Chapter 2
The Early Years
"Clothes make the man, but a
refined palate makes him manlier."
~ Mark Twain, 1492
The year is 1959. A plucky, young boy by the name of Bill McNeal hops off the front porch of his boyhood home in upstate New York and catches the bus to his first day of middle school. It was a big day for me. It is true, I was stepping out of the sheltered world of grammar school and into the cutthroat arena of middle school where boys become men. That alone would have been cause for celebration. But, of course, my peers were taking that same step into this next phase of young life. No, that rite of passage was not what made that brisk September day uniquely special for me. That was not what woke me that morning with eager anticipation. No, this was an even more momentous occasion for myself in particular. I had achieved that which I had once thought impossible: I had finally convinced my mother to let me wear boy clothes to school.
With an older brother at home, you might think I'd get stuck wearing his hand-me-downs—discarded jeans and baseball tees. But that was not the fortune that awaited young Billy. Our mother was an opinionated woman and, in her opinion, her second born should have been a girl. Thus, I had a duty to fill a void in that sweet woman's soul. Sure, it made things difficult for me around the school yard. I got picked on by boys and girls alike. The name calling was relentless. Nancy boy, sissy, and pansy were just a few of the names that got slung my way. And don't even get me started on trying to play football in a skirt. Some even went so far as to label it child abuse. But I knew better. I understood that my mother was truly looking out for my best interests. In truth, she's probably the only person to ever do so. She was preparing me for the cruel, unforgiving world that would try to rip my heart out every chance it got. Yes, she was making a man out of me. By dressing me like a girl.
It was a hard won battle to achieve my change in wardrobe. For months, I had argued my case and Mrs. McNeal had been unyielding. My mother wanted to hear nothing of it. Truth be told, if it hadn't been for my father coming home one night, seven sheets to the wind, and telling her she was "uglier than that cross-dressing kid who was always hanging around the house," she may never have relented to my pleas. However, on that momentous day, when I climbed aboard that school bus in my bowtie and dungarees, I knew it had all been worth it. I walked the full length of the bus, letting the awe and amazement of my pre-teen peers wash over me. Of course, they masked their veneration with eye rolls and upturned noses as self-conscious adolescents are wanton to do. Thus, it was an adoration that I could sense even if I could not see it. They were awestruck by the manliness of my new look, I could feel it. Sure, they sneered at me and turned their heads away in disgust. But that was probably just because of the smell of the sandwich in my lunch pail.
My mother, among her many talents, was a culinary genius of sorts. She made the most delicious sandwiches. She typically made a month's worth at a time and left them out on the porch for me. Come to think of it, Mrs. McNeal may have been the original food prepper. Ever efficient and always effervescent, she never failed to deliver me the crunchy, chewy nourishment I craved. Her sandwiches were an acquired taste, to be sure. That's just one more way she looked out for me. The unrefined palate of the average middle-schooler failed to appreciate the art that my mother created with cured luncheon meats and speckled cheeses. Thus, no bully ever dared to steal my lunch. You see, she truly did care about her baby boy.
I consider that day to be a turning point in my life. It was the beginning of a new chapter. As I bounded down the length of the bus and took my customary seat on top of the rear wheel well, I felt like a new man. When I look back I can see how that very day started me down the path that would eventually lead me to a career filled with awards, accolades, and stardom.
As luck would have it, that was also the day that I made my first real friends. I had gone to school with them for years, but this particular group of boys weren't too bright and, therefore, didn't recognize me in my new attire. They assumed I was the new kid at school. They asked my name and I had to do some quick thinking. I didn't want to tell them my first name because I feared they would realize I was not, in fact, a new student. Not to mention that some of the school children thought my first name was not entirely masculine. No, I was not going to fall into that trap again. I blurted out the first name that came to mind: my middle name, Bill. That is how I came to be known as Bill McNeal. It took a while for the name to stick with the other kids who remembered me from grammar school. But with the help of my new friends, I was able to fully reinvent myself and for that I am eternally grateful. That group of boys welcomed me into their folds and I will never forget how I felt in that moment. I was truly alive! While they would eventually turn their backs on me, bully me, and embarrass me in front of the entire school, that abandonment was the first of many that would eventually send me on my spite-drive path to achieve success at any cost. Even in their betrayal they helped shape who I was destined to become. But we'll get to that later.
