A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity

by Bill O'Reilly

  So now everybody knows, Joe.

  Full Circle

  One of the best things I’ve ever done didn’t make the papers or cause an uproar on national television. On June 18, 1988, I put together a reunion for my St. Brigid’s School classmates, simply because I wanted to see those people again. Of the fifty-five kids who graduated in June 1963, thirty-five showed up to celebrate old friendships in a restaurant a couple of blocks away from our old school. It had been exactly twenty-five years since we were all in the same room.

  On that warm, cloudy Northeastern evening, goodwill and great humor swirled in the air. There was no awkwardness or pretension at all; everybody just naturally started hugging and laughing. It was a great night. Here’s what I wrote about it a few weeks later:

  Twenty-five years is an unthinkable amount of time when you are a child. But it has passed, and the sight of my former St. Brigid’s classmates back together again was both disconcerting and exhilarating.

  I had not been called Billy since I left St. Brigid’s, but I was Billy again and, somehow, it sounded right. My former classmates, all approaching forty years old, seemed the same to me.

  Marybeth, always the perfect teacher’s pet, still seemed perfect as she worked the room with warmth and charm. Anne Marie had remained sweet and shy. She remembered everything, down to the lessons in our Think-and-Do Books. JC, always adventurous, showed up sporting an earring and pirate sideburns. No one was surprised.

  Most of the class had stayed on Long Island. Because of family, many said. All the women had married except for one. Most had kids. Most of the men had families as well. Almost everyone was middle-class, and, somewhat surprisingly, the majority of the class had stayed with the Catholic Church.

  The memories were fabulous. Sister Thomas making Barbara put the gum she was chewing on her nose, the entire class creating chaos at the theater showing The Song of Bernadette. Everybody remembering Clement’s hilarious exploits. Many were shocked when they heard he had died.

  We all raised a toast to Clem, for he had provided us with a spirit of mischief and individuality that every child should have. And then we toasted one another. Although we would perhaps never be physically together again, we would always be emotionally attached. We had grown up side by side, overcoming fears, forming consciences, and learning how to live.

  The reunion got to me, and I am not a sentimental man. But interacting once again with my childhood classmates filled in some important blanks in my life.

  My classmates and I learned many lessons in our eight years together, but, for me, the most important lesson was realized only after we reunited. Looking at the happy faces, hearing the laughter and sharing the memories, it was clear that we all had absorbed something that simply cannot be taught; we had learned the value of one another.

  I still get together with many of my old friends for such occasions as this rafting trip down the Colorado River.

  For me, that description is a bit sentimental. But I didn’t know how else to write it.

  There are a number of on-ramps to memory lane, but, for me, the experiences important to shaping my life are all tied into how I behave today. The opinions I dish out, the actions I take, even the thoughts I think, are all guided by my belief system, which, as you’ve read, was forged in childhood. I am proud of that legacy; it has served me well.

  While researching this book, I came across my eighth-grade autograph book: you know, the one where your classmates wish you good luck, tell dumb jokes, and such.

  One entry stands out. Written on the very last page—actually, on the book’s cardboard back frame—are these words:

  To Bill

  If anybody wishes you more Luck than me

  Let him sign his name after me

  Good Luck Always,

  Clem

  SLUGGING IT OUT

  My buddies and me,

  Are getting real well known,

  Yeah, the bad guys know us,

  And they leave us alone.

  —THE BEACH BOYS, “I GET AROUND”

  Sometimes I wonder what my father would think of my success. Some of you may have the same feeling. When my father was dying of cancer in August 1985, he knew I had succeeded as a TV reporter in New York, but, of course, he had no idea of what was to come. I was still on the march. I had not yet reached my cruising altitude. My greatest success lay more than a decade away.

  Based upon his conversations, my father seemed to admire my grit and earning prowess. Typically, when I visited home, he would say, “Do you realize that you’re making more money than anybody in this neighborhood?”

  Truthfully, I really didn’t care, because economic success has never been a priority for me. But my father cared a lot, because money, to a Depression survivor like him, had implications far beyond purchasing power. Cash assets signified victory over the specter of calamity. But, most important, it brought closer to home the greatest word in the English language: security.

  Last year, I was able to donate more money to charity than my father had earned in his entire lifetime. How would he have processed that? I simply don’t know. William O’Reilly Sr. never even knew a rich person, not one. How would he have looked upon his now-wealthy son?

  I can tell you this: my father’s relationship with currency made a deep impression on me, but in a rather unusual way. He taught frugality; I learned the lesson. He mocked materialists; so do I. He would actually suffer to save money; I draw the line right there.

  In the spring of 1965, when I was fifteen years old, the O’Reilly family made a rare out-of-state vacation trip to sunny Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Gidget, here I come, right? Well, not exactly. About the only way I would have spied the G-girl or any other lovely young damsel was if she had been sitting on the grimy Greyhound bus we rode down to the Sunshine State.

  If you’ve never taken a thirty-hour bus ride, stopping only at dank terminals to pick up a variety of wanted felons, I have just one word for you: DON’T. Dante had no idea. That was really hell.

