4

Grace Under Pressure

AL

A Gown, a Tux, a Tutu and a Funeral

Back in May of 2006, Deborah called with exciting news: Our pastor, Reverend Brenda Husson, was hosting a dinner party at her home for Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa, and she’d like us to attend. Naturally we accepted this invitation. After all, who wouldn’t want to attend a dinner honoring one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders and an outspoken voice for civil rights—not just in South Africa, but around the world?

It wasn’t until I went to put it on my calendar that I realized we already had an engagement that night, a black-tie charity event hosted by the Black Alumni of Pratt Institute at Lincoln Center.

“No problem,” I thought. Like all busy New Yorkers, we could do both. First we’d swing by Reverend Husson’s dinner for Archbishop Tutu and then we’d hit the charity event a little later.

Before we knew it, the date had arrived. Deborah looked radiant in a white-and-silver brocaded dress. I didn’t look half bad, in my tux and a silver tie to play off my wife’s dress. I don’t know why, but it sometimes bugs her that I do this. It’s not like I’m making us wear matching Hawaiian shirts. I would never do that to her! That’s an embarrassment I would save for the whole family . . . on vacation . . . with lots of pictures. Still, I don’t mind sharing a bit of color in common when Deborah and I get decked out for a night on the town!

Normally, we’d just grab a cab, but given that we needed to hit two places in one night and timing was critical, we decided to spring for a car service. I must say, we made for quite the dashing couple, and if we were overdressed for the first stop, well, we would simply explain we had another event to go to. After all, this is New York, where anything goes.

As we pulled up to the front door, I noticed a lot of other black cars in front of our pastor’s apartment building, but hey, Archbishop Tutu was there, and no doubt there were a lot of dignitaries who wanted to pay their respects inside.

As we walked into the building, the doorman said, “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Roker. I know why you’re here. You just missed Mayor Bloomberg. First elevator on your right.” So we walked to the elevator, duly impressed, and were whisked to the sixth floor of the building by the elevator operator.

The elevator opened onto a very large and beautiful apartment. It was more spacious than I remembered, but we had been to the reverend’s apartment only once before, a few years earlier, so my recollections of it were a bit hazy. There was a lovely cocktail reception going on, befitting a person of Archbishop Tutu’s stature, I thought, although the man himself was, by all accounts, very humble. A waiter took our drink request and hurried off as we wandered about the apartment, nodding and murmuring “Hellos” to several people we knew.

Some of the artwork on the wall caught my eye. If I didn’t know any better, that was a Renoir . . . Wait, was that a genuine Matisse over there? I knew the reverend’s husband, Tom, was an artist; was it possible he had painted these copies, or did they actually own such masterpieces? At just about that moment, Deborah came up to me and said, “I hope dinner is being served soon. We have to get going!”

Then she bumped into a couple of people she knew from the retail and fashion world, which was strange only because none of them belonged to our church. All the women commented on Deb’s dress and how beautiful she looked. She demurred, something about “this old thing?” and explained we had another event to go to.

While Deb was talking to these acquaintances, I looked around. I hadn’t yet seen our reverend, nor hide nor hair of the guest of honor. In fact, I didn’t recognize any of these people from church at all. Deb circled back to me and said, “This is odd. The last two people I talked to I’m pretty sure are Jewish. Is that strange for a dinner celebrating an Episcopal archbishop?”

The fact is, not really. The New York Episcopal Church has a long history of interdenominational brotherhood that encompasses all religions. But before I could answer, Deborah was buttonholed by another pal. Deborah asked if she had seen Archbishop Tutu. The woman all but squealed with delight and surprise.

“Archbishop Tutu’s here? Wow. I would love to meet him!” With that she took off like the Roadrunner with Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit.

You know how you sometimes get a sneaking suspicion that something’s not quite right? Like your fly might be down or the girl you’re about to kiss might be your second cousin?

That’s what this party was beginning to feel like.

That is until I stopped a passing waiter and asked, “Oh, are those lamb chops?” Deborah poked me. “I mean, is this the dinner for Archbishop Desmond Tutu?”

