Three And Out

Reflections from a world where “every day is Saturday”

Apologies if you’ve heard this one before.

Everyone has a name and how each of us got ours is as individual as a snowflake, some more involved than others. I’m often asked if “Gene” is short for “Eugene” and tell the short version of my story: my dad hated nicknames and thought that by giving me the handle that is, technically, already the nickname for “Eugene” he would’ve beaten others to the punch.

How riveting is that?

Fact is, Dad had other proclivities, among them a love of boxing heavyweight Gene Tunney who twice defeated the feared heavyweight Jack Dempsey, the second time in the infamous “Long Count” bout of 1927.

Here we find our hero, Mr. Tunney, flat on his ass as the result of a few freshly served Dempsey knuckle sandwiches. The “long count” ensued when Dempsey failed to go to a neutral corner—the ref couldn’t start it until Dempsey complied. Seconds passed, giving Tunney extra time to shake off the cobwebs and rally to win the bout. He’d defend the heavyweight crown once more before announcing his retirement while still in peak form at a relatively young age. Tunney, from a commoner’s upbringing, would go on to marry a steel industry heiress while becoming a successful businessman in his own right, able to claim Ernest Hemmingway and George Bernard Shaw among his besties. Tunney’s son John would become a U.S. Senator.

I’m sure all of that impressed dad, but what made Tunney “namesake” material in his eyes was the fact that the champ retired early, before Father Time and the ravages of the boxing game could wipe away his accrued luster. He didn’t become a punch-drunk “tomato can” who heard phantom phones ringing when none were in sight, a has-been having to fight well past his prime to chase another title or appease the IRS. It was a trait Pops reinforced to pre-teen me when, in 1966, NFL legend Jim Brown called it a career at the peak of his prodigious powers at the relatively young age of 30 to pursue a movie career…

…wisely opting for a future on the big screen with the likes of Raquel Welch instead of a steady diet of clothesline tackles from Ray Nitschke.

The Tunney and Brown examples stayed with me long after dad passed. The showbiz axiom, “always leave them wanting more” got added to my internal list of professional rules to live by, along with another served up by one of our frequent WKTI radio contributors, writer/pop culture observer Joe Queenan. He’d often say, “You have to know when to get off the stage” whenever a story would come up about an actor, singer or other famous person hanging around well after their career’s expiration date.

I bring this up as another retirement anniversary approaches. I hung up the proverbial headphones three years ago this month, a week after my 65th birthday. My boss assured me that I was welcome to stay, that I still “had the fastball.” That compliment wasn’t enough to sign up for another year of 2:00 a.m. alarm clocks, 8:00 weeknight bedtimes and further abuse of my permanently damaged internal clock. I was subtly reminded of the example set by Tunney every time I signed my name to a paycheck (before direct deposit) and what had once been a whisper had become a shout.

“You have to know when to get off the stage.”

Unlike Tunney, I didn’t become a captain of industry in my post-retirement life. I don’t hang with globally known writers but I’m proud to call some of Milwaukee’s best journalists my friends via a continued relationship with the local Press Club. Neither of my kids are in Congress but are otherwise self-made and productively employed. Their mother—not an heiress but instead the product of a Central Wisconsin farm upbringing—remains a my faithful partner, avid supporter and reliably honest critic (brutally so, on occasion). I still wake up in the middle of the night, either because of professional habit or personal bladder (TMI). It’s still an honor to be recognized, a big deal to be remembered. As was the case in the glory days, the number one question I still get is, “How’s Reitman?” which is always a compliment.

Every day remains Saturday—blank canvasses, largely devoid of obligation and certainly minus the there’s-a-deadline-every-minute broadcast mentality that filled 45 years of my adult life. The thought of having to get dressed and act like an adult in public is sometimes off-putting as I grow more socially ferral. While not anti-social—I love chatting up sports at the corner bar and hearing what fans at the ballgame have to say—I lean more anti-society, away from a steady diet of people my age and mindset. While it’s always a comfort to be around folks who remember the Johnny Carson “Tonight” show and who can recite the names of Kate Bradley’s daughters on “Petticoat Junction”, it’s important to mix up one’s demographic buffet to avoid the onset of the malady known as “living in the past.”

I remain blessed to have left the rough and tumble of the radio business on my own terms, having never been fired, sued or divorced (the unspoken trifecta of one’s true broadcast bona fides back when “radio was red hot”). Good health is never taken for granted as we live by the motto that retired folks have “go years, slow years, and then, no years.” For now, all systems remain “go.”

And Reitman’s still doing fine, thanks for asking.