The Dirty Thirty

The earphone pads have been replaced but the headphones and the label are original

It was a Saturday and I was nervous.

I went to Jefferson Valley Mall -- just down the road in Yorktown Heights -- because I needed a pair of "cans."

For the uninitiated, that's slang for headphones.

I bought a pair of Koss HV/1A-Plus and I think they were $30. Something like that.

Honestly, it was probably more than I'd ever paid for headphones but I was told everyone should have their own.

It was Sep 1, 1990.

I tried to sleep a little during the day.

That night I had dinner, Then I steadied myself and drove to the studios of WMJV in Patterson, NY.

I sat in the parking lot in the middle of the woods and waited for an appropriate time to go knock on the door. In the meantime, I'd brought a thermos of coffee with me and, somewhere along the line, I took Nodoz.

It was now around 11:30 p.m.

I knocked and the current on-air host "Jim Heartman" let me in.  I stood in the studio uncomfortably. I waited. I tried not to think.

It was now after midnight and my journey to be a professional broadcaster had reached its first stop.

Sep 2, 1990. Thirty years ago this morning.

Heartman finished his last song, offered to stay, and wished me well as he left.

I sat down at the console.

There was no automation. It was all CD's, with a bunch of "hit songs" on multiple discs. There were also carts (they look like 8-tracks if that works to tell you what it is) for the imaging (liners, sweepers, themes, IDs, etc).

We would have dead air if I didn't press play on the next element.

James Ingram was singing (again, it was 1990). I tried to tell myself I was ready.

"You're all I need," Ingram crooned as the song faded.

Nope. I wasn't ready. I pressed play on a song called "Time For Letting Go" by Jude Cole.

Time for a pep talk -- the one I've given to students for years.

"OK, you have a few choices: 1) You can press play on this stuff all night and never say a word then deal with whatever fallout in the morning. 2) You can run and probably never work in the business again. 3) You can turn on the mic, open your big mouth, and start yapping."

Obviously I chose the third option.

In short -- I was there for a reason. I needed to understand that this was good anxiousness, and I'd come to understand that eventually. It's healthy.

I sound like a "DJ" at first and I promised myself I wouldn't do that. It's easy to do the "fake voice" and I just needed to relax and be me.

I chose to go with "Robbie" as my first air name, having told my father's best friend earlier that day that I was going to use in honor of my dad, since he and my family called me that. He had been gone almost a year and a half at that point. I'd eventually shorten it down to Rob once again since that's what the rest of the world called me.

To this day, "Robbie" makes me smile. In moments of being funny, Chris Erway calls me that, as do members of my family.

I was told I had some leeway in what I played. It was preferred that I played the "hits" of the moment, but I allowed myself "The Heart of Rock and Roll" to help calm those nerves.

I could also take requests, and I got a few phone calls.

It was a long six hours. My family and friends listened for a while but by 3 a.m. things were quiet.

I'd read. I'd walk around. I'd stretch.

I reached the end of the shift at 6 a.m. and left for home.

Then I tried to sleep and the Nodoz won out as my heart raced like it was at Indianapolis. That was the first and last time I ever took that and have never done the Red Bulls and Monster drinks of the world. The stuff -- and the way I felt -- scared me.

I look back 30 years later and cringe listening to the audio (which you can enjoy in its awfulness here). Yes, the music is fairly painful, but so am I. I'm raw. I'm trying to be a DJ with the "Live and Alive" thing that I thought would be my "thang" and the canned signoff and stuff like that.

I let songs fade too long. I probably talked in spots for too long also.

It would all get tightened up and I'd relax and be myself eventually. I was also allowed to do a sports report at 6 a.m. during John Harrison's show. John trained me a few nights before the first shift and became one of my closest friends.

In total, I did it for almost a year. I think I did exactly 52 shows before I got hung up in radio politics. Jim Heartman would get both John and me out of the way, even though we actually had very good ratings.

I was devastated and not sure I'd ever get back in. But I continued to go to college, worked in corporate USA, even tried college radio at Western Connecticut (but I think my being experienced meant I was a threat).

The real comeback began first with calling play-by-play of softball for Kraft and Philip Morris, and I'm eternally grateful to Harold.

Then John was offered a spot on WREF in Ridgefield. He declined and recommended me.

Only a few months later, WREF announced it had been sold and would close.

Thankfully Steve Goodwin and the late Luke Michaels at WREF and they told me they would recommend me to another station -- WGCH in Greenwich.

I served as "Assistant General Manager" of WREF during the ownership transition and did a Sunday afternoon DJ shift.

WREF closed in March, 1997 (I was the last voice heard in the Ridgefield studios) and I trained immediately at 'GCH.

Doors closed. Doors opened.

I've never looked back.

I used to keep track of all of my radio/TV appearances but gave up, especially after HAN gave me a daily diet of too many appearances to track.

The number at this point is well into the thousands. If there's a baseball game tonight, I'll call that -- my truest calling in this business.

I loved doing DJ work, and have had chances to dip my toe back into music many times since, including hosting three Greenwich Town Party broadcasts.

I've loved news reporting and anchoring.

I've enjoyed behind the scenes, be it production, engineering (I'm an amateur at best), office work (obviously, not ideal), or anything else.

I've loved sports reporting.

I've loved hosting shows -- any shows. "Coaches Corner," "The Press Box," "Doubleheader," "Spotlight on Sports," "The Clubhouse," "Tee Time," and on and on and on. I've hosted my own talk show "The Rob Adams Show" and co-hosted shows on religion, self-help, home improvement, and so many others. I even hosted a radio flea market/swap meet called "The Trading Post."

I've reported on storms, 9/11, the Columbia disaster, the Roy Halladay plane crash, and more than I can remember.

I've been a flat-out pain in the ass because I believe in certain styles of broadcasting.

But, most of all, the very thing I wanted to do was play-by-play, and I got my first opportunity with those softball games in 1995 before being able to call games on the radio beginning in 1999.

I've tried to entertain listeners (and viewers). I've tried to be honest and fair and strike all emotions.

Thirty years haven't really flown by. The memories are strong of friends made (and lost), relationships built, arguments had, moments marveled at, and a lot of words out of my mouth.

I achieved a lot of cool moments and a lot of goals. It has also almost killed me and broken me at times.

And I still love it.

I'd go to the station -- any station -- in almost any circumstance, and I still will.

I can only hope I have thirty more years in me.

Sean -- who was basically born on the radio -- was sitting with me at the rehearsal dinner a few weeks back for Meaghan and Eric's wedding. Eric's dad Rob (nice name) had just retired that day from working in TV (he did a lot of production work for Dateline).

Sean looked at me.

"No," he said. "I don't see it."

"What's that?"

"Retire. I don't think you'll retire from radio or broadcasting. I think you'd rather die at the microphone."

You're right, Sean. You're absolutely right.

Thanks for being along for the ride, friends. Thirty more? Who knows?

Let's just start with today and see where the road takes us.