  I’ll keep my description brief. The New Jersey Turnpike smelled pretty bad as we rode along, but nothing like the inside of that bus once we passed Richmond, Virginia, around hour ten. Food came from the bus terminals. My father ate it; my mother, sister, and I did not. Passengers ranged from drunk to incoherent to mumbling stuff no young man should ever hear. For the first time in her entire life my sister, Janet, then age thirteen, actually hissed at my father when he asked her how she was doing.

  My mother’s rosary beads got a heavy workout.

  Finally, we rolled into Fort Lauderdale for five exciting days and nights. Followed by, of course, another excruciating bus ride home. Are you getting the O’Reilly family vacation picture? Good.

  The Spartan life we led back then has stayed with me to this day. I spend money on important things, like living space, good food, and security. I travel first-class, no buses ever. I get a stomachache just looking at a bus.

  Also, I don’t waste money on stupid stuff like vanity possessions. So my father taught me well, at least in areas not involving public transportation.

  When I entered the workforce after graduating from college, my dad told me that his job was done; he had provided for my education, and now I had to prove myself in the real world. It wasn’t a callous statement, just a definition of where we stood. There would be no living subsidies, no gifts of the automotive variety. I was on my own.

  Now, as I’ve outlined, I wasn’t very dependent on my parents in the first place. I rarely went to them for advice; I never asked them for money. Whenever I read about family dynasties like the Kennedys and the Bushes, I’m fascinated and maybe, in my subconscious, a bit jealous. I don’t think so, but anything is possible.

  While many parents these days micromanage their children or shuttle them off to nannies or day-care providers, my folks were just the opposite. My father had no clue what my future would be and, truthfully, avoided much conversation about it. He and my mother cared, but from a
distance. Through the years, whenever I whined about some workplace injustice, my father’s reply always met his usual pithy and snappy standards: “Slug it out.”

  Okay.

  This will not come as a shock to you, but to say I went to work with a chip on my shoulder is like saying Britney Spears might have made a few bad decisions—stating the obvious. But here’s the beauty of being the bold, fresh guy in the world of journalism: that edge made me work harder than most everybody else in the newsroom. I’d get that damn story no matter what. If somebody tried to con me with an evasive answer, I’d confront that person immediately. I was a one-person walking “no-spin zone” long before I thought up the description.

  Thus, I moved up fast: Nine months in Scranton, Pennsylvania, then a jump to the major market of Dallas–Fort Worth. Two years later, I took a weekend anchor job in Denver. Then I was hired as a primary anchor in Hartford, Connecticut. Finally, after only five years in the TV news business, I was back home in New York City, anchoring a newsmagazine program on big gun WCBS-TV.

  My father, of course, had no idea how all of that happened and never really asked. Suddenly, there I was on his TV set, and that was fine with him.

  My mother didn’t really ask about my career, either. That’s because pretty much anything I did was okay with her. Both my parents watched me on the tube and accepted the congratulations of some stunned neighbors, but my media job was never a big deal to them.

  One of my assignments took me to El Salvador, where things were a bit dangerous. In the early 1980s, the government there was slugging it out with some communist insurgents, and the conflict was brutal. After a harrowing day in the war zone, I called my parents from the InterContinental Real San Salvador Hotel, where the CBS crew was based. My mother answered the phone.

  “Mom, hey, how are you?”

  “Fine, dear. Where are you?”

  “El Salvador.”

  “Oh. Here’s your father.”

  “Where are you?”

  “El Salvador, Dad.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Covering the war.”

  “Are you paying for this call?”

  “CBS pays, Dad.”

  “Well, I don’t want to run up the tab. Need anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “Pretty intense.”

  “Well, you take care.”

  “See you, Dad.”

  Now, some people might find that exchange on the strange side, but to me it was perfectly normal. My parents simply had no idea. They had no reference point for a discussion. El Salvador? Covering a war? They had no idea what was involved and assumed I’d be fine, because I’d always fended for myself without much drama (as far as they knew).

  There was also their shared discomfort with any “worry factor.” My father did not want to dwell on my problems or those of anyone else. He had enough stuff on his plate. For him, disaster was always looming someplace (that Depression mentality again), and to take on my potential disappointments was just too much. Despite my bold, fresh status, I somehow completely understood this at a very early age.

  On the other hand, my mother prayed for my sister and me with complete faith that God would protect us. My mom and God are quite close. Again, I understood and accepted my mother’s view on life. Her fears (mainly of accidents and illnesses) were quite different from my father’s, but they influenced everything she did. Since there was no way that I could do anything about the demons that my parents fought, I simply accepted the home-front situation and was a lot stronger for doing that. Few expectations meant few disappointments. Some family situations are soap operas. Not in my case.

  Admittedly, the lack of a vocational support system or wise counsel when things got difficult put me at a disadvantage in the marketplace. No question about that. But I got very good at “slugging it out.”

  And I needed that skill, because, to this day, I have to deal with some very bad people in TV land. Most of the time, I defeat them. Most of the time.

