A Veteran With No Legs Waited 4 Hours to Meet Dean Martin – What Dean Did Got Him Fired From NBC

The security guard was getting impatient.  He had told the man in the wheelchair to leave three times already, but the man wouldn’t move.  He just sat there, outside the NBC studios in Burbank,  his empty pant legs folded neatly beneath him, holding a photograph in his trembling hands.  A photograph of Dean Martin torn from a magazine, wrinkled from being held too many times.

 Four hours.  The man had been sitting there for four hours in the California sun,  refusing water, refusing to leave,  refusing to accept that Dean Martin wasn’t going to come out  to meet some random crippled guy off the street.  What the guard didn’t know, what nobody knew yet,  was that in less than 30 minutes,  Dean Martin would walk through those studio doors,  see that man in the wheelchair,  and do something that would cost him his television show, his NBC contract, and nearly  destroy his career. And he wouldn’t hesitate for a single second. It was October 1969,

 and America was tearing itself apart over Vietnam. Every night the news showed body counts,  protests, flag-draped coffins. The  country was divided in ways it hadn’t been since the Civil War. Caught in the middle  were the men who had actually fought.

 The soldiers who came home to a nation that didn’t  know whether to thank them or spit on them. Most of Hollywood stayed silent on the war.  It was too controversial. Too dangerous for careers built on broad appeal.  Dean Martin was no exception.  He wasn’t political.  He didn’t make speeches or attend rallies.  He just sang his songs, told his jokes, and gave America an hour of escape every Thursday night on the Dean Martin Show.

 But on October 23, 1969, the war came to Dean Martin whether he wanted it or not.  The man in the wheelchair  was named Thomas Andrew Riley. Tommy to his friends, Sergeant Riley to the men who had  served under him. He was 24 years old, though he looked older now. The war had aged him.  The pain had aged him.

 Six months earlier, Tommy had been leading a patrol through the jungle near Da Nang when  they walked into an ambush.  He remembered the explosion, the feeling of flying through the air, the strange sensation  of looking down and seeing nothing where his legs used to be.  He remembered screaming.  He remembered the medic’s face, pale and terrified, trying to stop the bleeding.  He remembered thinking, very clearly, that he was  going to die in this jungle 10,000 miles from home and nobody would ever know what happened to him.

 But Tommy didn’t die. He woke up in a field hospital, then a military hospital in Japan,  then Walter Reed in Washington. He spent four months learning how to live without legs,  learning how to transfer from bed to wheelchair, learning how to live without legs. Learning how to transfer from bed to wheelchair.

 Learning how to look at himself in the mirror without crying. Learning how to accept that the  life he had planned, the future he had imagined, was gone forever. He was 24 years old and he would  never walk again. Never dance at his wedding. Never chase his children around a backyard.  Never be the man he was  supposed to be.

 The one thing that got Tommy through those dark months was music, specifically, Dean  Martin.  His mother had sent him a small transistor radio, and every night in the hospital, Tommy  would tune in to whatever station was playing oldies.  Whenever Dean Martin came on, whenever that warm, easy voice started singing about amore or memories  or standing on a corner watching all the girls go by, Tommy felt something loosen in his chest.

 For three minutes, he wasn’t a broken soldier in a hospital bed. He was just a guy listening to a  song. And that was enough. That was everything. When Tommy was finally discharged, he went home  to Bakersfield, California.  Home to a mother who couldn’t stop crying and a father who couldn’t look him in the  eye.

 Home to friends who didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing at all.  Home to a fiancée who tried to pretend everything was the same, but couldn’t hide the pity  in her eyes.  She left him three weeks later.  Said she couldn’t do this.  Couldn’t spend her life with half a man.  Tommy didn’t blame her. He wasn’t sure he could spend his life with half a man either.

 The idea to meet Dean Martin came to him one sleepless night. He was lying in bed staring  at the ceiling, listening to Everybody Loves Somebody on his radio, and he thought,  I should thank him. I should tell him what his music meant to me.  I should let him know that when everything else was dark,  his voice was the one light I could hold on to.

 It was a crazy idea.  Dean Martin was a huge star.  He didn’t meet random fans,  especially not disabled veterans who would probably just make him uncomfortable.  But Tommy couldn’t shake the thought. It became an  obsession, a mission, the one thing he had to do before he could figure out what came next.He saved money for three months.

 He took a Greyhound bus from Bakersfield to Los Angeles,  his wheelchair stored in the luggage compartment below. He found the NBC studios in Burbank and  positioned himself outside the main entrance at 7 AM on a  Thursday the day the Dean Martin show taped. And he waited. The first hour wasn’t bad. The morning  was cool, and Tommy was used to waiting. He had waited in jungles, in foxholes, in hospital beds.

