I’ve often said a news organization should be like a symphony orchestra–a mixture of wonderful talents and temperaments. United and well led, they can make great music.
Rudy was a tuba. Round, loud, and comical. Larger than life. Unlikely to make sweet sounds. Likelier to produce raucous polkas.
When I joined my station as a reporter, Rudy was the newsroom’s film editor. He had no formal news training, but oh, he had news judgment. Knew every face in public life. Knew when copy wasn’t a good match for the pictures. Kept organized archives. Saved many a lead story with his swift, surgical editing skills.
But Rudy’s talent wasn’t really news at all. It was Human Relations. Ask him what his job was and he had one pat response; “Laundry and morale.” The laundry part was a lie. The morale part, well, that’s the leadership truth of this story.
Rudy’s contribution to station morale was simple: he tormented everyone.
Choose your worst physical flaw or embarrassing professional moment: Rudy turned it into your nickname.
He called me “Pencil” when we first met in 1973, saying “It’s for pencil-body or pencil-nose, take your pick.” He dropped it only when he learned my middle name was Gertrude. And when I became news director five years later, he treated me to a week of ” Madame News Director”– complete with a bow– before reverting to “Gertie.”
Rudy pointed out the absurd in everything. He ridiculed overwritten station memos. Did unflattering impressions of managers. Had an encyclopedic memory of on-air talents’ worst bloopers and repeated them with impunity and delight. Coached the station’s women’s softball team and teased them mercilessly about their shortcomings. Told corny off-color jokes. Played practical jokes on new employees. And he got away with it all.
Rudy’s job changed over the years. He moved to the Program department, where, as librarian, he screened and catalogued incoming commercials. But Rudy never changed. He made daily rounds through the building, distributing commupances the way a hospital chaplain dispenses blessings.
What did Rudy’s bosses think of all this? They loved it, including the general manager whose hearing aid Rudy roundly ridiculed. They were wise enough to know about the music of management, and how the brass always benefits from a good tuba. They understood that Rudy, in his own way, was a leader. He knew people well enough to have fun with their foibles. He was a sort of in house bull-detector, keeping everyone, including management, in line. Confident leaders, they weren’t threatened by his sarcastic humor. They wanted a culture of laughter and candor in the station. They knew Rudy was a loyal employee and good man, and the cornerstone of that culture.
Back in the late ’70s, when Rudy turned 40, we organized a surprise roast for him. Over100 people turned up, including suits from corporate. Our general manager and station manager donned tuxedoes to take the dais and return the nasty-grams he’d sent them for years. I can still hear the laughter.
I heard the laughter literally, on a tape made that night, long ago. We played it in the car on the way to a memorial service one recent Saturday morning. Rudy, retired and living in Arkansas, had passed away. Too many years of pizza, beer, and diabetes had taken their toll on our friend. His old co-workers celebrated his life by telling tales of his misbehavior–and why it made coming to work each day a pleasure.
Here’s hoping there’s a Rudy in your newsroom. And that you, as the symphony conductor, always appreciate the tone and timing of a bold, bellowing tuba.
