When you’re young, everyone looks so much older, even more so back then, especially seeing how some 25-year-olds today look to me like they still haven't hit puberty. I remember once in grade school taking a trip to my high school to visit the planetarium (yes, my high school had one). There were a couple of high school kids hanging out by the door, and in my mind's eye, they still look like they could have been 40.
At the time, I figured Rich was in his 40s, but he could have been in his late 20s for all I know. He had a wife, his own place, and a business, so I just assumed he was older.
Rich smoked cigarettes, which I thought was so cool back then. I can still smell the stale smoke from inside the cab of his truck, and it's so rare these days, but when I pass cigarette smoke in public, it has a nostalgic quality. Much better than the now-ever-present smell of weed.
In my memory, he always had a Marlboro hanging from his lips, and he's one of the few people besides Dick Trickle that I remember calling them "darts" or "heaters." He also spent the entire day telling me some of the dirtiest jokes I'd ever heard (as a relatively sheltered young teen). I think he was just happy to have someone to talk to, and I was just happy to laugh. Rich had a way of telling great stories with humor that was half crude and half charming.
Despite the long (and hot!) hours, I actually enjoyed working with him. He’d blast classic rock or whatever was on, but mostly he’d ramble about life, women, his exes, or whatever dumb thing happened when I wasn't with him. He gave me dating advice for the girls in high school, although I'm not sure how good it ever was.
I’d help with whatever he needed: trimming edges, blowing away cut grass or leaves, loading the equipment onto the trailer in the proper order so everything fit, and cleaning up tools at the end of the day.
He paid $10 an hour cash, straight from the ATM at the end of each day, which was great money for a kid back then... especially one that was "probably" too young to legally work anyway. He'd sometimes throw me an extra $20 for "not bitching too much about the poison ivy."
After about a year and a half, I quit. One day, when he dropped me off at home, I told him I wouldn't be available to work with him anymore. He sounded hurt when he asked why, and I mumbled some sort of an answer and ran inside quickly to avoid the conversation. I was a young, dumb kid who could have handled it better. About ten years ago, I did some googling and found that he had closed his landscaping business and taken a job as a night security watchman. I hope he's doing well.
No matter what I’ve said about that job here or elsewhere, I’ll forever be indebted to Rich for one thing: he introduced me to talk radio.
One day, driving home from a job with the windows down, tools rattling behind us in the truck bed, and him "ripping a heater," he switched on WNEW 102.7 FM, which was still classic rock at the time (it would later become the hottest “shock jock” station in the country). That day, these two guys were going off about something ridiculous. Rich started laughing so hard he almost swerved into oncoming traffic.
“Listen to these idiots,” he said, laughing. “This is real talk... no bullshit.” Except for Rich's raunchy stories and jokes, this naive teen had never heard men talk like that before, even if they were restricted by the FCC in what they could say. They found a way around the rules and got the point across. We laughed the whole way home, and I remember having tears in my eyes and thinking, "I have to remember to listen to this channel again."
In the late 1990s, shock jock radio epitomized raw, unfiltered rebellion against the polished finish of mainstream media. The genre thrived before the Internet’s constant outrage and instant gratification caused by social media. Hosts weaponized the airwaves with crude humor, pranks, and taboo discussions, pushing FCC boundaries to captivate audiences hungry for authenticity amid a rapidly changing society. They talked like “regular guys,” not stuffy, overly produced, carefully censored music jocks. Through jokes, stories, and “theater of the mind,” shock jocks were a byproduct of a new era in American society.
When I first heard them, I was at just the right age, shared those feelings of change, and was eager to hear more.
Leading the charge were Gregg “Opie” Hughes and Anthony Cumia. Their Opie and Anthony show became a lightning rod for controversy and cultural commentary. Their style was a clinic in shock tactics: blending adolescent antics with biting social satire while creating a communal feeling among fans. Segments like the “55 Gallon Drum Challenge,” prank calls, and a parade of stand-up comic guest hosts exemplified their ethos that nothing was sacred.
Their 1998 “Whip ’Em Out Wednesday” promotion, encouraging women to flash drivers, led to arrests and fines but quickly boosted ratings. This wasn’t mere vulgarity; it reflected pre-internet undercurrents of frustration and hedonism. The “WOW” stickers became a logo of a generation, even appearing on tv shows like The Sopranos. I still spot some old ones “in the wild” when I’m back home in New York, 25 years later.
