Pirates of Blank, Prologue

Rated: PG-13 (violence, language)

Set: June 25^th, 1978, directly after the taping of Richard Dawson's final episode.

This is a work of fiction. Match Game 1973-1982 is owned by Fremantle Media. All characters belong to their respective estates.  

“What in the heck was that?”

Richard Dawson glared at Gene Rayburn through dark glasses as he left his panelist's desk. “What was what? I did the show. That's what you all wanted, isn't it?”

“We wanted you to play the damn game!” the host of Match Game growled. “Not sit there like a stone, flipping up answers and doing nothing. This is supposed to be a comedy program!”

“Gene,” the shorter Englishman muttered, “I'm done here. Finished. I've had enough. Goodson should have let me go when I asked two years ago.”

“No!” Gene yelled as everyone began making their way off the stage. “Come back here! I'm still talking to you.” He stepped in front of him. “Richard, you're a good panelist. You're the best we have. You're handsome. You're smart. You can be a literal riot when you want to be. Why are you bailing out on us?”

“All I wanted was my own show. I got that.” Richard pushed past him. “Now, let me go.”

“Richard!” Gene followed him down the hall, past fellow panelists Brett Somers, Charles Nelson Reilly, and Joyce Bulifant. “Richard, just listen! I don't care if you have your own show. I'm glad you do. You deserve it! But while you're on this show, you should be behaving professionally and actually play the game!”

“I'm tired of playing the god-damn game. You play the game.” Richard grabbed the door to the men's dressing room. “Gene, enough. It's nothing against you, or any of you. I've done this for almost six years. I'm bloody tired of it. I have control on Feud. It's doing well in the ratings, better than this show is. You can continue to be the captain of a sinking ship if you want, but I'm bailing out while I can.”

Gene tried to stop him, but he found the door slammed in his face. “Damn it,” he growled as he banged on the door, “come out here and act professional, for once!”

“It seems to me,” commented Brett, “that you're acting less professional than he is right now.” She made a face. “Good riddance. He's been dragging the show down for months. We'll do five times better without his gloomy puss.”

Joyce frowned. “Gene, she's right. I like Richard. I really do. When he's in a good mood, he can be a nice guy, and a lot of fun to be around. He just...hasn't been in a good mood lately. He doesn't laugh or smile or do much of anything. He's not fun to sit next to anymore.”

“I'm of two minds about this.” Charles took off his glasses and wiped them on his scarf. “On one hand, Rich does have a point. They should have let him go when he asked the first time. It wouldn't have been any hardship to Mr. Goodson. On the other hand,” he sighed as he slid his huge lenses back up his nose, “he's behaving like a baby. He could have at least tried to play along, whether he liked it or not. I agree with Brett. He's being a brat, and we're better off without him.”

Dick Martin came up behind them, tugging at his shirt sleeves. “Charlie, did Richard lock you out? I really need to get in there. I told Dolly I'd meet her at a party in Hollywood an hour, and I left my cufflinks in the dressing room.”

A hand in a suit jacket stuck out and dropped a pair of pearly round objects in Dick's hands before popping back in. “Thanks, Rich.” He made a face. “Not to be blunt,” he went on in a softer voice, “but he's been a real prick lately. I know he wanted out, but he's being a jerk about it. Even Betty and Fannie are complaining. He's not the same guy I used to make jokes with on Laugh-In.”

“We've noticed.” Brett made a face. “I'm not worrying about him anymore. I have to drive my sons to their father's house for the weekend. If that undersized Lothario wants to throw a tantrum because he actually has to be here, that's on him.”

“I have kids to pick up, too,” Joyce admitted, “and I promised we'd all go out for ice cream after I got off.” She frowned at the look on Brett's face when she mentioned her ex-husband. “How's things going, Brett? I mean, after your divorce from Jack and everything. I know that was hard on you. My kids go to the same school as your son Adam.”

Brett's face fell. “Yeah, it was rough,” she said, looking at the ground. “If it wasn't for the boys and Leslie, I probably would have run as far away as possible by now. Excuse me,” she muttered. “I really have to get going.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Joyce frowned as the older woman took off down the hall.

Charles sighed. “Let's just say the divorce got very messy. It's the one thing she won't talk about...and you know she's upset when she won't talk about something.” He shrugged. “I told Gary Burghoff I'd meet him at the diner down the street for burgers. He just got back from filming MASH, and we're going to catch up on things. After that, I need to go over the lesson plans for my acting classes tomorrow.” He gently shook Gene's shoulder. “Gene, you can yell until you lose your voice. It's not going to change his mind.”

Richard finally stepped out, straightening his cuffs. “Don't you all have something to do?”