The waiter looked a little confused, even as I helped myself to three of the most succulent lamb chops I had ever tasted.

“Um, no,” he replied. “This is Abe Rosenthal’s shivah.”

Then, instinctively realizing I was in the wrong place and protectively shielding the rest of his tray of lamb chops from me, he scurried away.

Abe Rosenthal?

The Abe Rosenthal?

The legendary editor of the New York Times? He was an iconic figure in New York City. I knew of him, but I certainly didn’t know him.

Oy.

Deborah and I realized our mistake. The elevator operator had just assumed we were coming here, to the Rosenthal shivah in 6-A. We were going to 10-A.

A difference of four floors was all the difference in the world.

A Jewish celebration of a life or a lovely sit-down dinner with a religious legend.

And we were way overdressed for both.

“We are in the wrong apartment! At a shivah!” Deb whispered. “We have got to get out of here!”

Well, at least we’d blended right in with crowd.

Not so much.

We were the only black couple in the room, and dressed to the nines to boot.

Nope.

Nobody was gonna think we were out of place.

Except us.

The ones asking for Desmond Tutu.

We had to get out inconspicuously and find our way to the right apartment, where there was a dinner party going on with two empty seats!

We casually made our way toward the door only to see that Mr. Rosenthal’s widow, Shirley, was now standing there greeting newcomers and giving those leaving a fond farewell.

“Just act natural, say a few words and we’re home free,” I whispered to Deborah out of the side of my mouth.

“I know what to do. I’m not an idiot!” she hissed in reply.

To this day, my wife denies the following happened.

Trust me.

It did.

There’s no reason to make it up.

In fact, there’s no upside for me in sharing it with you. But I feel I have an obligation to tell you the rest of the story, so here it goes.

There was another couple ahead of us, saying something soothing and comforting to the newly widowed Mrs. Rosenthal. When it was our turn, I heard my wife say, “Oh, Mrs. Rosenthal. What a great man your husband was. Congratulations!”

Congratulations?

Hey, your husband’s dead! Let’s strike up the band!

I quickly jumped in, inserting myself between the two ladies, and said, “Yes, our condolences, Mrs. Rosenthal,” as I grasped her hand, my hip pushing against Deborah’s toward the door. “You know, my social studies teacher believed you couldn’t consider yourself a true New Yorker unless you knew how to do the New York Times ‘subway fold.’ What a legacy!”

And with that, I hustled Deborah to the elevator.

“CONGRATULATIONS? The woman’s husband just died. Were you wishing her well on cashing in on the insurance?”

Deborah looked at me like I was crazy.

“I said no such thing. I said ‘condolences.’”

Just then the elevator door opened. “You let us off on the wrong floor,” I said to the elevator operator. “We’re going to the Husson apartment for the Desmond Tutu dinner.”

“You didn’t say where you were headed,” he responded unapologetically. “You looked too fancy for the other thing.”

A few seconds later, we were at the right affair, and as expected, dinner was well under way. It would have been awkward to sit down and join the dinner at this late juncture. Thankfully, our beloved reverend quickly ushered us in and, after some hasty introductions, we apologized for our tardiness and explained what had just transpired. Nobody laughed harder than Archbishop Tutu.

Of course, he was also the guy who, rather than engage me in a discussion about world affairs, said, “You know, I’ve seen you on TV. I thought you were a much fatter fellow.” We offered our apologies for having to cut our visit short and made our way to the elevator once again.

But the elevator refused to arrive. After standing at the door for a good ten minutes, our hostess called down to the lobby. Hanging up the phone, she delivered the news. The elevator was on the fritz.

“You’ll have to take the service elevator.”

She showed us through the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the service elevator. It wasn’t a total loss. Guess what was on the menu.

Yep.

Lamb chops.

I snagged a few for us on a napkin so we’d have something to nibble on in the car.

The service elevator arrived, and there was our old friend, Sol the elevator operator.

Our first stop?