The late ’90s marked a post-Cold War economic boom but also rising cynicism toward institutions and authority. Opie and Anthony tapped into this, offering counterculture catharsis against sanitized network TV and print media. In a time when political correctness was rapidly gaining traction, they embodied anti-PC defiance. They mirrored grunge rock’s anti-establishment vibe and fostered tribal loyalty among blue-collar listeners, who connected with the hosts' discussions of everyday absurdities, workplace gripes, and sexual escapades.
It felt like having a bunch of friends to vent with.
This surge in shock-jockery reflected broader shifts in pop culture toward edgier content. With films like American Pie (1999) normalizing gross-out humor, and pro wrestling’s Attitude Era embracing controversy, Opie and Anthony echoed this by critiquing celebrity worship and societal hypocrisies.
Their 2002 firing highlighted tensions between free speech and morality, presaging cancel culture debates. In retrospect, late ’90s shock jock radio bridged analog rebellion to digital disruption. Their legacy endures in podcasts like The Joe Rogan Experience (Rogan has said multiple times that if it weren’t for Anthony Cumia's personal podcast, he would never have started his wildly successful one).
O&A's magic lay in life before the Internet. In June 1998, the duo had been hired by WNEW in New York after a successful (and chaotic) run in Boston at WAAF, which ended with them being released from their contract via an April Fool’s Day prank-gone-wrong that claimed the Mayor of Boston had died in a car accident. Their popularity grew immediately in the afternoon slot in New York, and the station eventually switched to all “guy talk” shows—what was called “hot talk” (a genre I believe is now dead, thanks to political correctness and the Internet).
It was just months after they started in New York that Rich and I were driving around one day when he changed the station, and we laughed the whole way home. They talked like grown men, or what I assumed grown men talked like, since I was 15 and didn't get out much.
I was immediately hooked, but didn't know where to find them when I got home. A few weeks later, on an afternoon after school, I was flipping through the radio stations and fell upon the show again. I even wrote down the station's frequency in my notebook so I wouldn't lose it. When I got my first car, it became the number one preset station.
Over the next several years, I didn’t miss a single episode. I found ways to download the show before streaming even existed, and on my college wifi back in 2002 or 2003, it took all day just to download the previous day's episode.
When they moved to XM, I bought a lifetime subscription that I still use in my truck today.
In the early 2010s, I listened to up to 6 hours a day, catching up on the shows from my laptop on my days off while my wife was at work. There were pre- and post-shows to listen to, and if I wanted to truly stay "in the loop," I was following them all on Twitter all day long. They made you feel part of the show, like "one of the guys."
They'd remember fans' past participation and appreciated our input. At the very least, they did a good job of pretending to enjoy it, anyway. I've talked with both of them using the show's "Instant Feedback" feature, made air a few times, and spoke with Anthony countless times over Twitter over the years. I've met the hosts, the "cast," and several fans at live events and shows, and made several "internet friends" on the old-school message boards and, of course, Twitter.
Were O&A really my friends? No, of course not, don't be silly. But they made me, and millions of other listeners, feel like "part of the show." That was the allure.
When the show fell apart in 2014, I followed the remnants as long as I could, but both "factions" turned to politics, and I began moving on to non-political podcasts once politics consumed every aspect of America.
I still keep up with Opie and Anthony’s antics on social media and occasionally chat with several online friends I made on message boards and Twitter while following O&A and their “sister show,” Ron and Fez.
Going back to 2001, shortly after I discovered the show and was in the groove of listening as much as I could, the show made an announcement. They were teaming up with Vince McMahon for a new television show.
Wait, Vince McMahon of the WWE? I LOVED pro wrestling! It was one of the few things I enjoyed more than talk radio!
But this new television show wasn't going to be a wrestling show. It was... football?
A 2001 "XFL on NBC" Commercial
Football, huh? I always wanted to be a football fan, but I could never get into it as much as I wanted. I went to all my high school’s games, including a great night when my dad and I drove 2 hours for a playoff game my senior year. I had several friends on the team and, even though we lost that game, I'll never forget the drive with Dad.
Dad would watch football on most Sunday afternoons, usually cheering for the Giants, although he never loved football ike he loved hockey. As a kid, I rooted for the Buffalo Bills during their several Super Bowl runs in the early 90s, but nobody where I grew up liked the team, so I decided that, since I liked airplanes, I'd be a Jets "fan."
