“You guys play ball?”
“Some.”
“What sport?”
“Jim plays hoops; I play football.”
“Yeah, where?”
“UC-Davis.” That’s the University of California at Davis, for those of you who don’t watch ESPN.
“So, you want to get some exercise?” I pressed on.
“Just relaxin’, man.” The guys were getting bored with the conversation, so I deftly cut to the chase.
“Well, we got a water polo match against the GOs tomorrow. Want in?”
The brothers looked at each other, and Jim said, “Why not?”
Okay.
So, now I had these two giant guys, along with seven Men of Adventure thugs. (Three of the gang wouldn’t play a sport if their mothers’ lives depended on it, so they were sideline warriors.) Per the rules, I had to get three girls to fill out the roster.
Wasn’t hard. Three of the real men had already formed “relationships,” so their new sweeties volunteered to play as long as they didn’t actually have to touch the ball. We sealed the deal.
At match time, I set my lineup. The bold, fresh guy was in the goal, because I could block just about anything and throw the ball the length of the pool with ease. Not bragging, just reporting.
The Hanson brothers were stationed at midpool. Their charge was to catch the outlet passes from me and then feed the ball to the guys close to the opposing goal. They were also under orders not to allow any French guy to run by them carrying the ball. The Hansons warmed to that assignment.
Now, I could bore you with describing in detail the bloodbath that followed, but let me keep it pithy: the Men of Adventure won the match 12–4, and the only reason the GOs scored at all was that the Hanson brothers and I left the pool with about ten minutes remaining in the match. We did this to bask in the adulation of the many women who attended the spectacle.
When I think back, it was gruesome. The brothers intimidated the French guys so badly that they began yelling at one another.
“Henri, you fool, pass the ball to me….”
“Jacques, you clown…”
There was also lots of stuff in French that I didn’t understand.
For added color, one of my guys, Joe Spencer, began pulling down the bathing suits of the French guys, much to the delight of the crowd. Spencer, who was six-four, about two twenty-five, wasn’t the greatest athlete, but he definitely impacted the match.
Directing the proceedings from in front of the goal net, I made sure every guy on my team scored, even Lou Spoto, who did not exactly make the water polo team when he attended Harvard. In fact, he was banned from coming within a hundred yards of the pool.
That evening, the victory celebration at dinner was wild. I accepted the case of champagne from the Chief of the Village and made him pose for a series of embarrassing photos. Then the Men of Adventure treated the whole place to unlimited champagne as the deejay was forced to play the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”
But by far the best part of the evening was looking over at the GO table and watching those guys continue to yell at one another. Sublime.
What’s in It for Me?
Now, that story is just one of thousands from my life that would all vividly back up the statement that I made at the end of the previous chapter: having old friends in your life provides a person with indelible memories, and also allows connections with the past to remain in the present.
Therefore, if I were ever to change my style, if my success or mission in life were to cause a fundamental difference in my behavior, these guys would immediately pick up on it and, believe me, let me know about it in extremely provocative ways, if you get my gist.
Over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to call dozens of people friends. Of course, there are varying degrees of friendship, as some folks are closer to me than others. But all the people with whom I associate are honest and speak their minds openly. No weasels among the Men of Adventure, no phonies anywhere nearby. I could never have an association with a user or sycophant, and there are strict rules of behavior for the Men and Women of Adventure. Yes, I do have women friends as well, ladies I’ve known forever. They are far too classy to come on the trips, but I speak with them often, and they provide yet another perspective if I get out of line.
We don’t need no stinkin’ Club Med!
Now, about those strict rules of kinship. What I’ve learned over the years is that friendship is a two-way deal, and it’s not easy. People get married, have kids, get sick, lose jobs, live life. And to keep a friend through all of that, you have to be accessible. Some of my friends check in regularly, some just once in a while. But I have to know that they are there if I need them. Because they know the converse is true.
Like everybody else, I’ve lost friends along the way. That is inevitable, and I don’t dwell on it. If somebody vanishes, I’ll try to find out why. But I won’t try too hard.
That’s because true friendship is a choice you make. Both parties have to buy in on an equal basis. If you have to convince someone to be your friend, the concept of friendship falls apart. Like love, you can’t force it.
That’s why my father said you’re lucky to have five friends in your entire life. He had a few friends, but not many. My mother had far more, because she was outgoing and accessible, while my father was intense and often exhausted.
Sadly, I see the concept of friendship, as I have outlined it, declining in America. With people moving around so much, the small-town neighborhood culture we once had in this country is being replaced by high-tech anonymous “friendship” that’s offered on the Internet. This trend will likely weaken the social fabric of the United States, as long-term friendships, like long-term marriages, are a societal stabilizer.
For me, old friends have made me stronger and happier. In my early years, I had no idea that I would rise so high in my career; nor did my friends. They were betting on the penitentiary. But we didn’t base our friendships on the expectation of material success. Some of these guys have been with me in Levittown, at St. Brigid’s, through high school and college, at my first journalism job in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and onward through the decades. Never did it matter what my job was or where I lived or how much money I made. It’s always been, and still is, about shared experiences and loyalty.
