By Clint McElroy
HQ 134 | SUMMER 2026
Did you know that this year Marshall University’s esteemed school of journalism is celebrating its 100th anniversary? Neither did I until Editor Jack Houvouras told me. Anyway, that revelation reminded me of my brief career as a news reporter.
When I enrolled in college, my family assumed I would follow in the footsteps of my older brother David and father Mac McElroy and prepare for a career in radio. But I was a rebel and had no interest in radio. In fact, radio was something I swore I would never do.
Instead, I wanted to be a TV director. Specifically, I wanted to be Roone Arledge, the father of Monday Night Football, calling out camera shots of goal line stands and telling Howard Cosell to stop using six-syllable words.
But then something transformative happened. I ran out of money. I needed a job to pay for my exorbitant lifestyle of dining on Pop-Tarts and reading National Lampoon magazines — and, ironically enough, I was offered a job doing the weekend news on WKEE-FM.
During my interview, I told the news director Gordie Hall two fat lies: one, that I had always dreamed of a career in radio and, two, that I’d specifically dreamed of doing the news.
When it came time to enroll in classes at Marshall for the fall semester, I figured it would be a good idea to take some journalism classes to assist me in my weekend gig. One of those classes, News Reporting 201, included writing for the school newspaper.
Walking into The Parthenon newsroom was a life-changing moment. It was full of energetic and diligent students being guided by experienced professors. It was impossible not to get caught up in the rushing current of it all. I was given the student government beat, sitting in on student council meetings, writing stories on student elections and gaining a true appreciation for journalists. I ended up taking as many journalism classes as I could, mostly to learn what I was screwing up every weekend on WKEE.
During my senior year, the powers that be at the J-School came to their senses and decided to reassign me. But where to put me? They finally settled on an idea that Houvouras would echo 20-odd years later.
“How about a humorous column?”
Most of those early columns are lost in the sands of time, thank God. Some of my columns sparked a wave of angry letters to the editor. There was, for example, the piece I wrote about the Marshall football players who’d sit on a bench outside Hodges Hall and rate the co-eds on a scale of 1-10 as they walked by.
My response to the angry letters was simple: It really happened! Don’t kill the messenger!
The journalism school seemed to like my columns, so I kept on writing. Finally, it came down to my final column before graduation. I was struggling with a bit of writer’s block when my friend Peter Kay suggested I go out and take a bunch of pictures around campus and call it “Clint’s Farewell Tour.” I loved the idea — it meant I wouldn’t have to write much.
The high point was conning my way into the office of school president Robert B. Hayes. He was a terrific man and was kind enough to pose for a picture with me.
“I read your columns and really enjoy them,” he told me.
“Really?” I asked, starry-eyed.
“No, not really,” he replied.
I didn’t ask what he meant — that he didn’t read them or that he didn’t enjoy them. But it didn’t matter. It was good for a laugh.
President Hayes passed away in 2018. I like to think he’s up there somewhere, still not reading my column.
Despite my early proclamations that I’d never go into radio, I ended up working in the medium for 47 years before finally retiring to write comic books, sing, act and yak it up on podcasts.
