You Got To Know When to Fold ‘Em
The hardest decision I had to make in my 33 years at WIP was the final one, dealing with the reality that my run was over. It was especially difficult for me because I loved the job, and all of the perks that came with it.
But I did it, with almost no regrets. As Kenny Rogers sang many years ago: “You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.”
I bring this topic up today because we have just seen the complicated issue of retirement erupt both in the political and sports worlds. This may be the first time President Biden and Skip Bayless ever appeared in the same sentence, but they are joined now by their own stunning recent career decisions.
With a nudge from his closest political friends, the president decided not to run for re-election this week. After his painfully inept debate performance, the consensus was that he was too far past his prime, at 81, to fool anybody anymore. The consensus was right.
Meanwhile, Bayless suddenly walked away from his eight-year gig on the Fox show Undisputed, though he hasn’t said yet whether he’s hanging up his microphone for good. At 72, he should be thinking seriously about it. No one at 72 is in his prime. I consider myself an expert on this topic. I’m 73.
In my case, the original plan was to bail at or near the conventional retirement age of 65. I knew even then that my mental faculties were in decline. At that point, I was able to hide most of the erosion from the audience, but I knew. Oh, I definitely knew.
It started with the struggle to bring up names that were once readily accessible. DeSean Jackson, Chris Coste, Bobby Jones . . . . the list was growing every day of a player – usually a former player – whose name eluded me, often in the midst of an animated discussion.
Over time, I learned how to steer away from using a name that didn’t pop right into my head, but I knew the truth. I knew my best years were behind me.
I would never have made it on the air within a month of my 72nd birthday without the help of my-co-hosts, and especially Rhea Hughes. Whenever I couldn’t pick up a name, or I lost my train of thought, or my voice would crackle and stammer, or any of dozens of other signs of my decline arose, Rhea knew to jump in and cover for me. She did it more times than I could count over those last five or six years.
The other sign that I was not who I once had been came near the end of shows, and often at the end of a week of five shows. My brain fought to shut off entirely, mostly out of fatigue. That’s the main reason I took Wednesdays off in my final year. It wasn’t a power move. It was necessary for my on-air survival.
After shedding the huge responsibility of doing four hours of unscripted radio every weekday morning, I look back now in amazement that I lasted that long. So much work went into every show, and so much angst when things didn’t run smoothly, that I feel only relief now that I don’t have that mountain to climb every day.
In the months after my retirement, I struggled mightily to understand the ramifications of retirement – so much so that I sought the help of our Morning Show sports psychologist, Dr. Joel Fish, for what became an entire year of therapy. Dr. Fish often helps athletes who face the despair of ending their careers, usually at half the age I am.
The best advice I ever got was, in the doctor’s words, to “put away the scoreboard.” Those first few months after I left, and even more so after I finished my memoir, LOUD, I still felt the need to accomplish something tangible every day. Until I put the scoreboard away. Now my only goal is to do the things that bring me happiness.
In retrospect, I can see now that the dumbest opinion I ever expressed on the radio – among many worthy candidates – was scoffing at the notion that athletes retired to spend more time with their families.
“Oh, yeah?” I would love to say. “Maybe you should check with your family. Maybe they don’t want more time with you!”
Of course, now that I am retired myself, my preoccupation is exactly that, to spend more time with my family. I just regret I didn’t see its importance before I made such an idiot of myself for all those years.
What I have finally achieved in the 17 months since my last show is a clarity about how people know when it’s time to retire. Ironically, in most cases, they already know, or will before they make the decision. The biggest challenge is admitting it to themselves.
President Biden had to know when he struggled to find the right words during the debate earlier this month. Skip Bayless only had to check his TV ratings, which have been in decline for close to a decade.
In both their cases, everyone else accepted the reality before they did. The ego is a powerful force. That’s why it’s so agonizing to accept the fact that you are past your prime, over the hill, no longer the person you once were.
Along the way in retirement, you get little reminders of this sad truth. For me, it came last August, when my twin grandsons – both big soccer fans – asked me to get them tickets to see their hero, Lionel Messi, play against the Philadelphia Union in Chester. After all, whenever they needed tickets to sports event before then, it was no problem for their big-shot grandfather, whom they like to call Chooch.
I made several calls to get the coveted tickets. Hell, in desperation, I even offered to pay. Crickets. No one even bothered to return my call.
I had no show on which to promote them. I had no power. I would say I was just another face in the crowd, but that was the problem now. I couldn’t even make it into the crowd. I had no tickets.
So I had to call the boys, 15, with the bad news. And I had to admit the truth about life after retirement.
“Sorry, boys,” I said. “Chooch can’t do it anymore.”