  One quick story that will illuminate my attitude toward bad behavior, my crusader mentality that often makes my TV program hum. After leaving CBS on bad terms at the end of 1982 (the intense story is chronicled in my novel, Those Who Trespass), I was reunited with my old WCBS boss, Jeff Schiffman, in Boston. Jeff was second in command at WNEV-TV (now WHDH-TV) and had very kindly secured a well-paying weekend anchor job for the bold, fresh guy. One big problem: Schiffman wasn’t my direct supervisor; a guy named Bill Applegate was.

  And Applegate was not a fan of the bold, fresh approach.

  In early 1983, WNEV was like Saigon right before the fall of Vietnam: chaos everywhere. Applegate had hired a bunch of cruel, crude managers who terrorized the news staff using gestapo-like tactics of fear and intimidation. I mean, it was brutal: good people were publicly humiliated, and more than a few were fired on the spot, security goons quickly escorting them from the building. Ask any veteran of the Boston media: they’ll back me up when I tell you that WNEV-TV was the Little Big Horn of local TV news.

  The big problem was ratings. They were awful. They had always been terrible, but now Applegate, despite being given millions to spend, was making them worse. The primary problem was that our competitors, WBZ-TV and WCVB-TV, employed legendary New England anchors like Jack Williams and Natalie Jacobson. They were loved in that market. So WNEV was up against it from the jump.

  No matter, the bold, fresh guy did his job and, as always, worked hard. Initially, Applegate’s sadists pretty much left me alone, but every day I would see those pinheads brutalizing my coworkers. And every day I would get angrier.

  Finally, the shoe dropped. I was typing up a script for air when one of the SS brigade approached. He was about thirty-five years old, short, balding, with a flat Midwestern accent.

  “O’Reilly, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Probably coming to work; it’s Wednesday.”

  “Yeah, well, when you get here, I want you to have two stories set up.” (That meant that this clown expected me to have what are called “enterprise” stories ready to shoot. Those are usually feature reports about subjects of interest that are unique in some way. One enterprise piece is difficult to develop that quickly, two nearly impossible.)

  “Sure,” I said flippantly. “Check with me tomorrow.”

  The man’s voice got louder: “What was that?”

  Somewhere in my subconscious mind, I believe a vision of the Chaminade clip-on-tie incident kicked in, because I was boiling fast. Folks in the newsroom looked up; typing stopped. A quiet moment in time fell on the bustling floor.

  Slowly, for optimum effect, I arose from my chair. The clown was standing to my left, and I stepped close to him. Clenching my jaw (no effect here; I was angry), I looked into his beady brown eyes and growled, “I said, ‘Check with me tomorrow.’”

  His eyeballs darted back and forth in a Sister Thomas–like movement. He licked his lips.

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  In a flash, I grabbed the guy’s tie and pulled it tight around his neck. Holding on firmly, I dragged him across the newsroom and into assistant news director Jim Johnson’s office. I closed the door. Hard.

  “Jim, if this guy talks to me again, I’ll break his nose.”

  “O’Reilly, calm down. You can’t threaten a manager.”

  “One more time, Jim, he’s in the emergency room. And I’m calling the union rep right now. This idiot is out of line.”

  Now, the interesting thing is that, throughout all of this, the guy I was threatening said nothing. He just stood there with a stupid look on his face. Johnson, a good guy, didn’t even address him. Jim knew what was going on in the newsroom but was in a tough spot. He was powerless to change the station’s management style, even though he knew it was wrong. Now a minicrisis had blown into his office.

  Obviously, the bold, fresh guy had challenged management in front of everybody. Mutin
y was brewing anyway, and if this got out of control, lifeboats might hit the water. Judging from his twitching facial muscles, Johnson was thinking fast.

  “I want you to calm down, Bill,” Johnson said in a reasonable tone.

  “Fine. I’m calm. Keep him away from me.” And I walked out of the office.

  A short time later my friend, Jeff Schiffman, called me into his office and we talked about the situation. He told me that Applegate wanted to fire me, but since I had a guaranteed contract, Win Baker, the general manager, didn’t want the bad publicity that a public exposition would cause. Schiffman told me to shut up and avoid any felonies.

  A short time later, God intervened: Applegate left the station, his zombie hit men closely following him out the door.

  Now, did I do the right thing? Not career-wise, that’s for sure. Stories about me in the TV business are legendary. In some versions of the above, I threw the guy into Boston Harbor.

  But I see it this way: I’ve got one life and no stomach for swallowing garbage like that. I took my chances. I slugged it out.

  Do I recommend that attitude for others? No, I don’t. I am damn lucky to have survived in the TV business after pulling stuff like that. But, for me, it proved to be basic training for what I am doing now on the Factor: taking on the villains that are hurting the country. As you may know, my team of producers is perhaps the most feared in the media. If you abuse Americans, especially children, we will hunt you down. Bad judges, corrupt politicians and media people, evildoers of all kinds are liable to be confronted at any time. My programs are dedicated to holding dishonest and downright bad people accountable for what they do.

  But far from being heralded in all quarters, this approach has caused major controversy. Who else does this on television? Who else makes judgments and exposes the powerful? Sometimes 60 Minutes, once in a while Frontline. Brian Ross does a good job on ABC News. But on a daily basis, the Factor is it.