 The second hour was harder. The sun climbed higher, and the heat started to build. People walked past him, some  glancing curiously, most ignoring him entirely. Nobody asked if he needed help. Nobody asked why  he was there. He was invisible in his wheelchair, just another piece of sidewalk furniture.

 By the third hour, the security guard had noticed him. The guard was a heavyset man in his fifties,  hour the security guard had noticed him. The guard was a heavyset man in his 50s,  the kind of guy who took his small authority very seriously. He approached Tommy with his hands on his belt. You can’t loiter here, buddy. This is private property.

 I’m waiting for Dean  Martin. I just want to meet him. Shake his hand. It’ll only take a minute. The guard laughed.  Yeah, you and everybody else. Mr. Martin doesn’t meet with fans.  You need to leave. I’m not leaving. I came all the way from Bakersfield. I just need one minute.  I don’t care if you came from the moon. Move along before I call the cops. Tommy didn’t move.

 Something inside him refused to give up. He had come too far. He had survived too much.  He wasn’t going to let some rent-a-cop take this away from him. The guard called for backup.  Two more security officers came out.  Younger guys who looked embarrassed to be hassling a man in a wheelchair with no legs.

 They tried reasoning with Tommy.  They tried threatening him.  They offered to take a message to Mr. Martin’s people.  Tommy refused everything.  He would wait. He long as  it took. By the fourth hour, word had spread inside the studio that there was some crazy vet  outside who wouldn’t leave. It became a joke in the production office.

 A nuisance that somebody  should deal with but nobody wanted to handle. Nobody wanted to call the police on a legless  veteran. It would look bad if it got out. So they just let him sit  there hoping he would eventually give up and go away. Dean Martin arrived at the studio at 2 p.m.  for a 4 p.m. taping.

 He came in through the back entrance as usual, avoiding the main doors where  fans sometimes gathered. He was in a good mood. The show was going well. Ratings were strong.  NBC was happy. He went to his dressing room, had some coffee,  reviewed the script for that night’s episode. He didn’t know anything about the man in the  wheelchair. Nobody had told him. Why would they? It wasn’t important. At 3.

15 pm, Dean stepped  outside for a cigarette. He liked to smoke behind the studio, where it was quiet. He was standing there enjoying  the California sunshine when one of the makeup girls came rushing out. Mr. Martin, I’m sorry to  bother you, but I thought you should know. There’s a veteran outside, in a wheelchair.

 He’s been there  for four hours. He just wants to meet you. Security keeps trying to make him leave, but he won’t go.  you. Security keeps trying to make him leave, but he won’t go. Dean took a drag of his cigarette.  A veteran? Yes, sir. From Vietnam, I think. He doesn’t have any legs. Dean was quiet for a moment.

 He thought about his son, Dino, who was currently serving in the California Air National  Guard. He thought about all the boys over there in the jungle, fighting a war that nobody seemed  to understand. He thought about what it must take for a man with no legs to sit outside a TV studio for  four hours just to shake someone’s hand. Where is he? Out front, by the main entrance.

 Dean dropped  his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. Show me. The makeup girl led him through the studio,  past the sets and equipment and  crew members who stared as Dean Martin walked by with a look on his face that  nobody had seen before.  She took him to the front doors, pushed them open, and  pointed to the man in the wheelchair sitting alone on the sidewalk.

 Tommy Riley looked up and saw Dean Martin walking toward him.  For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. The heat, the exhaustion, the  emotion. But then Dean Martin was standing right in front of him, blocking the sun, looking down  at him with those famous eyes. I hear you’ve been waiting for me, Dean said.

 Tommy opened his mouth,  but no words came out. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head.  He had planned exactly what he would say.  But now that it was happening, everything disappeared.  He just sat there, clutching his wrinkled photograph, tears streaming down his face.  Dean knelt down so they were at eye level.

 He didn’t seem to notice the security guards watching, the crew members gathering at the  doors.He just looked at Tommy like he was the only person in the world.  What’s your name, son?  T. Tommy. Tommy Riley. Sergeant Tommy Riley. I was with the 1st Marine Division. Da Nang.  Dean nodded slowly. Thank you for your service, Sergeant Riley. I mean that.

 What you did over there, what you sacrificed, it means everything. I just wanted  to meet you, Tommy managed. Your music, it got me through the hospital. When everything was dark,  when I wanted to give up, I would listen to your songs and I could breathe again.  I know that sounds crazy. It doesn’t sound crazy at all. I came all the way from Bakersfield.

 I just wanted  to shake your hand. To say thank you. That’s all. Dean reached out and took Tommy’s hand.  But he didn’t shake it. He held it. Firmly. Warmly. Like he was holding onto something  precious. Tommy. I want to ask you something. and I want you to be honest with me.  Have you ever been on television?  Tommy let out a confused laugh.

