How I Got This Way

by Regis Philbin

  But let me add a special postscript for you here: Nearly forty years after the Bishop show went off the air, I happened to receive a package in the mail. Of course, I receive a lot of these—video or audio copies of things viewers thought I’d enjoy—and I’m certainly grateful to get them. This one was from someone in Wisconsin. It looked like another CD to me. So much material like this comes in that it’s hard to keep up with it. But one day I finally got around to opening this package and, sure enough, it was a CD. I put it in my disc player . . . and I could not believe what I was hearing! It was a recording of that remarkable night when Bing Crosby and I sang to each other on Joey Bishop’s show. Why I had never asked for a copy of that program after it aired, I’ll never know. I’ve always regretted not having it. But now here was the audio version of that very special show, somehow dug up by an avid Crosby fan named Greg Van Beek of West Bend, Wisconsin, who’s now an editor of the quarterly devotee magazine Bing. The copy had been handed off to him by another Crosby archivist, Martin McQuade, who lives in Brooklyn, New York. Immediately, I called Greg to thank him. Because it was one of the nicest surprises of my life. To listen to that show again—and hear myself trying to sing along with this man whom I’d always dreamt of becoming when I was just a kid . . . I promise you, that young fella had no idea what this recording he’d sent would mean to me and will probably never know what beautiful memories and joy it brings to me even now.

  (NOTE TO READER: I think you’ll see that those moments recovered from the Bishop show even play pretty entertainingly in transcribed form, an excerpt of which I’ve included on the next couple of pages. Welcome to a wild and wonderful sliver of my history, exactly the way it happened. . . .)

  WHEN REGIS SERENADED BING

  ON THE JOEY BISHOP SHOW—JUST THE WAY IT HAPPENED, CIRCA 1968

  JOEY: (to Bing) I don’t know whether you are aware of it or not, but Regis Francis Xavier Philbin is a Notre Dame graduate.

  BING: What happened this year? Purdue . . . SC . . .

  REGIS: Looks like a long season, Bing.

  BING: It’s going to be tough.

  JOEY: “Bing,” eh?

  BING: Naturally.

  JOEY: (mocking Regis) “Gonna have a long season, Bing!” I made a promise to him (pointing to Regis), although I’ve never even approached you on it. Now you can say yes or no.

  BING: What is it?

  JOEY: Because of his complete Irish background, I said I would try to persuade you to, facing him . . . to do “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral.”

  BING: Yeah? Facing Regis? How much of it?

  JOEY: Just enough to make Regis happy.

  BING: (begins singing intently to Regis) “Over in Killarney, / Many years ago—” (starts laughing) I can’t look at that kisser!

  REGIS: Now wait a minute, Bing!

  JOEY: Now you know what I go through—night after night after night!

  BING: No, but he looks so receptive. (resumes singing) “My mother sang a song to me, / A tune so soft and low. / Just a simple little ditty, / In her good old Irish way, / And I’d give the world if I could hear / That song of hers today. / Too ra loo ra loo ral / Too ra loo ra li, / Too ra loo ra loo ral, / Hush now don’t you cry. / Too ra loo ra loo ral / Too ra loo ra li, / Too ra loo ra loo ral, / That’s an Irish Lullaby.” (applause)

  REGIS: Thank you, Bing.

  JOEY: Are you happy now?

  REGIS: Very happy.

  JOEY: Okay, I’m going to make your dream come true. I’m now about to reveal Regis’s dream. He would like to sing in front of Bing Crosby and Kathy Crosby “Pennies from Heaven.”

  BING: Oh really?!

  JOEY: Wait till you hear this!

  REGIS: Wait a minute. I don’t even know what key.

  JOEY: I know what key!

  REGIS: Can I do it a cappella?

  BING: You can rest assured that if they found my key, they can find yours, Regis.

  REGIS: Hey, Bing . . . why don’t we . . .

  JOEY: “Hey, Bing” now?! “Hey, BING?!”

  REGIS: You know, I’ll probably never get to see him again and it’s really a thrill to—

  JOEY: When you sing this song, I’ll GUARANTEE ya, you’ll never get to see him again.

