ZAC’S GAME
In mid-January, Roger Ailes skipped out on his duties at Fox News to attend a basketball game. The contest featured his twelve-year-old son, Zac, who plays for his Upper East Side Catholic boys’ school. On weekends, the Ailes family is in Cold Spring, New York, on the banks of the Hudson River, but Ailes doesn’t like the education on tap in the local school, so they have taken a place in the city not far from Zac’s school.
The gym was too small for bleachers, and the crowd too sparse to be a crowd. Just before game time, the only fans were Ailes, in a folding chair along the sideline and, at a discreet distance, his bodyguard, Jimmy Gildea, a retired New York City detective. A few more parents trickled in during the warm-ups. They nodded to Ailes in a friendly way, but didn’t stop to chat. If they were surprised to find themselves sharing a moment with the head of Fox News, they didn’t show it.
Ailes was dressed in his work clothes—black suit, starched white shirt, gold tie clip, and matching cuff links. His hair was slicked back and a pair of bifocals perched on his nose. The overall effect was that of a small-town banker in a Frank Capra movie. Ailes is past seventy and looks it, especially when he tries to walk on his bum leg. The other parents were young enough to be his children. But Zac is his only child, and perhaps the only person who could lure Ailes away from his office on a Wednesday afternoon. This was the third game of the season, and he had been there every time.
As we waited for the tip-off, Ailes ran down the roster. “Our guys,” he called them. Zac was easily the tallest kid on the team, and when the action commenced, his father encouraged him to take advantage of it. “Don’t get boxed out,” he hollered. “Use your height. Hands up on defense!” He waved his own hands to demonstrate. Zac looked over at his father and nodded. He had heard this mantra often. When Ailes was around Zac’s age, basketball was his game. He played at the Warren, Ohio, YMCA, where he compensated for his own lack of height with a competitive spirit and, thanks to his mother’s insistence on lessons, a trained dancer’s grace. He had been a decent point guard, but like any father he wanted his son to surpass him.
Zac hit the first shot of the game, and Ailes clapped loudly and shouted his approval. But Zac’s team, wearing red, was no match for the other school. As they fell behind, Ailes grew tense, barking instructions at his son and the rest of the team, but the advice wasn’t helping. Zac came out of the game and took a seat at the end of a bench, away from the coach. Ailes caught his attention and motioned for him to move over and get closer. The boy dutifully complied. That was better. Ailes relaxed and resumed cheering. He made a point of calling encouragement to all the players, not just his son. When the other team scored, he maintained a stoic silence or called out, “Never mind. Go get ’em, boys!”
Ailes’s old-fashioned clothes and pugnacious attitude reminded me of Red Auerbach, the great Celtics coach whose teams won nine championships. But not even Auerbach ever dominated his game the way that Ailes does. The redhead won nine championships, but it took him thirty years; Ailes, who founded Fox News in 1996, was already on his tenth straight year as number one and he was well on his way to an eleventh. During a time-out he extracted his BlackBerry for a quick peek at the standings. “Let’s see if Fox News is still on the air,” he said. “He studied the screen for a moment and smiled. “Yeah, looks like we’re okay. We beat CNN, CNBC, and MSNBC combined, in prime time and the twenty-four-hour cume.”
Back on the court, Zac caught a stray elbow to the eye. “Shake it off,” Ailes hollered. “Rub it out! Back on defense! Get all over them! Come on, fellas, show some heart!” But sometimes heart isn’t enough. At the final buzzer the score was 29–10. The boys headed for the locker room, but Ailes motioned for Zac, who loped over. “You made a couple of mistakes out there,” he told the boy. “You threw that one ball away. And you missed an open shot underneath.” Zac nodded. “But,” Ailes said more gently, “you did a lot of things right. You played hard. You hustled. You scored 20 percent of your team’s points. And when you got hit you didn’t whine.” The boy smiled; meeting his father’s standard of toughness is even more important than winning.
Ailes put his arm on Zac’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “Now, let’s get you home. You have schoolwork to do.” They walked out of the gym, Ailes’s arm still around his son’s shoulders. A black Lincoln was idling at the curb, waiting to drop Zac at home and take Roger Ailes back to the world where he can control the score.