Back down to six, to pick up some departing Rosenthal guests, who looked at us and said, “You’re still here?”

“Long story,” I replied around a mouthful of lamb chop.

Deborah and I exited the elevator, got in the car and collapsed into laughter.

What the heck had just happened?

It was something that could happen only in New York City and, in all likelihood, could happen only to us. As we drove off to what would now be our third event of the night, I thought, “There’s nobody else I could have done this with except Deborah!” Despite the opportunity for embarrassment, she never lost her sense of humor or her beautiful smile throughout the evening. She is the definition of grace under pressure. I knew this would be a story we would remember for the rest of our lives. And congratulations to us both for that!

DEBORAH

Our Trials Have Lessons to Teach Us

There’s no doubt that I am a blessed woman. I have two beautiful, healthy children, a warm and kind stepdaughter, a loving and generous husband and a fulfilling career that many would kill for. But what can I say? Even though I am fortunate to have the help of a wonderful caregiver at home, there are times I feel like any other stressed-out working mom who is trying to satisfy a dozen needs at the same time while itemizing the multitasks in my head . . . usually in the middle of the night.

Okay, I have a GMA segment at seven forty-five tomorrow—so I’ll need to leave at six thirty.

Argh, I forgot to contact Mom’s doctor to discuss her new medication . . .

Oh, and I didn’t call my sister Tina back . . . for the third time . . .

Did I put out the thirteen dollars Nicky needs to buy a PE shirt?

I have to hound Leila to go over her reading for church this Sunday.

And, oh no, I have my annual mammogram tomorrow that I absolutely can’t miss since I had a scare last time when they found a benign cyst!

I was especially agitated about this appointment, not just because all of us women hope for the best but fear the worst, but because immediately afterward I was scheduled to tape a video message to salute my dear friend Robin Roberts in her courageous fight against breast cancer! None of us ever wants to hear the words “You’ve got cancer,” yet Robin, bless her heart, has had to endure cancer twice!

During weeks like this, which are most of the weeks of my life, I find myself feeling anxious, sometimes a little snippier than I’d like to admit, and usually frazzled. The world seems to be spinning too fast and I have no possible way of slowing it down. I occasionally take yoga and meditation classes to temper the fast-paced world I navigate, but clearly not often enough! Breathing and staying in the moment are fleeting and foreign ideas.

I can hear Sissy Spacek in her movie Coal Miner’s Daughter, in which she portrays Loretta Lynn. On the verge of a breakdown, she turns to her husband and says, “I feel like I’m not running my life; my life is running me.”

Some days I truly feel like life is running me . . . and I can’t quite catch my breath.

Who among us hasn’t felt that way from time to time?

Let’s face it: Grace under pressure is not an easy achievement under most circumstances. But I have learned that if you simply pay attention, you don’t have to look far to find examples of grace in your midst, people who are paragons of strength when you least expect it. One morning after a particularly stressful week of travel and appointments, I was cooking breakfast for Nicky with Good Morning America playing on the small kitchen TV, as I usually do on my mornings off. It was the day Robin decided to go public with her pre-leukemia diagnosis. She had shared this serious medical setback with me and a small group of trusted women friends weeks earlier, but I still found myself frozen in front of the television screen as I watched her stoically open up her personal world yet again to viewers who, like me, were in their kitchens sipping coffee before work. Through tears, Robin bravely and optimistically spoke about her plans for a stem cell transplant, thanks to her sister Sally-Ann, who was a perfect match.

In the midst of this frightening and devastating news, Robin was the one comforting others, including her colleagues and her viewers. She was an absolute pillar of strength, the epitome of grace under pressure. She was hopeful, grateful and strong. And even though I’d already known, I unexpectedly burst into tears. I have admired Robin for many reasons over the years and have treasured our friendship. But in this brave moment she was now my hero. I was overcome with respect for her courage in the face of such a mind-shattering diagnosis and felt deeply humbled that my “stressful life” paled by comparison. Suddenly everything was put in perspective.