My entire life, I had been told that I wasn't good at anything-mostly by my mother, which was her way of always pushing me to strive for greatness. I always assumed my subpar performance in various areas of academia and athleticism was related to the way that I had dressed up to that point. I wasn't good at sports, but I figured that had to do with the skirts and the Mary Janes. I didn't get terribly good grades, but, again, I assumed that had to do with how distracting my bows and lacey collars were to my teachers. I wasn't great at making friends, but I figured I just hadn't met anyone willing to look past the pigtails yet. Falling headfirst into a new group of best buddies on my first day in boy clothes seemed to prove the theory I had suspected all along. The clothes were the problem, not me.
Thus, from that day forth I thrust myself headlong into all the endeavors with which I had previously had miserable luck. I tried out for the football team, the baseball team, track and field. I threw myself into my academics with renewed fervor. I joined the debate team, the chess club, and the yearbook group. I was fully convinced that my new clothes and my new name were exactly the foot-in-the-door I had been missing. As it turned out, I was actually just really bad at all those things. I continued to achieve straight C minuses. I didn't make the baseball team and I got cut from track and field. The football coach took pity on me and said I made the team, but as a third-string full back. The various clubs I had joined eventually changed their meeting places and times without informing me, so I read between the lines.
Still, I had those friends. That one key accomplishment lit a fire in me. Maybe Math and Social Studies weren't my strong suits. Maybe sports simply weren't my thing. Maybe social clubs were really just for losers. No, those things weren't in my wheelhouse. But I had found these friends and that meant I might be good at something. That's what drove me to find my niche. Surely there was some corner of the middle school world where Bill McNeal could shine like the diamond he truly was inside. Certainly there must be something at which I could excel and make all my enemies sick with jealousy.
That little spark lit the ember that would one day become the flame which would turn into the brilliantly raging fire you hear over the airwaves daily. One evening, after having spent the entirety of a football game sitting on the sidelines in my pads and helmet—even though the coach had told me they were highly unnecessary—some random drunkard stumbled past the field. He looked at me with hazy eyes and asked, "Who won the game?" With that simple question, something deep inside of me switched on. A new voice that had never before emanated from my lips suddenly took over my whole being. I gave this inebriated man a full rundown of the game. I told the tale of passing yards and field goal kicks, of injury reports and fouls called. By the time I got to the final score, my audience of one was hanging on my every word. He then proceeded to vomit on my shoes, but still, for that moment I felt a sense of fulfillment I had never before experienced. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just given my first of many sports reports. It was a feeling that was, until that moment, unfamiliar to me and I didn't quite have a name for it. Now, looking back, I know that was the feeling of being good at something. I had found my niche.
I took to practicing this new found skill on my friends. I would give them full reports of all the happenings around campus. I would report on who was dating whom, who had gotten caught smoking in the bathroom, and how much the bus driver had to drink that day. My friends were enthralled by my every word. They thought it was a little strange when I threw in the occasional traffic and weather report, but I knew I was on to something. So, I kept at it.
As the years went by and it came time to move on to high school, I still was unsure what to do with this gift of mine. By the time we hit sophomore year, my little group of pals had long since left me by the wayside, thus leaving me searching for new audiences for my velvet voice. At home, I would often announce the time at random intervals. I wasn't sure why I did it. Somehow, it just felt like the natural thing to do. I stopped when my father, over dinner, asked my mother to "make the cuckoo clock sleep on the porch tonight." On the school bus, I would often provide enthralling commentary on the traffic build up at various intersections along the way. I quit after the other bus occupants arranged to simultaneously hurl their lunches at me one morning. When my father would send me to swipe a copy of the local paper from the stands, I would sometimes stand on the street corner and read aloud the articles on the front page. That stopped once my mother showed up and dragged me away by my ear, calling me an embarrassment.
Finally, at school, I managed to sweet-talk the school secretary into letting me do the morning announcements. That was when I really started to understand the purpose of this gift I had been given. My vocals were unmatched, that much was obvious. I was meant to do something with this set of pipes. It was when I was faced with an audience that things seemed to fall apart. However, when I closed the door to the AV room and it was just me and that microphone, I knew I had found my calling. That was what I needed. I needed to be buffered from the endless critiques and criticisms of the audience in order to really find my stride.
It would be several years and a useless college degree later that I would really figure out what destiny awaited me, but we'll get to that later. For now, just know that my talent was awakened at a young age as the world stretched out before me. All that was left was to hone that talent. Who better to assist in refining this budding gift than my own family? Yes, my family members have certainly contributed to what makes Bill McNeal tick. Let's explore that, shall we?