“Rich,” Dick started, “Dolly and I were wondering if you'd like to come to the party we're having tonight. Bring the boys. We're having a pirate theme. It'll be terrific. Dolly knows this great seafood place that can cut crab legs and make them look like swords.”

“Sorry, Dick. I'm too busy with my show. Family Feud's still going strong in the ratings. We'll be filming another all-star special soon.” He flashed the former Laugh-In host a smirk. “I might consider having you on. You could be a part of my crew.”

“Well, we'll see.” Dick shrugged. “I like it here, too. I'm not great at matching, but I enjoy playing the game.”

“Suit yourself,” Richard told him with a shrug. “You know, Gene,” he added with a smirk, “maybe you could appear on one of the All-Star specials we're doing. See how it feels to be under another captain's command.”

“No!” Gene snapped. “I'll never appear on that show, and I'm not taking commands from you! From now on, we are not speaking to each other.” He swore he saw Richard roll his eyes under those tinted sunglasses of his. “Are you sure you're wearing those because you have an eye infection?”

“I've told you all ten times,” the shorter man muttered, “it's nothing against the show or any of you. I've had to wear them on Feud this week, too.”

“I like them,” Joyce squeaked. “If there was only one lens, you'd kind of look like a pirate.”

“Thanks.” He glared at Gene. “Look, stop it. I've wanted my own show for years now. I got what I wanted. On Feud, I'm the one asking the questions. For once in my life, I'm the one everyone's looking up to.”

“I don't know, Rich,” Dick started warily. “I've heard things about the way you're acting on the set. They say you're turning into a real dictator. It's all in fun, you know.”

“Well,” Richard snarled, “maybe it isn't to me! Maybe this means a lot more to me than some game. Maybe it's a chance to finally have some respect from people who mean something. I'm going places, Dick. And right now,” he turned down the hall, “I'm going to ABC Studios to film MY show.”

Dick sighed. “That went well.”

“One of these days,” Charles grumbled, “he's going to figure out that there's a lot more to running a tight ship than just being the captain and giving orders.”

Lorrie Macafferty, the other female panelist on that day's taping, popped her sweet dimpled face in. “Has anyone seen Anson? He was supposed to pick me up, and he hasn't arrived yet. You'd think he would remember where everything is by now. Happy Days films here, too.”

“I'll take you to the parking lot,” Joyce told her gently. “My husband's always late, too. We can find them together.”

Gene was about to go to his own dressing room when he almost ran into their cue card boy Roger Dobowitz. “Sir,” he said quickly, shoving his glasses up his nose, “Mr. Goodman wanted you. Something about today's show and the job you're doing.”

“What does he want now?” Gene groaned. “I don't have the time to admire his new watch. I have to catch a plane home in three hours. I promised Helen we'd have breakfast as soon as I got in and slept off the jet lag.”

“It's not my fault, sir,” Roger stammered nervously as he lead him down the hall and over to the executive building. “It's about the show and the ratings.”

“I'm sorry, Roger.” The older host frowned. “It's nothing on you, but I can't control the ratings. I'm not the one who made that dumb time change. It's the executives at CBS he should be talking to, not me.”

“Well, he'll have to explain it to you himself.” Roger let him in to Goodman's plush office. “See you at the next taping? I hope,” he added under his breath.

Gene nodded, sounding more confident than he felt. “Yeah, Roger. You'll see me.”

“Gene!” Mark Goodson, a slender white-haired gentleman with a deceptively twinkly smile, resided behind an antique pine desk that took up nearly half of the room. Easily three times the size of his dressing room, it had expansive views of Burbank and the surrounding area. “I heard Richard Dawson's last taping went very well. He's going places, that man. Family Feud is a blockbuster! It's the biggest show on daytime TV right now. Too bad we can't get Match Game back on the same level.”

“We're still doing decently in the ratings,” Gene said pointedly. “We're the number two show on daytime TV. That's not bad. And the nighttime syndicated show is still a smash.”

“You were number one in daytime, until that time change.” Mark sighed and pointed to a painting in back of him. “Oh Gene, Gene. How many times have I told you to focus on the game at hand? All that comedy distracts from what the contestants are really there for, which is to play the game and win money. You just need to stand there and let them answer the questions.”

“And I've told you,” Gene reminded him pointedly, “that the game is a rotten format. It's boring. You can't just say 'Name a flavor of pudding' and expect people to be excited. We tried to play it straight twice, when the show first started in 1963, and again when this version began in 1973. In both cases, it almost ended with us off the air. We have to play it as comedy, or we have nothing to play!”