The entire ABC family was shaken to its core by yet another blow inflicted on our steel magnolia. Like many, I was angry and hurt for her. It wasn’t fair. Hadn’t she suffered enough?

I never told anyone, but for many weeks after that I sobbed at night in the privacy of my home as I worried for Robin. She was not only a dear friend to me, but I had always been touched by the bond she shared with Leila over the years. Maybe it was the last name that we shared or Robin’s heartwarming smile, but Leila adored her from the moment they met. Robin was the first woman she had ever known to battle breast cancer, and somehow my little girl was captivated by this woman who was a tower of strength, a living superhero. Of course we watched GMA in the mornings (shh . . . don’t mention this to Al!), and Leila loved Robin’s easy laugh, her folksy manner and her devotion to sports. Somehow she delivered the news in a way that a fourth grader could appreciate. So Leila often quoted Robin when talking about a news event and used her as an example in school during a discussion about strong, influential women.

So when I visited Robin during the 2008 Christmas holidays, while she was recovering from her breast cancer treatments, Leila wanted to come too. She brought chocolate chip cookies she had spent hours proudly preparing. We picked up Chinese food and had a fun and happy lunch. We were thrilled to watch Robin, bald, frail and thin from the chemo treatments, dig in and enjoy the food.

When we finished, Robin pulled Leila over and gave her a Christmas gift. My daughter’s face lit up when she opened it to find a diary, which Robin explained was for journaling about her deepest thoughts, and a gift card to “buy whatever Santa didn’t bring.” Leila was blown away by the unexpected moment and kind generosity of the woman she had come to cheer up! When we got home, Leila began to weep, overcome that Robin had remembered her in such a personal way. I held her close as tears fell from my eyes too.

Now her icon was sick again.

I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter having to watch Robin suffer even more. We all thought Robin had won that battle, but now she was facing a second and much harder fight for her life—one no one saw coming.

As the months dragged on and Robin prepared for her stem cell surgery, she made time for our gal-pal lunch gatherings, which Tonya, Gayle, Theresa and I cherished more than any other we’d ever had. Though we couldn’t meet as often, when we did, we still laughed and gasped and whispered private truths. Robin was bound and determined to live and love her life.

What she may not have realized at the time was that she was also teaching the rest of us how to live. In the midst of my stressed-out, “topsy-turvy” life, I was finding incredible strength, clarity and courage through the example of my desperately ill friend.

In August of 2013, just before she was scheduled to have her lifesaving bone marrow surgery, Robin’s mom, Lucimarian, passed away—another cruel blow to this already physically fragile woman who was enduring more than her share of pain. Robin and I had shared many stories and stresses about our aging mothers over the years, and I had been blessed to spend time with Lucimarian. So I felt her passing deeply and hard.

I was touched to be invited to her funeral in Pass Christian, Mississippi. Nothing could have prepared me for this experience. First of all, practically the entire town attended the wake! As I pulled up to the funeral home, I couldn’t believe my eyes: The line to greet the family wrapped all around the building. I took my place with the locals, who all seemed to have a story about Lucimarian’s kindness and spunk. Hundreds and hundreds of people came to pay their respects to the once lively woman whose spiritual imprint was indelibly marked on this small coastal town. The outpouring of love was mind-boggling. It filled my heart knowing what this must have meant to Robin.

But for me the life-changing moment happened the next day, in the small family church where Robin and her two sisters, Dorothy and Sally-Ann, and her brother, Butch, said their final good-byes to their cherished mom. The funeral was simply a heart-stirring love letter written about a life well lived. Robin and her siblings shared tears, humor and spiritual lessons gained from their mom. I sat on a small wooden pew with George Stephanopoulos, Diane Sawyer and the president of ABC News, Ben Sherwood, overcome not with sadness but with joy and feelings of hope and happiness . . . all hallmarks of Lucimarian’s legacy. Like the funerals I had attended in Perry, it was called a homegoing and was all about joy for a weary soul who was going home to God.