As you know, there are folks who form “friendships” based solely upon calculation. For example, they associate with people who can help them financially or in other material ways. That kind of cynicism is apparently acceptable in our “networking” culture. That shallow strategy, of course, leads nowhere, and people who assemble friends of convenience will wind up emotionally empty and lonely. Count on it.
Summing up, friends don’t let friends forget where they came from. Should be a commercial.
Joe Spencer
On January 21, 1986, I was driving west on Route 9 in Boston, heading to my job as a reporter for WCVB-TV. As usual, I was listening to news radio when a story came on: ABC News correspondent Joe Spencer was missing in Minnesota. He’d been riding in a helicopter to cover a labor strike, and the chopper had disappeared in a severe ice storm.
Joe Spencer was my close friend.
Shaken, I pulled my car over to the side of the road and stared out the window. I prayed that Joe would be found alive. I became angry—why would a pilot risk bad weather? Then I latched on to some hope: others had survived this kind of thing in the past.
A few hours later, I learned my prayers had not been answered: no one survived the crash. Joe Spencer was thirty-two years old and newly married when he died that day.
Even now it is hard for me to write about Joseph. We met in the fall of 1977, when we were both working at KMGH-TV, the CBS-affiliated station in Denver, Colorado. We hit it off immediately: two wise guys from New York State living the single life in a vibrant city. Plus, we were both ambitious; we both were going to the top in the TV news business. If ever there were two compatible guys, we were that
duo.
Personality-wise, however, we were very different. Joseph was a smooth operator and very smart, having graduated magna cum laude from Emerson College in Boston. With dark hair, piercing eyes, and a Clark Gable–style mustache, Spencer had an Italian charm that made Tony Danza look morose. The ladies loved him.
Spencer could also be calculating, but he did it with a wink. Unlike your humble correspondent, who often seeks confrontation when it is neither wise nor necessary, Spencer was a master diplomat. One of the running gags between us was that, after I had rudely offended someone, Spencer would say: “What Bill really means to say is…”
With the legendary Joe Spencer in Denver.
Among my friends, the Spencer stories are legion, and thank God we had different taste in women. There was never competition in that area. He went for exotic-looking ladies; I tended to like the all-American types. In Denver, one of his frequent dates was a young Japanese woman who looked a bit like Yoko Ono. When I tactlessly questioned the attraction, Spencer simply said three words: “two-hour massage.”
Okay.
What really solidified our friendship was a shared skepticism of authority and a love of adventure. At KMGH, we were both hired by a news director named Paul Thompson, an older guy who realized that, in order to get out of a deep ratings slump, the station needed energy and daring. Thompson encouraged Spencer and me to aggressively report wrongdoing, and we did. Soon, Spencer and O’Reilly became very popular in Colorado. And then Paul Thompson left the station.
He was replaced by the devil. We saw the moving-van receipts from hell.
Both Spencer and I immediately despised the new guy, because he didn’t like us and, we thought, probably didn’t like baby seals, either. There are many reasons not to like me, but Spencer was another story; most human beings found him engaging. Not the devil, however; he disliked Spencer more than me, which is some kind of perversion, let me tell you.
Looking back, the new boss was probably trying to send a signal that two young hotshots were not going to run him around. He would show them.
Sure.
As with many TV stations, KMGH paid outside media consultants to tell them how to present the news. Every few months, these hired assassins would ride into town and inform station management who should be fired and who should be hired. In fact, I actually got my job in Denver because a consultant saw me in Dallas, where I was working, and suggested Paul Thompson sign me up.
Anyway, both Spencer and I had always done well with consultants, because we were pretty good reporters and performed well on air. But the new boss had some bad news for both of us: according to the latest consultant report, we were terrible. Awful. A complete disgrace. We had to improve or else.
Okay.
Neither Spencer nor I believed this guy, because, as stated, he was the devil, and who in his right mind would believe Lucifer? So we quickly came to the conclusion that he was messing with us. Of course, that could not stand. So we hatched a plan.
KMGH is located on Speer Boulevard, a short distance from downtown Denver. At night, the station hired a watchman, but he usually slept in the lobby. The newsroom was located on the second floor, and by midnight, it was usually deserted.
One Saturday night, after some late-night disco carousing at the London House club, Spencer and I decided to break into the news director’s office with the hope of finding the consultant’s report. We wanted to see the research for ourselves. Of course, this was insane, a crime. We were breaking and entering. We went ahead anyway.
After a few hours of “socializing,” Spencer was a bit buzzed, but I was clear-eyed and determined. We would be like the Watergate break-in guys, but we would not get caught. We were agile, quick like cats. We were also stupid.
The first problem was access. The primary way to enter the station was through the lobby, but the dozing watchman eliminated that route. There was, however, a locked door on the east side of the building. Spencer was confident he could pick the lock. When I asked why he was so sure of himself, he answered with two words: “I’m Sicilian.” (His family name was Spalletta.)
Check.