Goodson sighed and swiveled around to the painting behind him. It took up almost the entire length of the back of the room. “Look at this, Gene,” he said wistfully. The painting depicted something out of an Errol Flynn movie, with officers in blue coats with brass buttons fighting swarthy pirates with flamboyant ruffled collars and striped pants and hats with big feathers. “I just picked up this painting at an auction in Beverly Hills last week. Cost me over 200 thou. It's a genuine NC Wyeth. He specialized in pirate artwork.”

He sighed admiringly. “This is the kind of world I almost wish I was born into. Those officers knew how to keep order. They knew the rules, and if you disobeyed, they could use their blades in a gentlemanly duel, not have to send in lawyers and yes-men.”

Gene made a face. “From what I heard, a lot of those pirates were just doing their jobs. A dirty job, mind you, but a job. I'll bet they buried their treasure to keep it from being eaten by taxes and red tape. Most of the stories say government officials were even more corrupt then than they are now. They would have swiped the poor guys' livelihood, and I'll bet some of them did. Or they didn't give them the money they owed their families and the people on land, and they were just trying to make sure they got what was rightfully theirs.”

“Yes, but they stole and murdered and raped for that 'livelihood,'” Mark added. “If they'd been decent sailors who lived by the rules, they wouldn't have died young or made enemies.”

“Or had colorful, exciting lives we're still talking about three centuries later.”

“Gene,” Mark continued, his voice amiable but a bit darker, “all I ask is you tone down the shtick, and tell the others to do so as well. It may be just a game, but these people are here to make money.”

“Mr. Goodson,” Gene said shortly, “you can continue to monitor your shows your way, and I'll continue to host the show in the way I see fit. I don't tell you how to run a business, and you don't tell me how to do my job.”

“Why, Gene?” Mark shook his head. “Why do you always give me trouble? Why can't you be more like the Narz brothers? Or Bill Cullen. He's such a sweet, dear man, and he never acts up or moves around.”

“Metromedia just canceled Concentration. Jack Nartz will be out of work by the fall,” Gene grumbled. “Bill's a ham in his own way, but he can't move around. He has that bad leg. And I'm glad to hear Allen will be doing something again. Betty told me he's been driving her up the rafters since ABC pulled Password three years ago. But Mark,” he went on, “I'm not them. I'm not a professor-type. I'm an actor. Take me as I am or let me be.”

“And I'm your boss.” Mark shook his head. “I can see we're at a standstill here. Just...take what I said into consideration.”

“I'll do that,” Gene tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. “If you'll excuse me, I have to catch a plane in a few hours.”

“Oh, yes. Do that.” Mark had already picked up the phone, his back now turned dismissively on his host. “Give my love to Helen and your little girl Lynne!”

“Uh, yeah, Mr. Goodson,” Gene muttered, “I'll do that.” This probably wasn't the best time to tell him his “little girl” had just gotten out of college and was now working as a commercial artist in New York.

He stomped back to his dressing room, grateful it was empty. Bill Cullen was preparing to tape his new show The Love Experts and wouldn't be in until later. Bill was the nicest guy around, but he did like to talk, and for once, talking wasn't something Gene was in the mood for.

“Telling me how to do job!” Gene grumbled to himself as he undid his tie and threw it in his suitcase. “Where does he get off? Flashing that huge painting! Thinks he's so great because he's in charge. He may understand show business, but he doesn't understand Match Game...or me. Or us. If it were up to him, he'd have us sitting and behaving like good little girls and boys, and that would blow us all out of the water.”

“I need a distraction.” He switched on the tiny portable TV in the corner as he slid into shorts and a striped polo shirt. The bold opening credits of the old pirate movie The Spanish Main flickered into view on local station KCOP. Dashing blonde Paul Henried tried to reason with dastardly Colombian governor Walter Sleazak, only to be sentenced to death. “Isn't that a government official for you?” Gene grumbled as he tugged his suitcase shut. “Never wants to listen. Always think they know best.”

He couldn't help settling down to watch, even as he pulled on his shoes and socks. “That's right, man,” he told the screen firmly when Henreid escaped and became a notorious pirate, “that's the way to do it. Give it to 'em with both barrels.” He grinned as the robust blonde man infiltrated an incoming ship and flirted with fiery Maureen O'Hara. “And get the girl, too.”

“You know, I could have been a pirate,” Gene told the screen. “I was the captain of my fencing team in high school. I'm a good leader...at least, I can keep most people onstage from killing each other...and I know something about sailing. I bet I would have been a great pirate. Yeah,” he said to himself as he leaned back in the swivel chair by the lighted mirrors, “that's the life. Steal your dough, stick it to the boss, and anyone who argued gets keelhauled, or something. Yeah...”

In his mind, the scene grew wavy, fading from a slightly dingy dressing room in Burbank to the blue waters of the Caribbean...