Though she was shockingly gaunt and no doubt weak from exhaustion, Robin stood firm and strong, gracefully enduring the harsh blows that had come her way during this past year or two, quoting a number of Lucimarianisms . . . simple sayings her mother famously uttered about humility, prayer and love of God.

Robin told how her mom often cautioned against hubris, saying, “If you strut, you fall.” And there was her mom’s view that bad things don’t happen “to you” but “for you” so you can learn something and deepen your faith.

In death, Lucimarian was still the loving mom, offering me and everyone else the kind of warm, lasting life lessons that my mom, now suffering with dementia, is no longer capable of sharing. And even in her weakest moment, her youngest child, Robin, was extraordinary. Oddly, I left Lucimarian’s funeral feeling blessed and happy, filled with unexplainable joy and hope. Somehow I felt at peace as I considered this beautiful woman’s life of love and giving—the only things in life that truly matter.

Weeks later, Robin had her surgery. I remember the date, September 20, because it was my birthday. When I visited her in the hospital, somehow she always managed to smile and cheer up the rest of us, who were shedding a few tears behind the protective hospital face masks we were ordered to wear so we didn’t risk getting Robin sick.

She had lost her hair and she appeared to be very weak, yet when I saw her, she remained unbelievably positive and determined to beat her disease. In her heart, she knew that God was going to get her through yet another tough time. And somehow, I knew it too. She has a special angel looking after her.

Two years later, Robin is going strong, still helping all of us to laugh, love, learn and yes . . . live life to its fullest. Recently, during a tough week, I called and wondered if she had time for coffee.

I was feeling especially low.

My mom was sick with a respiratory illness, and I had been on the phone morning and evening with her caregivers. Leila, now a typical teenager, was often surly and angry. (That week we were at odds over her curfew.) And at work I was clashing with an exhausting and bullying male colleague (yes, they still exist in my business) and I had just been overlooked for a big assignment I’d desperately wanted. I was furious when it went to a less experienced reporter. Other than Al, there aren’t many people I trust with such personal and professional frustrations. But Robin and I have shared many confidences over the years. Without hesitation she named a place and time, and as always, offered me her unwavering support and wise advice. She too had hit many bumps at ESPN and early on at ABC. “I know what you’re dealing with, but hang tough,” she advised. “You’re talented and strong. That will win out. Life can be hard, but I guarantee if you poured your problems on a table along with everybody else’s, you’d probably take yours right back.” Of course, she was absolutely right, and in that moment, I knew her mother had passed those wise words of wisdom along to Robin somewhere along the way.

Sometimes I almost feel embarrassed to share my small struggles with Robin, who has truly seen some of the darker and more challenging sides of life. Yet she is quick to point out that there’s no measurement on suffering.

I am grateful and blessed to have such a wise and generous friend in my life. Robin is a strong reminder that we all cope with burdens and trials. They often bring out our best selves, but even if they don’t, they have something to teach us, if we pay attention.

AL

Boots on the Ground

Back in the day, your family would gather ’round the television and watch the “boob tube” together. It could have been I Love Lucy, The Diahann Carroll Show, I Spy or The Carol Burnett Show. For us baby boomers, the blue glow of the television was the communal hearth around which we parked our “rusty dusty,” as my mom called it, and let the entertainment wash over us.

One of the shows I most vividly remember was the annual Bob Hope Christmas Show on NBC. For much of my youth, it recorded his annual trip to Vietnam to entertain the troops. I loved watching him prowling the stage, firing off one-liners, swinging his ever-present golf club and introducing Raquel Welch or another hot actress of the day, saying, “Wanted to remind you boys what you’re fighting to protect back home.”

Bob Hope was the face of the USO tour for many years. Countless entertainers crisscrossed the country and the globe performing for our troops, but for almost fifty years, no one was as closely associated with the USO tour as Bob Hope.

I always wondered what it would be like to travel to a war zone and take part in one of those tours. My desire to do so was heightened when my buddy Matt Lauer and I did the Today show from Camp Eggers in Kabul, Afghanistan, back around Thanksgiving 2007. We saw firsthand the sacrifices our troops make, protecting our freedoms 365 days a year, twenty-four hours a day. It was there that I overheard a couple of soldiers talking about how much they were looking forward to an upcoming USO show.

