Welcome to the Deep Dive. We dig into the source
material to pull out these, well, often pretty
incredible stories from Hollywood history. And
today we're looking at a career arc that's just,
wow, incredibly fast on the way up and almost
brutally short. We're tracing the life of Jeff
Richards, a name maybe not everyone remembers
instantly, but a guy who rocketed from minor
league baseball to winning a Golden Globe in
less than five years. That's right. It's an astonishingly
quick rise. Only to then pretty much vanish.
Just disappear into, well, quiet obscurity almost
right after hitting that peak. It really is a
classic story in a way about the mid -century
Hollywood studio machine, what it could do and
how fast it could shoot people up. Our sources
give us this really detailed picture of Richard
Mansfield Taylor. This was his birth name, of
course. Right. And it tracks him from being this
disciplined WWII vet, then a professional athlete.
You know, someone celebrated for that. Then suddenly
a major movie star in 1954 winning awards and
then finally ending up. living quietly actually
on disability. And that journey, that whole arc
from the absolute height of promise to, well,
total silence professionally, that's what we're
diving into today. It's not just what happened,
but maybe why it happened. Exactly. Why did the
star making machinery, which seemed to work so
perfectly for him initially. fail so spectacularly
in his case. So the basics, just to set the scene.
He was born Richard Mansfield Taylor, November
1st, 1924, up in Portland, Oregon. And he died
July 28th, 1989. He was only 64. Yeah, relatively
young. And his working life, really two distinct
parts. Baseball player, 1946 to 49. Then actor,
starting around 48, going through to 66. And
that pivotal year, the one everything seems to
hinge on, is 1954. That's seven brides for seven
brothers. Absolutely. But that whole shift from
athlete to actor, it's really driven by a couple
of key things, a major physical injury and then
a complete professional rebranding. OK, so let's
start there. Back when he was still Richard Taylor
and his life was all about sports. Right. So
he starts out as Richard Mansfield Taylor. And
when he first dips his toes into acting, he actually
tries using versions of his real name. Dick Taylor,
Richard Taylor. Yeah, the sources mentioned that.
Trying to build his own brand, maybe. Before
the studio got involved. Could be. It's pretty
standard. But it shows maybe an initial attempt
to control. But before even thinking about acting
names, there was the military. Ah, yes. World
War II. He joined the Navy, served right through
until 1946. And you really can't underestimate
how important that was for guys entering Hollywood
right after the war. It gave them this... This
discipline, physical fitness, obviously, but
also this sort of clean -cut, marketable image.
Studios loved that post -war vibe. You kind of
had the look and the bearing down before you
even thought about acting seriously. And he took
that physical foundation straight into pro sports,
didn't he? Straight in. Professional baseball,
playing shortstop from 46 to 49. And this wasn't
just some local league, right? He played for
the Portland Beavers for a year. That's Pacific
Coast League, which was a pretty big deal back
then. Almost major league level for some teams.
Exactly. High level stuff. Then he moved on to
the Salem Senators. So this is crucial context
because so much of his later Hollywood career
was built on him being convincingly athletic.
He wasn't faking it. He was the real deal. He
absolutely was. And there's a great little detail
in the source material about how Hollywood later
used that. When he got his first proper credited
role in Kill the Umpire back in 1950. Right.
The publicity machine made a big point of saying,
hey, this guy played for Salem in the Western
League. They were selling his authenticity. You
know, a town full of people pretending he actually
had been a pro ball player. Which makes the next
part almost tragically ironic, doesn't it? It
really does. Because the very thing that made
him marketable later on his athleticism is what
ended that first career. The injury tore a ligament,
the sources say. Yeah. And it wasn't minor. It
was serious enough that he had to completely
give up professional baseball. Done. Just like
that. Just like that. Which basically forced
him, or at least pushed him very strongly, towards
Hollywood. It's like fate just slammed one door
and shoved him towards another. It's almost too
neat, isn't it? Like a movie plot itself. It
really is. And think about the shift mentally.