 No, sir, never.  Dean smiled.  Well, that’s about to change.  We’re taping a show in 45 minutes.  I want you to be on it.  I want you to come on stage, sit next to me, and tell America what you just told me.  Can you do that? Tommy stared at him.  You want me on your show? That’s exactly what I want. These people need to see you. They need to hear your story. They need to understand what you boys are going through over there.

 I’m not dressed  for television. I’m just in my regular clothes. And my chair, it’s old, it’s not. Dean waved his hand.  Don’t worry about any of that. You come as you are. That’s the whole point.  He stood up and turned to the security guards who were watching with open mouths.  Gentlemen, this is Sergeant Tommy Riley of the United States Marine Corps. He’s my guest today.

 I want you to treat him like he’s the president of the network. Is that clear? Dean  wheeled Tommy through the studio himself, past the executives who tried to stop him,  past the producers who warned him about liability, past the lawyers who talked about releases and  permissions. Dean ignored all of them.

 This man waited four hours to meet me, Dean said to anyone  who got in his way. He gave his legs for this country. The least I can  do is give him 15 minutes of my show. A senior NBC executive named Howard Caldwell cornered Dean  outside his dressing room. Dean, you can’t do this. The sponsors will go crazy. We have contracts,  obligations. There are procedures for booking guests. Dean looked at him with cold eyes.

 Howard, that man out there lost both his legs fighting for booking guests. Dean looked at him with cold eyes. Howard, that man out there lost  both his legs fighting for this country. He sat outside your studio for four hours in a wheelchair  and not one person in this building had the decency to help him.

 Now I’m putting him on my  show. If you have a problem with that, you can fire me. Dean, be reasonable. I am being reasonable.  In fact, I’m being more reasonable than I’ve  ever been. That kid gave everything he had. What have you given, Howard? What have any  of us given? Caldwell had no answer. At 4 p.m.

, the Dean Martin Show began taping  in front of a live studio audience. The first half hour went according to script. Dean sang  his songs, introduced his guests, traded jokes with the audience.  Everything was normal.  Then, during a commercial break, the stage crew wheeled Tommy Riley onto the set.  The audience fell silent.  They saw the wheelchair.

 They saw the empty pant legs.  They saw the young face that had aged beyond its years.  And they didn’t know how  to react. Dean walked over to Tommy and stood beside him. When the cameras came back on,  he put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder.  Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce you to someone special.

 This is Sergeant Tommy  Riley. He served with the 1st Marine Division in Vietnam. Six months ago, he was leading  his men through the jungle when he stepped on a landmine.  He lost both of his legs. He’s 24 years old. The audience was completely silent. Tommy came to the  studio today because he wanted to meet me.

 He sat outside for four hours in his wheelchair,  in the sun, because nobody would let him in. He came all the way from Bakersfield just to shake my hand and say thank you. Dean paused, his voice catching slightly. But I’m the one who should be saying thank you.  I’m the one who should be sitting outside his door waiting for a chance to shake his hand.

 He turned to Tommy. Sergeant Riley, I want you to tell these good people what you told me.  About the music. About getting through the hospital.  Tommy looked at the audience.  At the cameras.  At the millions of Americans who would see this.  And he found his voice.  When I was lying in that hospital bed, I wanted to die.

 I’m not going to lie about that.  I looked at what was left of my body and I couldn’t see any reason to keep going.  I was 24 years old and my life was over. He paused, gathering himself. But every night Iwould turn on my radio and I would hear Mr. Martin singing.

 And for a few minutes I wasn’t in that  hospital. I wasn’t in pain. I was just a guy listening to a song. And somehow, that was enough  to get me through one more night. And then one more. And  that. Tommy looked at Dean, tears streaming down his face. I don’t know if I’m going to be okay.  I don’t know what my life is going to look like. But I know that I’m alive.

 And part of the reason  I’m alive is because of this man’s music. So I came here today to say thank you. Not just from me,  but from all the guys over there who are listening to the same songs, holding on to the same hope,  trying to make it through one more night. The audience erupted. Not applause, not cheers,  but something deeper. Some people were crying. Some were standing.

 Some were sitting in stunned  silence, confronted with the reality of a  war that had seemed so distant. Dean sat down next to Tommy. You know what I think? I think America  needs to hear more stories like yours. I think we’ve been so busy arguing about whether this war  is right or wrong that we’ve forgotten about the men who are actually fighting it.

 He looked  directly into the camera. I’m not going to tell you what to think about the war.  That’s not my job.  But I am going to tell you what to think about men like Tommy Riley.  These boys are heroes, every single one of them.  And if we can’t agree on anything else in this country, we should at least agree on that.

