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Sometimes being number two is not good enough

by Tony Basilio

Memorial Day was a real bummer for many reasons. I was one of the few people in the Western world who had to work; I did a live broadcast at Thomas-Hill-Burgin in Kodak. Not that I’m complaining. I’m in radio, so I understand.

But it got worse. The following day, I arrived at work in the mid-morning. There was the stench of uneasiness in the air, the sort of stench that usually indicates that the Radio Reaper has been making the rounds. Everyone fears the Radio Reaper, because if you stay in my business long enough, sooner or later he taps you on the shoulder. He’s the Reaper, and we’re in radio, so we understand.

Scott, a morning show producer with a family in Maryville, was the first to go. When Scott came back to the studios after getting the call, he was pale. He was shocked. He was fired. They told him he was only laid off, but we all knew the truth. We’re in radio, after all, and we understand.

In true Mafiosi fashion, they called Kelley in, and then Brian. Three people who never saw it coming. Gone. We were running out of potential victims. I attempted to quell the nervous energy churning inside me as my mind raced. What if I were next? Three heads have rolled. Maybe I would survive. I mean, I was number two in the Metro Pulse Best of Knoxville poll for talk show hosts!

I hated to see friends fired, but this was self-preservation. It’s like my uncle used to say to the grieving: “Sorry to hear about your loss, but better him than me.” Uncle never was big on tact; it’s an old-school Italian thing. But this was a radio thing. Radio things trump all ethnic considerations. If you were in radio, you would understand.

So I busily prepared for three hours of talk radio. Having completed my show prep, I went to a late 1:30 p.m. lunch with Russell. It was an intriguing meal; I met a guy who played for Adolph Rupp in the ‘60s. He recognized my voice and started to spill his guts. (People do that. It’s another radio thing.) He talked of how Rupp was a racist, and of the cavalier way he threw around certain racist terminology. Like any other muckraker in my business, I procured his number and giddily invited him to discuss this on a future show.

There was only one small problem: There was no future show. At least not at Horne Radio. At least not for me. Feasting at the Shoney’s lunch bar is maybe not the best way to prepare for facing the Radio Reaper. But at least I went out on a full stomach.

I got back at 2:15 for a 3 p.m. show when Brian told me that Big Bill the GM, a.k.a. the Radio Reaper, wanted to talk with me upstairs.

I knew what was coming: they appreciated me and would do something to help me if I needed a referral. I was told that it was due to budget cuts, and I guess that placated my smashed ego.

That is, until I went home and came into the full realization that I had been fired. And then it came—the barrage, the questions, the humiliation, the shame of publicly losing. Fifty calls to my home phone ranging from concerned friends to someone who identified himself to my wife as the “Rude Dog.” And my number is unlisted.

The local media picked up the story two days later. You would have thought something of importance had gone down, or more appropriately, someone of significance. But hey, I’m a radio guy. Getting fired publicly is satisfying in a twisted, humiliating way. There’s pleasure in the pain.

It’s great to have people tell you that you’ve touched them through your work. It’s also great to get blasted by those whom you’ve so antagonized through the years that they celebrate your demise. To be able to move people emotionally is the beauty of the medium. To my fans, friends and detractors: Thanks, and Go Vols. And by the way, I don’t take it personally. I’m in radio. I understand.

June 10, 2004 • Vol. 14, No. 24 © 2004 Metro Pulse