He's coming from this world of sports clear rules.
You succeed or fail based on performance. Yeah.
Hit the ball, run the bases. Measurable. Exactly.
And suddenly he's thrown into the much more subjective,
unpredictable world of casting calls and screen
tests, all because his body let him down in that
first career. And as you hinted, that initial
physical vulnerability, it seems like it might
come back later in the story. It really hangs
over the whole narrative. We'll definitely circle
back to that. But for now, yeah, he's injured.
His baseball dream is over and he's heading to
Hollywood looking for. Well, something else.
Okay, so he gets to Hollywood around 1948, 1950,
still using his real name, Richard Taylor, and
it sounds like it was a real grind at first.
Oh, absolutely. The sources paint a picture of
him just hustling, scrambling for anything he
could get. Mostly these uncredited bit parts,
you know, blink and you miss in roles. And he
was setting up all the major studios, wasn't
he? Warner Brothers. Yep, Warner Bros. He pops
up uncredited in films like The Big Punch, Johnny
Belinda, even Fighter Squadron. Although apparently
his scenes got cut from that one. Ouch. A taste
of Hollywood reality right there. Definitely.
And then things like the girl from Jones Beach.
So, real mix of stuff. Then over at 20th Century
Fox, too. Same story. Little uncredited bits
in Mothers of Freshmen. Cheaper by the dozen.
It wasn't about artistic expression at this point,
you know. It was about getting seen. Getting
experience on camera, learning the ropes, probably
waiting tables on the side, just sheer persistence.
But eventually someone noticed that athletic
background again, right? Exactly. His first credited
role finally comes in 1950. Columbia Pictures,
Kill the Empire. And what role do they give him?
Bob Landon, a baseball player. Typecasting, but
in a good way for him at this stage. Totally.
It's like Hollywood suddenly went, oh, wait a
minute. This guy isn't just another handsome
face. He actually looks and moves like an athlete
because he was one. And that's the moment the
biggest player in town takes notice. MGM. That
seems to be the trigger. Metro -Goldwyn -Mayer
offers him a screen test. They like what they
see. They sign him. And then, bam, the studio
machine kicks into high gear. The name change.
Instantly. Richard Taylor. Too plain. Dick Taylor.
Too informal, maybe. They decide he needs something
stronger, something more marketable. And he becomes
Jeff Richards. It really underlines the power
they had, doesn't it? They weren't just employing
him. They were creating a product. Absolutely.
It was a total branding exercise. His name, his
image, his career path, it was all being designed
and managed by MGM now. He was essentially studio
property. They saw this clean -cut, athletic,
kind of wholesome American ideal. Yeah. Perfect
for the 50s. and they gave him the name to match.
So, new name, big studio contract. But it wasn't
overnight stardom, was it? No, no. MGM was strategic.
They didn't just throw him into the deep end.
They kept building momentum, using him in small
parts, often uncredited again even after signing
him. Still leveraging that physique, probably.
Definitely. You see him in things like The Strip,
The Tall Target, The People Against O 'Hara,
even the huge Hollywood film The Bad and the
Beautiful. He's in there somewhere, uncredited.
They're testing the waters. Grooming him. Precisely.
And then you start to see the progression. He
gets a credited part, again, as a baseball player,
in Angels in the Outfield. Makes sense. Stick
with what works. Right. And then... slightly
bigger parts, more visible roles in Battle Circus
in Code 2, where he played a character named
Harry Wenlon. You can almost feel the studio
thinking, OK, OK, he's getting there. We're finding
the right spot for him. And there were signs
even earlier that they had big plans, right?
Mention of him being considered for a specific
role. Yeah, that's a fascinating detail. Apparently,
as early as 1951, he was being seriously considered
to play Frank Marywell. Wow, Frank Marywell,
the fictional all -American Yale athlete. That's
iconic. Exactly. A hugely popular, squeaky -clean
literary hero known for sports and adventure.
