How I Got This Way

by Regis Philbin

  So along comes Ronald Reagan. There was never a chance before the show to go over what the guests and I would talk about. It was always ad-libbed. My instinct told me this would be the most exciting and spontaneous way to do it. Reagan, as we now know, had been more than just an actor; early on, he’d done some radio sports announcing. So we talked a little sports. Plus, he did portray the Gipper so heroically on film two decades earlier. How could I ever resist that topic? But we never got into politics. Because frankly, it was unthinkable back then that he would go on to become the governor of California and, eventually, the president of the United States! Instead, we talked about his life and career, and also of his spirited feelings about this country and how, just like him, anyone else could achieve the goals they truly wanted. The more we talked, the more you had to like him. I could tell the audience was becoming mesmerized by his optimism. He just made you feel better, gave you hope, made you want to strive even harder to achieve your own goals. He looked great, spoke beautifully, and when he was finished the audience was completely his. He’d talk with such common sense and logic—always with that down-to-earth smile and easy, reassuring shrug. Guestwise, he was simply terrific. I could tell that he was having a good time, too. He left to rousing applause.

  After the show I met with my director pal Tom, and we agreed that Reagan was dynamite, the best guest we’d had since we started the show. He had cast a spell. But there was more to it. This guy elevated you. No doubt about it. Tom and I were thoroughly impressed. The next day, Sunday, was gorgeous and bright and I was out on the beach at the Hotel del Coronado, across the bay from San Diego. I almost thought I was imagining things when I saw Reagan come striding through the crowd on his way to the water. He cut a very impressive figure, then plunged right into the ocean, sliced through the powerful waves, and swam out beyond them to a quieter place where he continued to swim . . . for a long time. The night before, I remembered, he had mentioned having been a lifeguard in his hometown in Illinois. He certainly seemed at home out there in the water. Then I spotted his wife, Nancy, walking right down to the shoreline, too, and watching him intently. She became famous for those deeply engaged and adoring looks at her husband during their White House years. Even then, she appeared very much in love.

  And so life went on. I left San Diego in 1964 and, three years later, became the second banana on ABC-TV’s The Joey Bishop Show. And among the first guests we booked was . . . California governor Ronald Reagan! Backstage, Joey introduced me to him. I wondered if Reagan would remember that show of ours in San Diego five years before. Well, he actually did. He was that kind of guy, and he gave me a hearty handshake, telling everyone within earshot how much he’d enjoyed that Saturday-night show we’d done together back then. And I loved it—especially because all of this happened right in front of Joey, who stood there amazed at the easy familiarity of our warm and unexpected reunion.

  Sometime after the Bishop show went off the airwaves at the end of 1969, I’d gotten a local daytime show in Los Angeles on KHJ-TV—this was the early seventies, which were wild and turbulent years in the streets of L.A. and in the hearts of Americans in general. But on several occasions, Governor Reagan was right there with me on the program, sharp and dependable as ever during those especially dangerous times. Riots and chaotic rallies were regular occurrences throughout the city and the rest of the state back then, but Reagan remained calm and strikingly firm. Once, in a speech, I heard him actually challenge the malcontents: “If we can’t settle things peacefully, then, okay—let’s get it on in the streets.” He was no wallflower.

  Of course, our lives and careers continued. I’d joined KABC-TV in the mid-seventies, and by 1981, Ronald Reagan had become president. Then, shockingly, after only sixty-nine days in the Oval Office, he took a bullet from a would-be assassin. If the bullet had hit an inch closer to his heart he wouldn’t have survived. But he did. And in May of that same year, Notre Dame president Father Ted Hesburgh had an inspired idea: Why not invite President Reagan to deliver a commencement address for the graduating class of ’81? The president had not been seen out among the public since the shooting, and his recovery had been long and arduous—even though he made it look easy with his swaggering wisecracks that charmed the nation. At the time, I was the entertainment editor for the station and, like Father Hesburgh, a similar idea hit me right away: Why not take a camera crew to cover the Gipper’s return to Notre Dame? I worked out the deal with the news show producer, and off we went to South Bend, Indiana. The campus was alive and jumping that weekend with the graduates and their families—but all the more so because the president would be giving his first speech since the attempt on his life.

  And to top it all off, “Knute Rockne” was there to magically watch over everything. That’s right, there I was standing with my crew outside the Morris Inn—the only hotel on campus—when a car drove up, and out stepped the great actor Pat O’Brien. Pat, of course, had so memorably played the title role in the classic 1940 movie, alongside Reagan’s portrayal of quarterback George Gipp. And believe me, Rockne is still a part of the tremendous Notre Dame legacy. In fact, during the immortal coach’s heyday, he was one of the most popular figures in the entire country, inside and outside of football. Over the years, whenever I was covering major Hollywood parties and events, I would always ask O’Brien to deliver Rockne’s locker-room speeches for our newscasts. And now here we were together on the legendary campus waiting for the Gipper’s triumphant return. What better time to go for it? I approached the car with my crew; Pat O’Brien, at eighty-one years young, was a bit slow getting out and looked a little tired. They probably drove him in from Chicago—hardly a quick commute—but this was a must. It took him a second to recognize me. Clearly he wasn’t expecting to see me there, but I gave him my most heartfelt plea: “Pat, we may never get together again on this campus as long as we live. We must do it again with Knute—and also for Knute! His spirit is still here all around us. I’m sure he’d love to hear his pep talk one more time—just the way he did it to fire up the team so long ago.”