After that it was my dream to shine a light on our military troops as frequently as possible, while also supporting the USO and its efforts to help our amazing servicemen and – women, as well as their families. We can never totally repay them for all they have done for us over the years, but what an honor to help the USO bring a little bit of home to our troops wherever they are.

In early October 2014, my dream became personal when the Today show launched its first Today USO Comedy Tour.

To make it a truly legitimate USO Comedy Tour, you need comedy. Someone who is instantly recognizable and funny. Someone whose name is synonymous with comedy. Once we had that, we knew others would jump on board.

As much as I like to think I can get off a powerful zinger every now and again, I’m certainly nowhere close to the likes of a Bob Hope and not even in the same room when it comes to doing professional stand-up comedy. If we were going to do this, we needed a giant in the comedy world. Someone in that same pantheon as Bob Hope. My producers and I batted around names, and then someone said, “What about Jay Leno?”

Jay Leno! Who’s bigger than Jay? He was perfect! He is comedy, the stand-up comic’s comic. Legendary Tonight Show host, car aficionado and a guy who’d already done a number of USO tours.

Surely there was no way we could get Jay. (I’ll pause while you say, “Please don’t call me Shirley.”) (And now you know why I could never lead the tour!)

But I figured, you don’t ask, you don’t get.

I somehow got the number for the garage where he spends most of his time since stepping down from The Tonight Show. After the third ring, a voice familiar to millions of late-night audiences answered.

“Hey, it’s Jay.”

And Jay not only said yes, but he told me whenever we needed him, he was in and he was bringing his former bandleader, Kevin Eubanks, as well.

THIS . . . WAS . . . HUGE!!!!

With Jay in our pocket, everything fell into place.

One of the hottest comics out there today, Iliza Schlesinger, immediately said yes, and then movie star/TV star/musician/comedian Craig Robinson jumped on board as well.

With the talent lined up, I flew thirteen hours from New York to Dubai, where I met up with Jay, Craig, Iliza and Kevin. From there we flew about four more hours to Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan, to perform for more than twelve hundred American troops.

We landed early in the morning and deposited our belongings in the barracks, which stood behind twelve-foot-tall, three-foot-thick cement blast shields reinforced with rebar. Then we went to have lunch in the commissary with the troops. It looked like any other cafeteria except all the customers had automatic rifles and wore camo gear. Come to think of it, it sounds a lot like one of my family reunions!

After that we headed over to a giant hangar from where we’d be broadcasting the Today show followed by the USO Comedy Tour. For four hours, the gang shook hands, took pictures and kibitzed with the troops nonstop, taking breaks only to do some Today segments. We were just finishing that up and getting ready to do our USO show, when the reality of life in Afghanistan hit hard.

As shocking as it may sound, I had no idea what our soldiers’ lives are really like in active duty until I saw it with my own eyes. Sure, I knew they battled these awful elements I didn’t want to think about, and I knew they put their lives in danger every day, but I don’t think I truly understood the hostile environment they face with such bravery until I was on the air base watching shells explode overhead.

When we first arrived, we were warned that if we heard one siren blast, we should hit the deck.

Two blasts, you run for the bunkers.

Three meant all clear.

Now this plaintive wail of a siren seemed to come from out of nowhere. The folks with us yelled out to hit the deck. We all dropped to the ground right where we were, and suddenly the deafening sound of a giant anti-missile gun started blasting. After thirty seconds or so, silence, then two blasts, and suddenly I’m being dragged up and out toward a reinforced bunker, where we waited for around ten minutes till we heard the all-clear sound.

Wow.

The soldiers told me that happened several times a week, sometimes more than once a day.

That’s life at Bagram. And that’s why we were there. To try to block that reality out for our brave soldiers for just a little while.

So then it was showtime. For the next two and a half hours, we brought laughter, music and joy to this amazing group of soldiers who deserved it more than anyone else I could think of at that moment. I never understood the profundity of the saying “’Tis far better to give than to receive” more than I did during that tour.