If MGM was thinking of him for that, it shows
massive confidence. They saw him as potential
leading man material, embodying that perfect
American archetype. It really was like a signal
flare, wasn't it? Like, get ready, Jeff Richards
is coming. It totally was. The grind was paying
off, the rebranding was complete, and the stage
was absolutely set for his big moment. Okay,
so 1954 rolls around. He's done the groundwork.
MGM believes in him. What were the first signs
things were really taking off? Well, early in
54, he gets a couple of really solid roles. Third
billing, again, as a ballplayer in Big Leaguer.
Playing Adam Polachek. Still playing baseball
players. Still playing baseball players. They
really leaned into that. And another decent part
in a film called Seagulls Over Sorrento. These
weren't leads, but they were significant steps
up, proving he could handle more screen time,
hold his own. Kind of like the final audition
before the main event. Exactly. And then came
the main event, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,
1954. This was the one. This was absolutely the
one. And he wasn't just one of the brothers buried
in the ensemble. He was Benjamin Pondopy. That's
the third lead, right after the big stars, Howard
Keel and Jane Powell. A major role in a massive
film. Huge. You really can't overstate how big
Seven Brides was. It was this giant, colorful,
energetic musical that just exploded at the box
office. MGM needed a hit like that, and they
got it. And it made him instantly recognizable,
didn't it? Overnight. The film was a phenomenon,
critically and commercially. Audiences loved
it. And Jeff Richards, as one of the main brothers,
was suddenly a familiar face worldwide. His name
was out there. And the industry recognition followed
pretty quickly, too. The Golden Globe. Yep. The
very next year, 1955, he wins the Golden Globe
for most promising newcomer male. Actually, he
tied. Oh, who is? He shared it with George Nader
and Joe Adams, two other actors the industry
was betting on at the time. So this wasn't just
some minor award. It was the Hollywood foreign
press basically saying these guys are the future.
Official stamp of approval marked for stardom.
Absolutely. And this wasn't just critics talking.
The studio brass were fully committed. We've
got that quote from Dore Sherry, the head of
MGM at the time. Right. What did he say? Sherry,
who was under huge pressure, by the way, to find
new stars as the old guard was aging or leaving.
He said Richards had, quote, tremendous personal
charm and looks like a great bet to become a
star based on his reception till now. Wow. A
great bet. That's strong language from the studio
head. It's huge. You have to understand the context.
MGM's dominance was starting to slip. Television
was hitting hard. The old studio model was cracking.
Scary desperately needed new bankable leading
men who didn't cost a fortune like the Gables
and Tracys. So when he calls Richards a great
bet, it's not just praise. It's a statement of
financial strategy. Exactly. He's basically announcing,
we think we found one of our answers. This guy
is going to be a pillar for MGM going forward.
They saw him potentially filling that athletic,
charming, maybe Rock Hudson -esque kind of role.
The hype must have been immense around him then.
Oh, deafening. Golden Globe winner, studio chief
backing him publicly. MGM was ready to pour resources
into making Jeff Richards the next big thing.
It sounds like the absolute pinnacle. He'd arrived.
He had. But as we often see in these stories,
sometimes the moment you reach the peak is exactly
when the ground starts to crumble beneath you.
Okay, so the hype is real. MGM is all in. What
happens next? They need to capitalize, right?
Find him starring roles. That was the plan. But
right away, you start to see some... Well, some
wobbles. The studio seems a bit unsure exactly
what to do with him. They start announcing him
for projects. Big projects. Yeah. He's announced
as the star of something called O 'Kelly's Eclipse.
Never happened. Vanished. Okay. Then, significantly,
he's announced for Forbidden Planet. Wow, the
sci -fi classic. That would have been huge. Huge.
A major effects -driven, genre -defining film.
But he's not in the final movie. He was announced,
then gone. Why? Any idea? Did the part change
or did they get cold feet about him in the sci
-fi? It's hard to say for sure from the sources.
