I was a full-fledged member of the CBS news team. However, it would be years before I was truly welcomed as a brother. I found myself bullied often among the more senior staff. In the CBS bathroom, for instance, Mike Wallace would deliberately jerk himself around while finishing a urination, coating my pants with his run-off. Later in our careers, he would explain this had been an accident. Even later than this, I would call him a liar to his face, and he would admit that yes, he had deliberately peed all over my pants. As always, Rather gets the dirt.

Through these were happy times, the goal of immense fame continued to elude my newscaster's grasp. No matter what I tried, I found myself denied that big brass ring of celebrity. Like a dog after a bone, I was willing to crush any rival newscaster who stood in my way. (My ghostwriter informs me that this is a mixed metaphor; I invite my readers to imagine a newscaster dog of some sort to correct the problem.)

Nowadays, of course, they give out reporting jobs to anyone, like Connie Cheung — a woman of limited ability (but also a woman with whom I have had sexual congress, and so worth noting). But back then, I assure you, to be a newscaster meant something. It was like some manner of Greek hero — an Achilles, if you will — slavering after that bone like a dog, willing to crush any rival newscaster, no matter the cost. (My ghostwriter again informs me that I have mixed my metaphors; I would counter with the argument that my readers are intelligent enough to imagine some manner of Greek hero newscaster dog. I hired the woman from a temp agency. Please forgive her limited faith in your abilities.)

I knew I had it in me to succeed. All I needed was a story.

Amazing luck struck in 1963 when President Kennedy was shot several times in the head. I was the reporter to break the news of his death to CBS Radio, and CBS beat every other news organization to the story by more than seventeen minutes. I had gotten my first "scoop". From there on in, it was a never-ending tumbler of success-gravy dousing the mashed potatoes of my life. Wherever you might be, President Kennedy, I salute the bravery and grace with which you approached every moment of your life, save perhaps those last few.