  And so Pat O’Brien braced himself, took a deep breath, and let me have it, full throttle, while our camera rolled: “We’ll go inside them, we’ll go outside them, and we’ll never rest, boys, never until we win again for Notre Dame!” On and on he went with the speech—and I swear to you, inside my head, I clearly heard the Notre Dame band playing “Cheer, Cheer for Old Notre Dame.” It was an exciting moment for me—and for Pat O’Brien, too. I mean, we were reenacting history on sacred ground!

  Next day, May 17, was the graduation ceremony—which looked very different from mine there on campus in the spring of 1953. For one thing, I naturally remembered that only a few years back Father Hesburgh had decreed that Notre Dame become a coed school—and here they were: all of these young ladies in their flowing commencement gowns heading toward the convention center to collect their diplomas. And they looked great. I thought of our own two little daughters—Joanna and J.J.—and imagined how nice it would be for them to one day be draped in those gowns and getting their diplomas here, too. And I’m happy to say that did happen some years later, which was another very special thrill.

  As you’d expect, security at this graduation was terribly tight and restricted. Reporters were bunched together. There was no chance to talk to the president. What would I have said, anyway? “Hey there, Secret Service guy, wait a minute—he did my local show in San Diego twenty years ago. He knows me!” No, those days were over. Father Hesburgh, who’s known for his own warm and fabulous speeches, made a wonderful introduction—and then out came Ronald Reagan. No sign of being wounded, a big smile on his face, he simply gave one of the most stirring speeches I had ever heard. He noted that he was the fifth American president to address a Notre Dame commencement and, soon enough, began to reminisce about his experiences playing George Gipp on film, while giving credit to the now beaming Pat O’Brien for so generously helping him secure the role. But le
t me share with you a taste of some of Reagan’s remarkable words that day—specifically about the invaluable subtext of that Rockne movie, even though it was just a small portion of the president’s long and thrilling invocation. . . .

  . . . because it says something about America. First, Knute Rockne as a boy came to America with his parents from Norway. And in the few years it took him to grow up to college age, he became so American that here at Notre Dame, he became an All-American in a game that is still, to this day, uniquely American.

  As a coach, he did more than teach young men how to play a game. He believed truly that the noblest work of man was building the character of man. And maybe that’s why he was a living legend. No man connected with football has ever achieved the stature or occupied the singular niche in the nation that he carved out for himself, not just in a sport, but in our entire social structure.

  Now, today I hear very often, “Win one for the Gipper,” spoken in a humorous vein. Lately I’ve been hearing it by congressmen who are supportive of the programs that I’ve introduced. [laughter] But let’s look at the significance of that story. Rockne could have used Gipp’s dying words to win a game anytime. But eight years went by following the death of George Gipp before Rock revealed those dying words, his deathbed wish.

  And then he told the story at halftime to a team that was losing, and one of the only teams he had ever coached that was torn by dissension and jealousy and factionalism. The seniors on that team were about to close out their football careers without learning or experiencing any of the real values that a game has to impart. None of them had known George Gipp. They were children when he played for Notre Dame. It was to this team that Rockne told the story and so inspired them that they rose above their personal animosities. For someone they had never known, they joined together in a common cause and attained the unattainable.

  . . . But is there anything wrong with young people having an experience, feeling something so deeply, thinking of someone else to the point that they can give so completely of themselves? There will come times in the lives of all of us when we’ll be faced with causes bigger than ourselves, and they won’t be on a playing field.

  . . . We need you. We need your youth. We need your strength. We need your idealism to help us make right that which is wrong. Now, I know that this period of your life, you have been and are critically looking at the mores and customs of the past and questioning their value. Every generation does that. May I suggest, don’t discard the time-tested values upon which civilization was built simply because they’re old. More important, don’t let today’s doom-criers and cynics persuade you that the best is past, that from here on it’s all downhill. Each generation sees farther than the generation that preceded it because it stands on the shoulders of that generation. You’re going to have opportunities beyond anything that we’ve ever known.

  Yes, the “Gipper”—now the leader of the free world—came back that day to give these graduates a rousing send-off that I’m sure each of them will remember forever. I could see the same effect on these kids that he had made on our small audience that night in San Diego years earlier. He had spectacular presence.

  Back in Los Angeles on Monday’s newscast, we presented the story. There was Pat O’Brien doing Rockne for me; there were the kids walking around their campus, happy but also sorry they were leaving that wonderful school. There was Father Hesburgh with his grand introduction to a president who had almost been killed a few months before, this former movie actor who so brilliantly portrayed one of the greatest characters and football heroes ever to play for Notre Dame. And there was the president himself with his jaunty walk to the microphone, all charm and grace, delivering that terrific speech.