Giving of myself to those who put themselves in harm’s way every single day was an absolutely life-changing experience—one I didn’t see coming. I had patriotically and spiritually supported the troops for years. I always sought out military families on the plaza, for example, and put them on the air whenever possible as my small gesture of support for the troops. Yet, within hours of our arrival, I had a completely different understanding of what these brave men and women had done, sacrificed and given of themselves—for my freedom and yours. It was the kind of appreciation I could never achieve without witnessing it in my own boots-on-the-ground experience. Working in news for as many years as I have, I couldn’t conceive the kind of understanding I now had of our servicemen and – women without the kind of eyewitness coverage that being at Bagram gave me.

I couldn’t hold back my tears that first night as I crawled into my bed. I was incredibly grateful to all the fearless men and women who serve our country and unbelievably appreciative for the opportunity to be there. I was also feeling terribly guilty, knowing I would be going home in twenty-four hours to see my wife and kids.

You can bet I hugged everyone a little tighter than usual when I got back to New York. I was never in the military, but I would certainly have a different filter going forward whenever I’d hear stories about time people spent serving our country.

Age and wisdom don’t necessarily come together, but perspective always follows experience.

Freedom comes at a cost.

The people who help pay that cost are the servicemen and – women of our armed forces and their families. Here at home and all across the globe, they protect us.

They serve us.

They keep our freedom secure.

One of the most visible parts of the USO is the USO entertainment tours. The smiles and laughs and appreciation on the faces of those servicemen and – women brought warmth to our hearts. After our first show, one of the soldiers came up to me and said, “God bless you. For two and a half hours, I forgot where I was.”

And that to me was the definition of irony. They kept thanking all of us for taking the time to be there when in fact it was our purpose for being there—to thank them for all they do—that made our presence pale in comparison.

The whole experience gave me chills and an endless willingness to offer a hug in gratitude.

That is the point of the USO. Whether it’s a comfortable place to be as they transit between assignments, or help figuring out a problem with family back home, for more than seventy years, the USO has provided a safe haven—physically and emotionally—for our troops.

By supporting the USO, we support our troops. And by supporting our troops, we support the mission to keep this nation and its ideals free.

That’s why I made the “Rokerthon,” a fund-raiser for the USO, during which I set the world record for the longest uninterrupted weather report broadcast.

The idea for the Rokerthon was born in October 2014, when Natalie Morales reported on a woman in Norway who’d allegedly broken the Guinness World Record with a thirty-three-hour live weather broadcast. When I heard the report, I flippantly said, “I can do that.”

I didn’t think anyone would take me up on it!

At the end of the broadcast that morning, our executive producer called a meeting and said, “So, you’re going to break the record?”

At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. But then I said, “Sure, why not? As long as we raise some money for the USO in the process.”

•   •   •

We decided to start the Rokerthon at ten p.m. on Wednesday, November 12. It was on MSNBC at the top of The Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell, and I hoped to break the record at eight a.m. Friday, November 14, during the Today show.

Little did I know what a major undertaking it would be—for everyone. We needed a special team of producers, social media people, crew, official witnesses from Guinness, and lots of other details no one had considered when we said we were in.

But we pulled it together. Dotted our i’s and crossed our t’s.

Well . . .

One little thing: I forgot to tell Deborah. Oh, sure, a month or so earlier I had mentioned I was thinking about doing this stunt to raise money for the USO, but neglected to share one or two details . . . like the actual date—or even that we were, in fact, doing it!

So the weekend before, as we’re going through our calendars, I happened to just sort of toss out, “Oh, and of course I’ll be live on the air from Wednesday till Friday, doing Rokerthon, so I won’t—”

I never got a chance to finish my sentence.

Deborah went ballistic!

“YOU WHAT?

“When were you going to tell me this? What plans have you made? You can’t just get up there and be live for three days straight. Are you insane?”