I'm more of a casual observer than a fan, though. I just never had the energy to be a real fan; I have other things I like, despite my desire to be a "football fan."
In my real job, I'm in Buffalo quite frequently, as often as one or two nights a week, sometimes. I've spent so much time in Buffalo that, much to the chagrin of everyone where I live and those I work with, I'd pick the Bills over the Patriots in a heartbeat. They sure do love their Patriots up here.
In 2001, I got very excited. Two of my favorite worlds, wrestling and shock-jock radio, were about to collide when Vince McMahon announced the creation of the XFL.
The XFL was Vince McMahon’s high-octane alternative to the NFL, debuting February 3, 2001, with the New York/New Jersey Hitmen vs. Las Vegas Outlaws. It blended raw football with wrestling’s theatrical flair. Twenty-five years later, the original XFL remains a fascinating case study in ambition, innovation, and failure.
The Complete First Game of the 2001 XFL Season
The initial iteration of the XFL lasted just one season, drawing massive initial viewership during its first week before ratings cratered in the following weeks. McMahon conceived it in the late ’90s amid wrestling’s “Monday Night War” boom and WWF’s Attitude Era, and, partnering with NBC’s Dick Ebersol, the pair announced the new league in February 2000 as a direct challenge to the NFL.
The XFL was a single-entity league (all teams were centrally owned rather than franchises), with WWF and NBC each investing $50 million in start-up costs.
Games were scheduled for spring to fill the post-Super Bowl void.
Eight teams were placed in major markets: some with NFL teams (New York/New Jersey, Chicago, San Francisco), others with histories of supporting alternatives (Orlando, Memphis, Birmingham, Las Vegas), and Los Angeles (untapped after the Rams left).
With only about 12 months from announcement to kickoff, the preparation for opening day was rushed. This led to criticisms of inadequate planning. McMahon built the entire thing from scratch, including hiring coaches, scouting college teams and players cut from the NFL, developing uniforms and logos, and the like. McMahon emphasized "tougher" football with some entertainment elements after spending time criticizing the NFL as the "No Fun League." McMahon promised "smash-mouth action" with fewer restrictions and rules than the NFL.
The commentators included well-known wrestling personalities such as Jesse Ventura, Jim Ross, and Jerry Lawler. Cheerleaders were encouraged to publicly date players, and broadcasts featured behind-the-scenes access.
The WWF's fingerprints were everywhere, blurring the line between sport and entertainment.
Despite insisting on legitimacy, the "fake" wrestling stigma lingered all season long. The league took over $70 million in losses and folded at the conclusion of the first season.
McMahon's insistence on differentiating itself from the NFL led to several new rules. While keeping the 11-on-11 format, he introduced a few innovations to increase pace, scoring, and physicality.
An opening "scramble" replaced the coin toss, which resulted in several injuries during the season, most notably Orlando’s Hassan Shamsid-Deen, who separated his shoulder in week one. There were no extra-point kicks after a touchdown, and teams either ran or passed from the 2-yard line for the extra point. There were expanded extra-point options in the playoffs that required plays starting further back.
The league opted to use college football's overtime rules, where teams alternated possessions in a sudden-death, no-tie format.
Defensive backs could "bump and run" beyond the NFL's 5-yard limit (this was restricted after Week 4 due to poor passing). There were no fair catches on punts, penalties for out-of-bounds kicks, a 35-second play clock, and other minor rule changes that all aimed for aggressive gameplay but caused chaos, forcing tweaks as the season went on.
The XFL also famously allowed, and encouraged, players to wear nicknames on the back of their jerseys instead of traditional last names. This bold gimmick defined the league's rebellious, over-the-top, wrestling-adjacent personality under McMahon. This led toa variety of colorful monikers, like "Deathblow," "E-Rupt," "Big Daddy," and "Hit Squad."
The most iconic and enduring name was "He Hate Me," worn by Rod Smart of the Las Vegas Outlaws. His jersey became the best-selling jersey in XFL history, and the nickname remains one of the most memorable elements of the short-lived league.
However, no aspect captured the edgy ethos like the XFL Gameday pregame show, hosted by none other than shock jocks Opie and Anthony.
