.
The team expanded as the project grew. I brought in additional workers, including a skilled installer named Geoffrey Frank, who had years of experience. He became an invaluable asset, sharing his knowledge and helping to streamline the workflow. Together, we worked tirelessly, ensuring that every plank was meticulously laid, every finish was perfect, and that the vision came to life.
Throughout the project, I leaned on Irving’s guidance. He often stopped by, offering advice and encouraging me to stay organized and focused. His faith in me was a driving force, reminding me of my initial leap into this industry. I wanted to make him proud, just as I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle this level of responsibility.
As weeks passed, the transformation of the building was astounding. The floors began to shine, reflecting the beauty of the architecture above. When the final touches were made, I stood back and admired our work. The floors were not just functional; they were a centerpiece that tied the entire design together. I felt a surge of pride; this project had become a testament to my journey and growth.
The grand opening of the apartments was a pivotal moment. The owners invited local media, and I found myself mingling with designers, architects, and potential clients. It was exhilarating to showcase the fruits of our labor and see the appreciation on people’s faces as they admired the floors. The buzz around the project began to generate inquiries from other businesses and homeowners in the area.
Soon after, I was approached by a local interior designer who was impressed by our work. She wanted to collaborate on several upcoming projects, and I recognized this as another opportunity to expand my business network. I realized that these connections were crucial not just for growth but for sharing ideas and inspiring one another.
With each project, I found a deeper passion for what I was doing. I had always enjoyed cooking and creating in the kitchen and shooting pool but now I was experiencing the same satisfaction in the craftsmanship of wood flooring. There was an artistry to it—an ability to transform a space, evoke emotions, and create a lasting impression.
Reflecting on this journey, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for all the experiences that led me here. From the pool hall to culinary school, to the wood flooring business, every step had shaped who I was today. I had built something meaningful, and I was excited to see where this path would take me next.
As I drove through Baldwin, the familiar sights felt different now, imbued with the promise of what was to come. I was ready for whatever challenges and opportunities lay ahead, knowing that I had the skills, the support, and the passion to thrive in this ever-evolving journey.