I wasn’t sure which question to answer first. But I did realize a good rule of thumb: Before embarking on a potentially dangerous stunt on live TV, tell your significant other. They have this wacky idea that they want to be “in the loop”! You would think that after twenty years of marriage I would have known this by now.

Thanks to Deb’s well-placed outrage, I actually sought some medical advice and got clearance from NBC’s medical director, Dr. Tanya Bensimon. I was told to stay away from caffeine early on, stay hydrated, bank sleep leading up to the event. Try to keep carbs to a minimum and eat higher-fat and higher-protein snacks. Save a necessary caffeine jolt for the last hour or so if I absolutely need it. Of course I would need it! I was going to be on the air for thirty-four straight hours! I was thinking a jolt of caffeine wasn’t going to be enough! Maybe a caffeine drip?

A few days before the event, we learned that the Norwegian record still hadn’t been verified. That left the standing record at twenty-four hours, and I would have to broadcast for only twenty-four hours and one minute to set a new record. In fact, when I was covering Hurricane Sandy, I was on the air for forty-eight hours, but because of the very strict rules surrounding setting a Guinness World Record, that broadcast didn’t qualify me for the record book. This time I wasn’t taking any chances. If the Norway record somehow became real, I wanted mine to beat it, so I was going all the way.

As they say, go big or go home!

To officially set the record, the rules were very specific.

1. I had to talk only about weather for the entirety of my broadcast.

2. I could talk about current weather and weather seven days in the past or seven days ahead.

3. For every sixty minutes completed, I was given a five-minute break. The breaks could be carried over and combined, so if I went four hours without stopping, I could take a twenty-minute break.

4. Two independent witnesses had to be there at all times.

Once we were on the air, the only moment I doubted I could do it was after the first fifteen minutes. It was the same feeling I had in the first mile of the New York City Marathon. I remember thinking as I ran up the Verrazano Bridge, “What the hell am I doing?” And then I got past the midpoint of the bridge and started running downhill, calmed down and just kept going. The exact same thing happened to me during the broadcast. Fifteen minutes in, I thought, “I cannot do this. I have thirty-three hours and forty-five minutes to go! How am I going to fill the time?”

And then I did my first chat with a local television station, which settled my nerves and helped me to push onward. We filled the time talking to West Coast affiliates and even a station in Australia. Although I was allowed to take a five-minute break every hour, at one point I had such a rhythm going that I was on the air for five hours straight, banking enough rest minutes to take a shower and change my clothes!

Besides talking with local stations, the Weather Channel and MSNBC colleagues, I also had a lot of support from friends and family throughout my time on the air. Candice Bergen, Aaron Sorkin, Alan Alda, Sam Champion, Willie Geist, Tamron Hall, Diego Klattenhoff and Ryan Eggold from The Blacklist came by to chat about the weather, and my beautiful and understanding wife, Deborah, dropped in with hot chocolate for me.

By the end of the broadcast, my voice was reduced to a mere croak. I could barely speak. (Deborah and the kids wished that would last for a while.) But even though the thirty-four-hour broadcast took a lot out of me, I did it; I set the world record! I can officially check this one off my bucket list. I assure you, I won’t be doing it again!

After it was all over, I received a surprise phone call from Vice President Joe Biden, who reminded me that the only mistake I made during my marathon broadcast was leaving my microphone on during a bathroom break.

Well, I had to admit, he had me there.

“Yes, sir. It gave new meaning to live stream.” Hey, it was the best ad-lib I had under the circumstances.

Thankfully, the vice president was kind enough to play along, admitting that he too had had a few problems of his own over the years with microphones he didn’t realize were still on.

And that’s why I love live television.

You never know what to expect. Even after thirty-four hours on the air!

Man, I love my job!

What made it especially worthwhile was having so many people pull together toward one common goal. We do that every morning on the Today show, of course, but it had been a while since there was anything that had snowballed like the Rokerthon did. (For reasons I can’t explain, it was the hottest trending topic on Twitter!) But best of all, through our Crowdrise campaign, we raised $80,000 for the USO.