 The segment ran for 18 minutes.  Unscripted, unplanned, unprecedented.  When the taping ended, the studio audience gave Tommy a five-minute standing ovation.  The fallout was immediate.  Before the show even aired, NBC executives were in emergency meetings.  Sponsors were threatening to pull advertising.

 Howard Caldwell came to Dean’s dressing room with an ultimatum.  The sponsors  want the segment cut. If we air it as is, we lose three major advertisers. Millions of dollars,  Dean. Dean poured himself a drink. So cut it. Caldwell looked relieved. You agree? I didn’t  say that. I said you can cut it. But if you do, I walk. Tonight.

 And I’ll hold a press conference  tomorrow morning explaining exactly why. You can’t do that. You have a contract. So sue me.  Dean set down his glass. Howard. That kid lost his legs for this country. He sat outside your  studio for four hours and nobody helped him.

 And you want to cut his story because it might cost you some advertising revenue?  It’s not that simple.  Actually, it is.  It’s exactly that simple.  You either air the segment, or I’m done.  Not just with this show.  With NBC.  With television.  I’ll go back to Vegas and sing in casinos for the rest of my life.  The segment aired.  Every second of it.  Thousands of letters poured into NBC,  most praising Dean for giving voice to the forgotten veterans of Vietnam.

 Newspapers ran stories about Tommy Riley and his four-hour wait.  For a moment, it seemed like Dean had done something important.  But sponsors don’t forget.  And neither do networks.  Over the next six months, Dean’s relationship with NBC deteriorated.  Budget cuts were made to his show.  Guest bookings became harder.

 The message was clear.  Dean Martin had crossed a line.  In March 1970, NBC informed Dean that his contract would not be renewed.  The official reason was creative  differences. The real reason was Tommy Riley and those 18 unscripted minutes. Dean didn’t fight it.  Fine, he said. I was getting bored anyway. But he never forgot Tommy Riley.

 And Tommy never  forgot him. They stayed in touch over the years. Dean helped Tommy get into a  vocational program, paid for his apartment when money was tight, called him every Christmas  without fail. When Tommy got married in 1975 to a nurse he had met at the VA hospital,  Dean flew to Bakersfield for the wedding. He sang at the reception. He danced with Tommy’s mother.

 He gave a toast that made everyone cry.  I’ve sung for presidents, Dean said, raising his glass. I’ve performed for kings and queens  and movie stars. But nothing I’ve ever done means as much to me as being here today, watching  this man marry the love of his life. Tommy Riley taught me something important.

 He taught  me that courage isn’t about not being afraid. It’s about being  afraid and showing up anyway. It’s about sitting outside a TV studio for four hours when everyone  tells you to leave. It’s about believing that your story matters. Even when the world tries  to convince you it doesn’t. He looked at Tommy, sitting in his wheelchair next to his bride.

 You matter, Tommy. You always did. And I’m proud to call you  my friend. When Dean Martin died on Christmas Day 1995, Tommy Riley was one of the last people he  called. The conversation was brief. Dean was weak, his voice barely a whisper. That day at the studio,  Dean said, when I walked outside and saw you sitting there, that was one of the best daysof my life. Not because I did anything special, but because you reminded me why any of this matters.

 The music, the shows, all of it. It matters because it can reach people.  It can help them through the darkness. You taught me that, Tommy. Tommy couldn’t speak.  He just held phone and cried. Take care of yourself, Sergeant,  Dean said, and don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do something. You just sit there and wait.

 Eventually, they’ll have to open the door. Dean Martin died the next morning. Tommy Riley lived  for another 23 years, passing away in 2018 at the age of 73. He had three children, seven grandchildren, and a life  that he had once thought was impossible.

 At his funeral, his eldest son read a letter that Tommy  had written years earlier. I was 24 years old when I lost my legs. I was ready to give up.  I had no hope, no future, no reason to keep fighting. And then a man I had never met walked out  of a television studio, knelt down beside my wheelchair and treated me like I mattered.  Dean Martin saved my life that day. Not because he put me on his show.

 Not because he got  fired for standing up for me. But because he saw me. He really saw me. In a world that  wanted me to disappear he made me visible.  The letter ended.  If you remember nothing else about my life, remember this.  Dean Martin asked me one question that day outside the studio.  He asked, what’s your name, son?  That’s all it takes.

 That’s all any of us need.  Someone to stop, look us in the eye, and ask our name. Dean Martin did that for me.  Now it’s your turn.  Find someone who’s waiting.  Find someone who’s invisible.  And ask them their name.  That’s the Dean Martin story that matters.  Not the songs, not the movies, not the Rat Pack mythology.

 But the man who walked out of a studio, knelt beside a wheelchair,  and asked a simple question. What’s your name, son? That’s all it took. That’s all it ever takes.