  REGIS: You know, I don’t want to sing the song, but may I sing the verse? The verse is very rarely heard.

  BING: Good verse, too!

  REGIS: It’s a beautiful verse.

  JOEY: But then segue into a little bit of the chorus.

  REGIS: (begins song) “A long time ago . . .”

  JOEY: Take your time now. I want you to be a hit.

  (Regis proceeds to sing the song “Pennies from Heaven” while Bing jazzily hums along. The final note is followed by applause from all.)

  REGIS: Ah! So embarrassing. Ah! Oh! Thank you.

  JOEY: I’m so proud of you. Do you honestly think in your heart—now that you’ve done it—that you sing better than he does?

  REGIS: You know I was kidding!

  BING: Naww, you really do. You’ve got a greater range than I’ve got.

  REGIS: (instantly excited) Would you like to hear another one? (audience explodes laughing) What’s the matter? I’ve got a million of ’em, Bing! How about “On Behalf of the Visiting Fireman”?

  BING and REGIS: (singing) “On behalf of the visiting fireman from Kansas City, / Let’s have a drink on me!”

  REGIS: See ya later, Joe.

  JOEY: Go ahead. No, go ahead—finish it!

  REGIS: Nah, Bing doesn’t remember the words.

  JOEY: I’ll go to the audience in between commercials. Go ahead. “Bing doesn’t know the words?”

  BING: He’s got me on that one.

  REGIS: How about “Small Fry,” Bing?

  BING: Well, I remember that, yeah.

  REGIS: Do ya? Can I get on your lap?

  JOEY: I’ll tell ya, boy, the bigger the star, the less humble he becomes!

  WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL

  The moment of your college graduation is not the moment to surprise your parents with the sudden declaration of a new and offbeat career ambition.

  Keep those favorite songs of your youth with you for life and pay attention to the lyrics. If you love them, use them as your inspiration and guide.

  Chapter Two

  TWO MAJOR MARINES: MAJOR RANKIN AND MAJOR FLAKE, USMC

  I guess I’d been pretty bold on the night long ago when I met and sang to my idol, Bing Crosby, on The Joey Bishop Show. It was a do-or-die situation, after all. But believe me, I wasn’t always that way. It took some time for me to learn that every move you make as a young person sets you in a certain direction, and you never know where it will lead you until you get there.

  In my particular case, there were two remarkable men who entered my early years and somehow helped put me on a path that brought me right here, to exactly where I find myself today. Back then, they had no idea where I’d end up, and I couldn’t have guessed it either. But their strong influence set me on my course and filled me with a new kind of determination I’d never known before. Here is how it all got started. . . .

  My father, a wise old former marine, had a hunch that another war would break out while I was off at college and thought that I ought to join the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps (NROTC) program at Notre Dame. I did as he suggested, and sure enough, the Korean War soon erupted. So, after four great years in South Bend, I headed off for a two-year hitch in the United States Navy. First I attended the Navy Supply Corps School for a couple of months in Hoboken, New Jersey, and was then assigned to an LSM squadron based out of San Diego, California. There, I was to work on the commodore’s staff, charged with inspecting inventory and advising the supply officers aboard the ships. Whenever those ships were in port, we would work out of a Quonset hut on the amphibious base in Coronado, acro
ss the bay from San Diego. This was also the base where the Navy SEALs would train: that tough bunch of men running hard and working out so brutally at all hours, day and night, along the Silver Strand beaches. Those intense drills of theirs were as intimidating to watch as they were fascinating. But you knew right away that you would never want to mess with any of those guys.

  On our LSM squadron staff, there were five officers and maybe six sailors assigned to various duties; it was a close-knit group. It was also an entirely new life for me. Every day the California sun was shining and the palm trees were swaying gently in the breeze—nothing at all like what I’d ever known in New York or Indiana. The war had lasted for just under three years, so by the time I ended up where I had, the action and tensions were gradually easing all around us. When ashore, I lived in the base’s Bachelor Officer Quarters (or BOQ), and had my meals at the Officers’ Club. It was pretty sweet.