Broadcast from the "WWF New York" restaurant in Times Square, the program was designed to hype that weekend's games. It mixed legitimate analysis from sportscaster Bruce Beck and coach Rusty Tillman with O&A’s crude, irreverent humor, a perfect fit for the league's blend of wrestling and football.
The show's format was chaotic, with several comedy bits interrupted briefly by a mention of on-field action. Beck and Tillman broke down matchups and stats, but O&A dominated the show with risqué antics that mocked the NFL, hyped up the XFL's rule changes, and fixated on the cheerleaders instead of the athletes.
A Nearly Complete Episode of XFL GameDay
As usually happened with O&A, it didn't take long for controversy to hit. Critics called it "gratuitously vulgar," and journalists like the New York Post's Phil Mushnick highlighted Bruce Beck's evident discomfort being around the shock jocks. Beck later distanced himself from participating in what he called the “abyss” of indecency.
Behind the scenes, personal clashes between Opie and NBC management spilled on air, forcing NBC producers to add "guardrails" after the first episode. This further frustrated Opie, who felt disrespected. Anthony was more practical, often quoted years later, saying, "I was just happy to be on TV!"
One of the More Memorable Moments in XFL GameDay History
The debut of the pregame show and the star power of Opie and Anthony built up a huge debut for the XFL. O&A’s irreverence appealed to Attitude Era wrestling fans and young men, including their already massive radio fanbase across the country, looking for something different from the “No Fun League," and they (and the XFL) were rewarded with a 9.5 Nielsen rating and a total of 14 million viewers for the opening game, with the largest television audience centered in the New York area. It is reported that at one point, 54 million viewers tuned in for at least a minute or two to see the pregame show and the first day of action on both NBC and UPN.
By the end of week four, the television ratings had crashed 70% to around a 3.1 rating, or roughly 6 million viewers.
The Opie and Anthony pregame show, XFL Gameday, became the league's scapegoat. McMahon publicly disavowed the show, calling it "just horrible" and saying he would never have allowed it to air "had he previewed it."
XFL Gameday was cancelled after week four, but the bottom had already fallen out of the league. Fans saw the on-field product and tuned out. Ratings continued to plummet to a low of 1.5 Nielsen ratings, or approximately 1.7 million viewers, by season’s end.
The pregame show only highlighted the rest of the league's woes. Rushed preparation, sloppy play, multiple injuries, and misplaced priorities (the spectacle over athletic substance) were the real takeaways from watching any of the gameplay.
A XFL GameDay Segment with Anthony Full Of NSFW Innuendo
For O&A fans like me, it was pure entertainment, though. Opie’s energy and Anthony’s sarcasm made memorable TV, roasting the NFL's “sissy” rules while praising the XFL's physicality.
The pregame fiasco symbolized the XFL’s bold but misguided fusion of sports and shock jockery. Twenty-five years on, the original XFL endures as a cautionary tale of ambition in sports, rooted in McMahon’s ego, wrestling success, and a craving for edgier content and community among young men, but ultimately failing under poor execution and backlash.
The XFL has been revived twice since.
The revival of the XFL began in 2017, when Vince McMahon, inspired by the ESPN 30 for 30 documentary on the XFL's original 2001 failure, seriously considered bringing it back. Forming Alpha Entertainment (separate from the WWE), he sold significant shares of WWE stock to fund the venture and announced the return of the XFL in 2018. This version aimed to be more professional and less gimmicky than the 2001 iteration, while hoping to make gameplay faster and more family-friendly, and non-political, than the NFL (no national anthem kneeling protests and restrictions on players with criminal records).
The inaugural season was set for 2020 and aimed to learn from recent issues with the NFL and the failed Alliance of American Football (AAF) league, avoiding direct market overlaps where possible. The 2020 season launched on February 8 to positive feedback for its speed and rule innovations, but was abruptly halted after five weeks due to the COVID-19 pandemic. The season was canceled on March 12 after one player tested positive, and the league filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy on April 13.
In August 2020, it was sold to a consortium led by Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, his ex-wife/business partner Dany Garcia, and RedBird Capital Partners. New ownership planned a 2022 return (delayed to 2023 after failed merger talks with the CFL) and restructured the league, adding new teams and relocating others. They even signed a major Disney/ESPN broadcast deal. The season kicked off to generally positive reviews in 2023, although TV ratings were low. Facing financial pressure, the XFL merged with the USFL in late 2023, forming the United Football League (UFL).
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