Now, I have trouble unlocking a door from the inside, but Spencer smoothly inserted his credit card, moved it around a bit, and the lock sprang open. What a guy.
We then crept quietly up the stairs and walked into the darkened newsroom, where Satan’s glass-enclosed office took up space against the west wall. Again, the door was locked. Again, Spencer jimmied it open. We rifled through Lucifer’s files (arranged alphabetically) and quickly located the consultant’s folder. There in front of us were the staff evaluations. Both Spencer and I were considered “valued employees.” The devil had deceived us.
Okay.
So now we had to decide what to do. Of course, we couldn’t go around quoting the consultant’s report, because that would raise many questions and perhaps lead to a dusting for fingerprints. Then I, the bold, fresh guy, actually came up with a strategy that didn’t even involve kneecapping the news director.
No, both Spencer and I would go to see the general manager of the station and offer our resignations.
At first, Spencer was aghast. That might be a little too much “adventure,” even for him. But when I explained the beauty of my plan, he quickly wised up. Listen to this scheme and tell me it isn’t brilliant.
We would go see the station general manager, Bob Hart, who generally liked us. We would tell him—very humbly, of course—that the news director had informed us that our work was poor. Because of that, in good conscience, we could no longer take the station’s money. Our honor would not permit it. We’d have to resign.
Was this brilliant or what? The problem was the humble part. I could not fake that, but Spencer could, so he would have to do the talking. Which he did. His performance was so nuanced that Robert De Niro would have taken notes. Of course, we knew that Hart had almost certainly seen the consultant’s report (since he paid for it) and would immediately understand that Satan had lied to us.
I’ll never forget the stoic look on Bob Hart’s face when he said, “Don’t worry about it, guys; you’re doing fine.”
Beelzebub was never the same after that. He left me and Spencer completely alone, and months later, he was fired. Chalk one up for God.
Over the eight years of our friendship, Joe Spencer and I traveled the world together and helped each other climb the TV ladder. After two years of working in Denver, I left to take an anchor job in Hartford, Connecticut. A few months after that, I got lucky and was hired by WCBS-TV in New York City.
Spencer followed me out of the Mile High City, taking a job in Detroit at WXYZ-TV. There, he kicked some serious butt and went on to take a correspondent’s job in the Chicago bureau of ABC News.
It was while he was on assignment for ABC’s Good Morning America that his chopper went down.
As I said, part of my reaction to Joe Spencer’s death was anger. That’s how I sometimes cope with things completely out of my control. I was furious that my friend was gone, leaving a young, broken-hearted wife as well as a grief-stricken mother, father, and brother. It was all so senseless.
Three days after he died, Joe Spencer’s funeral was held in his hometown, Amsterdam, New York. I was to give the eulogy. I didn’t want to do it. For once in my life, I didn’t know what to say.
Also speaking that day was ABC News anchorman Peter Jennings. I had met him a couple of times but didn’t really know him. Neither did Spencer. Because he was based in Chicago, Spencer had had little interaction with the powerful Jennings, who lived in New York City.
Keep in mind that on the day of the funeral, anger was still raging inside me. I arrived at the church not wanting any BS. I knew Jennings had prepared some remarks, and I had some reservations about that. So I took him aside in the sacristy, and the conversation went something like this:
O’Reilly: Mr. Jennings, thanks for coming; the family appreciates it. Can you tell me what you’re going to say?
&nbs
p; Jennings (looking a bit surprised): I thought I’d concentrate on Joe’s value to ABC News, his abilities.
O’Reilly: Good. Because we both realize that you didn’t know him very well, so I don’t think you should get into the personal stuff too much. Let me handle that.
Jennings (his eyebrows raised a bit): Fine. I think that’s right. You handle the personal; I’ll talk about what he meant to ABC.
O’Reilly: Good. Appreciate it.
The priest, standing by, overheard the conversation. When Jennings left the sacristy, he said, “Well, that took guts.”
“Not really, Father,” I replied. “It’s just such a terrible thing. I want it done the right way.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m angry. It won’t show.”
“Go easy on yourself, son.”
“Yeah.”
A few minutes later, I walked up to the altar and told the packed church that Joe Spencer lived more in thirty-two years than most people do in eighty. I told them that he was a unique force, an unusually generous and loving guy. I told them about his sense of justice and his sense of mischief. I wrote down nothing. The words just came.
Those were some of the worst days of my life. A few months later, ABC News offered me a correspondent’s job, partly, I believe, because Peter Jennings saw something in me that he liked and perhaps respected.
In fact, I took the job because of Jennings. Think about it: he could have been offended that some nobody was telling him what to say at a funeral. He could have been like that. But he wasn’t.
Up until he died in 2005, I kept in touch with Peter. I respected him immensely. He “got” Joe Spencer, and he “got” me. Furthermore, after working with him, I came to understand his compassion and intellect. Both Joe and Peter were great men.
You should know that I actually did not want to write the story I just told you. I deliberated a long time before deciding to tell it. My friendship with Joe Spencer was so personal that I rarely speak about it. But, as with my other friends, he enriched my life and greatly contributed to my success.
A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity Page 15