  It was in the BOQ that I met a marine major named Bill Rankin, also a bachelor and a very impressive guy. He was about eleven years older than me, a professional military man who had a chest full of medals, walked with a swagger, was in the marines for life, and loved every minute of it. He drove a beautiful Cadillac, seemed to have girlfriends in every town up and down the California coast, and was the envy of most all the married naval officers on the base. His physical fitness was also a point of great pride: He kept in shape with a special, personal set of weights and had even turned a large vacant room on the base into his own gym. Most every afternoon we would work out there together with the weights, dumbbells, barbells, springs, you name it. Some time earlier, Rankin had been wounded in action during a flight mission over Korea; his leg and hip had been badly injured when enemy gunfire blew 123 holes through his plane, which he still managed to bring back to his aircraft carrier and land before blacking out. The carrier crew had to lift him out of the cockpit, but he always firmly believed that it was his superior physical condition that had saved his life.

  Also on the same floor of our quarters was a storage room where guys could leave behind trunks full of their belongings whenever off serving overseas. Once, when Rankin and I happened to wander together into that storage room, he specifically brought to my attention a certain trunk. “You must never touch that trunk,” he warned me. “Understand? In fact, don’t even look at it! It belongs to the toughest marine in the corps.” I thought he was kidding when he said that, but he wasn’t.

  Turned out that the trunk contained the property of another major, whose name was Keigler Flake. Keigler, who by reputation was as fearsome as they come, was temporarily off on some kind of mission. Rankin had known him for many years. Both had enlisted in the Marine Corps in the late thirties, during the Depression. There were no jobs to be had for them in those days and certainly no money for college. The Marine Corps was the next and only option for those two—Rankin from Pittsburgh and Flake from Ohio. When World War II broke out, they were ready and eager to serve. They both hit the beach at Guadalcanal—the first of many bloody battles across the Pacific Islands. By then they were sergeants. The fight for Guadalcanal was fierce. The casualties were high. In many cases, young marine officers were killed in combat and their sergeants received battlefield commissions to continue directing the fight. Because of their great leadership instincts under those hellish circumstances, both Rankin and Flake became second lieutenants. By the time the fighting ended and that good war was over, they’d each been made captains, and it was clear they were now in the corps to stay. And they loved it. Both men worked hard to remain prepared for whatever war would next call for their courageous service—which would come soon enough in Korea.

  But between those two engagements, Rankin chose to continue his career as a marine pilot, while Flake remained ready to direct troops from the trenches. Rankin, in fact, became quite the pilot and, years later, was given command of the first-ever marine supersonic jet squadron. But before all that, for various reasons, they’d both found themselves assigned to our amphibious base, where their formidable presence kept everyone around on their toes.

  Anyway, as you may have already guessed, Bill Rankin and I developed a friendship, one that would last the rest of our lives, no less. We must have looked like a strange pair to all the rest of them—the great distinguished major and the green young Supply Corps ensign fresh from Notre Dame. Meanwhile, Coronado itself was a swinging, sweet little town, accessible to San Diego by way of a short ferryboat ride across the bay. It was home to the famed and still magnificent Hotel del Coronado, where so many great movie scenes were set. In fact, you’ve probably seen it in the classic Marilyn Monroe film Some Like It Hot. Also, its North Island Naval Air Station was bouncing every night with “happy hours” and packed with gung ho navy pilots letting loose. Terrific restaurants like the Mexican Village were always jammed with raucous crowds. And there we were—Bill Rankin and I—having our run of all the hot spots, sharing laughs wherever we went.

  With the Korean War nearing its end, the little amphibious ships that came into port were gradually being replaced by larger, more efficient craft—which meant that my job was never too detailed or demanding. Each ship in the squadron had its own supply officer, so I would simply go aboard, check things out, write up a complete inventory, and that was about it. Eventually, I guess I started getting a little bored. Thank God the major was around to keep things lively. One day, he happened to show me a copy of Saga Magazine, a popular men’s adventure monthly back in those days. In that issue, there was a story about the bombings of the bridges at Toko-Ri in Korea. Rankin’s name was prominently mentioned in the article. Yes, he had been there—although he’d never said a word about it to me. That had been a historic and crucial bombing because those bridges were carefully defended by many enemy antiaircraft guns hidden all over the area. Since the bridges were built so low, the bombs would have to be delivered underneath them, delayed long enough to explode and break the bridges in half while still giving our planes enough time to fly off without being downed by the detonation blasts. Of course, The Bridges at Toko-Ri later became a best-selling book by James Michener and then a terrific movie starring William Holden. But at the time, only this dramatic article in Saga Magazine had described all the action in detail.