  Because I knew the story was pure gold, I had cajoled an extra minute from the news producers for my segment that night, and then stole another minute from the anchorman to put together what I thought was an unforgettable piece. After it finished airing, I threw it over to Jerry Dunphy, my anchor, to go to a commercial. Dunphy—a pro among pros who had seen just about everything throughout the course of his esteemed news career—was visibly moved. He had trouble collecting himself before getting to the commercial. And then the studio doors flew wide open and our tough news director, Denny Swanson, who in later years was instrumental in launching Oprah Winfrey’s monumental career, bounded in. And he was headed right for me! I remembered that I had deliberately not discussed this trip with him before I left. I was afraid he wouldn’t okay it, since it was a pretty expensive undertaking for a local newscast.

  But as he got closer I could see—maybe for the first time ever—that Denny Swanson was actually impressed. He never handed out accolades to anyone, not ever! But he was excited now. “I didn’t know you were going back there to do this,” he practically boomed. “It was terrific. One of the best stories we ever did. How did it happen?”

  How did it happen? How did it happen? How in the world could I ever explain this whole long ride of mine with Ronald Reagan—not to mention Notre Dame—to him. Twenty years—from San Diego onward—flashed through my mind. “Well,” I said, “Denny, it’s really a long, long story. But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  I like to think I won that one for the Gipper, too.

  WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL

  Go ahead and take a chance on doing surprising things at work (as I did in my piggy bank story, for instance). Attention will be paid. Eventually, anyway. Maybe not right away, but someday, someone will notice.

  There’s no such thing as a lowly job when you start in the particular business where you’ve always dreamed of succeeding.

  Chapter Five

  WALTER WINCHELL

  Believe it or not, there was a time before World War II when at least twelve different daily newspapers were operating in New York City. Nowadays, we’re lucky to have three. As a kid, I was a tremendous sports fan, and each paper had a full array of fabulous sportswriters, many of them now legends. But there was another section of the papers I loved, too: the entertainment pages with their exciting boldfaced gossip columns! There must have been at least twenty of these intrepid columnists doing their snoop-around stuff day after day, and I was always thrilled to read about whichever big celebrity was in town and what adventures they might have been up to. When you live in the Bronx, Manhattan can feel just as far away as Iowa—but those columnists almost made you believe you were a part of everything that was going on right in the city. Of course, the king of all the gossip hounds was Walter Winchell.

  The Great Winchell! Nobody wrote like him. He could condense a story into a few lines, sometimes even into a few words, and then came those three dots separating each different item and giving the column a nonstop energy that was irresistible. Exciting reading? You bet. Winchell had started his special style of reporting, practically on a whim, back when he was a young vaudeville performer. (The guy did, after all, have a theatrical personality!) For some reason, he’d jot down notes about whatever intrigue he heard buzzing among the theater types and then tack the notes onto the wall backstage. Immediately, this knack for spilling secrets grabbed attention and caught on—as did he! Now he was the premier go-to guy in New York City for behind-the-scenes celebrity news—in fact, many people believed it didn’t happen unless Winchell said it did. He had that kind of power over the public, both around town and all across the country.

  Meanwhile, the city was booming, especially after the war. It was a golden time, when television was just being born right here in the heart of Manhattan, and Broadway stages were all lit up with the greatest musicals and plays. Those same shows are the ones that keep returning everywhere as big-time revivals because they were that good. Broadway also had many of those now-forgotten movie palaces where you could see a good film and then, between screenings, watch an even better stage show—five times a day—with performers like Sinatra, Martin and Lewis, Jimmy Durante, and so on. Then there was Fifty-second Street wi
th its string of great jazz clubs clustered along both sides of the street, as well as all those glamorous old nightclubs that we’ll never see the likes of again. The town was jumping in new and exciting ways. So for the showbiz columnists, every day was another field day. And like clockwork, Winchell topped them all; he could seemingly jam close to two hundred names into any one column! The man was untouchable at his craft.

  But now let’s fast-forward to the early sixties, when I’d been anchoring the San Diego KOGO-TV nightly newscasts and hosting my Saturday-night talk show. Walter Winchell had always made it his habit to escape New York in the summer, especially in August, opting to cool off in Southern California instead. He loved heading to the Del Mar racetrack, just north of San Diego, about a mile off the Pacific Ocean. The track had been financed by Bing Crosby back in the thirties, and the Hollywood crowd still regularly zipped down there to hang out and bet on the races—which conveniently provided Winchell with lots of ammunition, or at least plenty of boldfaced names for his column. He also liked to hold court in the newsroom of the San Diego Union-Tribune, which carried his syndicated column. The local reporters couldn’t get enough of the stories he’d spin right on the spot. Naturally, I thought he would be a great guest for my Saturday-night show, but the reality of it intimidated me more than I can express. The local gossip columnist, Frank Rhodes, who was a good friend of mine, encouraged me to just give Winchell a call and ask him. “He’d love to come on,” Rhodes assured me.