The War for Late Night_ When Leno Went Early and Television Went Crazy - Bill Carter [181]
Finally Glaser, way at the opposite end of the table, looked to where Conan was sitting and asked him, “What do you want to do?”
His chest muscles were so constricted, Conan wondered briefly if he was having a heart attack. “What I want to do,” he said, haltingly, his voice rough and raw, “is something that all of you are going to tell me I can’t do.”
He had their full attention now, all eyes pinned to him. “I want to write a statement that says exactly how I feel about it. You guys are going to tell me that I’m giving up all my leverage if I’m supposed to go to another network or something; but I can’t wait. I don’t want to play games here, and the whole power of this thing is that I don’t really know what my options are. That’s what I want to do.”
During the long pause that followed, Conan was aware of the eyes on him, the uneasiness around the table. He expected that the next words he would hear would be, “That’s stupid.” Instead, Glaser, calm, totally in control, asked, “What would you say?”
All his life, Conan O’Brien had lived through periods of debilitating self-doubt and insecurity, knowing that when the moment came to stand up for himself, when he was truly pressed against a wall, he would find a way to push all that aside, straighten his long Irish backbone, and be at his best. He started to speak and a boiling lava of emotion spilled out.
He described how much the show meant to him, the legacy of Carson, the offers he had passed up to get this chance, and how losing it would be crushing—and unfair. Because they were never really given a chance, not with complete lack of ratings support from prime time and the obvious lack of faith on the part of a network pulling the plug only seven months in.
The words came freely; he composed them on the spot. But they flowed, syntax perfect, no hesitation between each sentence. His voice grew softer, even more strained with emotion when he got to the core of his message: He could not accept a postponement in a nightly habit Americans had participated in and shared for six decades; he would not be accomplice to the destruction that this idea of NBCʹs might inflict on the greatest franchise in television history. Not to mention the fallout on the other great NBC late-night showcase, the show David Letterman had created and Conan himself had devoted so much of his life to sustaining. If it truly came to this, if NBC would truly force him to decide whether to give up his dream or play a role in undermining a cultural landmark, then maybe it would be better for him to try to find someplace else to work, someplace that prized the art of late-night television more than NBC now apparently did.
When Conan finished, his group sat silent. Jeff Ross, his eyes welling up, looked around and saw no dry eyes on the Conan team. Throughout Conan’s speech Ross had found himself overcome with discomfort, thinking, They’re never going to let you do this—so stop. Don’t finish this. But he knew Conan, and the powerful way he could use words. So he was not surprised at the impact he had on the room.
Patty Glaser finally broke the silence. “I like it,” she said. And then she added, “If you do one thing for me, Conan, don’t quit. But I like this as a statement.” She paused again, then said definitively, “Let’s do it.”
Her quick assent was the last thing Conan expected to hear, but it stunned—and disconcerted—Jeff Ross, who still quaked at the obvious implications if Conan ever went public with those sentiments.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “Really? We’re gonna do this?”
“Why not?” Glaser said. “It’s from his heart. It’s what he feels.” She turned back to Conan. “Why don’t you write it, and we’ll look at it.”
That was all Conan needed to hear. He stood up, ready to leave; Ross put up a hand.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “I love