  I took the magazine to my room and, the next day, to my office so I could finish reading it. Also in Saga that month was a story about Kid Gavilán, one of the great boxers of the period. Now there was one particular sailor in our hut, this sweet and happy Filipino kid named Ettie Gomez, who I always liked to joke around with. He spotted the magazine on my desk and begged me to let him take it to lunch so he could read about his favorite fighter. I warned him not to lose it because it belonged to my friend, the famous marine Major Rankin, who was known to strut around the base with all his medals gleaming—the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Hearts, and so on—always with that no-nonsense look on his face. Gomez had been especially afraid of him, in fact.

  Naturally, you know what happened: Gomez took that copy of Saga to lunch, read about Kid Gavilán, and inevitably left the magazine on the table. I was upset with him. After all my warnings, how could he do such a thing? He was very apologetic, but later that night I was embarrassed to have to tell Rankin about it. Rankin couldn’t have cared less. He brushed it off. Wasn’t important to him in the least. But the more I thought about it, the more a plan of mine came into focus. We could have a little fun with Gomez over this, I realized, maybe a bit devilishly.

  Over the years, I had pulled some elaborately planned pranks on my friends—and now this one was forming pretty quickly in my head: Tomorrow I would confront Gomez in the hut and tell him that the major was very angry about that lost magazine. I would say that Rankin wanted to speak directly with him. I could already imagine the color draining from Gomez’s face! Then I would tell Gomez it was time for him to water the flowers outside of our hut—and that’s when I would call Rankin over to just kind of run into Gomez out there and p
retend to give him hell for losing that magazine. I spelled it all out for Rankin, who shook his head and told me he didn’t want to get involved. But in the end, he finally relented—just to keep me happy.

  Next morning, I put the plan into action. I told Gomez that Rankin was upset about the lost magazine, then sent him outside to tend to the flowers while I made my call to cue Rankin that it was time to walk over and really lay into poor Gomez. I was already giggling to myself. This, I thought, was going to be fun! But there was one problem: Gomez had fallen into such a funk after I told him about the major that he didn’t go outside right away. He was too stricken over what he’d done, too upset that he had angered this formidable marine. Plus, I didn’t want to push too hard on the subject of the flower-watering chore, thinking it might somehow tip off the prank. So I didn’t mention it again, figuring he’d step outside after another few minutes or so. But in the meantime, the major was already striding toward the hut, looking for his prey. When Rankin didn’t see him anywhere outside, he entered our hut and bellowed: “I’m looking for a man named Gomez!” Gomez almost fainted.

  Now there happens to be a rule in the military about how far you can go in reprimanding another company’s soldier. But Rankin was now inside our hut and Gomez was trembling—and all those formalities had just gone right out the window. Rankin had literally crossed a serious line. And it was all because of me! Thank God the commodore was away for two weeks at sea with the squadron. Rankin, meanwhile, was imposing enough—this huge marine tightly gripping his swagger stick, with rows and rows of medals up and down his chest. Gomez had practically hit the ceiling, leaping to attention and snapping off a salute, while Rankin, I thought, was rather mild, yet firm, in telling Gomez that he wanted his magazine back. Gomez babbled in broken English, saying that he didn’t know where it was. That someone had stolen it at lunch. But he would somehow return it, even if it took him the rest of his life. Rankin told him to make sure that he did. Then he left. Gomez sulked the rest of the day, speaking to no one. And he never did water the damn flowers! That night the major and I had some laughs about it, but in my heart, I wished he hadn’t come into our hut like that. The next ten days were uneventful. And Gomez was strangely quiet the whole time. I wondered if I had gone too far, so I tried to console him and tell him the major had forgotten all about it. As it was, the magazine hadn’t mattered to Rankin in the least.