Could be the role evolved. Could be the studio
thought, maybe let's stick to what we know. They
might have been hesitant to risk him in something
so different from the athletic, outdoorsy type
they'd built him as. Interesting. So uncertainty
already creeping in. Seems like it. And there
was another one mentioned, Bar Sinister. He was
supposed to star in that alongside Roger Moore,
who was also on the ride. Roger Moore, okay.
Yeah. But again, that film just didn't get made.
It fell through. So you have this pattern. Announcement,
excitement, then nothing. That's got to be frustrating
for an actor. But it really points to the studio
maybe not having a clear, confident plan for
him, doesn't it? Despite Sherry's big talk. I
think that's exactly right. They knew they had
a hot commodity after Seven Brides, but they
seemed unsure how to package it for sustained
success. They needed a guaranteed hit for him
right after that breakout, and they seemed hesitant
to pull the trigger on these specific projects.
But they couldn't just wait around. The momentum
from Seven Brides would fade. Precisely. So they
shifted gears and fast -tracked him into lead
or starring roles between 1955 and 1956. This
was it. Put up or shut up time. Can Jeff Richards
carry a movie? What were the films? Well, first,
a pretty solid supporting role in a Clark Gable
film, Many Rivers to Cross. Okay, good exposure.
But then came the big tests. First, a Western,
The Marauders, in 1955. He's the hero, Corey
Everett. opposite the great villain actor Dan
Duria. Okay, playing the hero in a Western. Makes
sense for his type. Then they tried to show his
range. Lead role in a comedy. It's a Doc's Life,
also 55. Playing a character named Patch McGill.
A comedy lead. Okay, stretching him a bit. And
finally, back to musicals. But this time as one
of the main male leads in the big -budget all
-star remake, The Opposite Sex in 56. playing
Buck Winston. Western hero, comedy lead, musical
lead. They really threw him into different genres
to see what would stick. Serious investment from
MGM. Absolutely. They weren't messing around.
They needed this to work. They needed him to
become a reliable box office draw. Disaster.
This is the crux of the whole story. The brutal
financial reality. Those three films where he
had the starring or major co -starring role.
The Marauders. It's a dog's life. And the opposite
sex. Every single one of them. lost money for
the studio. Wow. All three. All three. And we're
not talking small amounts, especially relative
to their budgets in the mid -50s. It's Dog's
Life is specifically called out in our sources
as a box office flop. The other two also ended
up in the red. Three strikes and you're out,
basically. In the studio system of that era.
Absolutely. Yeah. Especially for a new star they
were trying to build. Remember Doris Sherry's
position? He was already fighting to keep MGM
profitable. He couldn't afford expensive failures
like this. I mean, Sherry's great bet. Didn't
pay off. Not even close. It backfired spectacularly,
and the reaction was swift and decisive. How
did it happen? Did they just stop calling him?
It sounds like it was pretty abrupt. The sources
say MGM began to lose enthusiasm for Richards,
which is probably a classic Hollywood understatement
for they pulled the plug. The enthusiasm vanished
overnight. Pretty much. All that hype, all that
investment, gone. Think about the timeline. He
was the Golden Globe in early 55. By April 1957,
less than three years later, he gets his release
from his MGM contract. That's incredibly fast.
It's stunningly fast. The contract that was supposed
to make him a superstar was suddenly worthless.
He was cut loose, back on his own. So the lesson
here really is charisma, awards, studio backing.
None of it mattered if the films didn't make
money. That's the bottom line, especially in
the increasingly precarious financial climate
of the mid -50s studios. Three consecutive losses.
That was a death sentence for a rising star trajectory
at a major studio. The machine giveth and the
machine taketh away very, very quickly. OK, so
MGM drops him in April 57. What does an actor
do then, especially one who is just being groomed
for major startups? Well, the classic path for
actors whose film career stalled in that era
was television. And that's exactly where Richard's
head. He has to keep working. Pay the bills.
Exactly. So he immediately starts doing TV guest
appearances. Anthology shows are big then. He
pops up in the web in an episode of Alfred Hitchcock's
Suspicion. Yeah. Things like that. Just trying
to stay visible, stay working. It's interesting,
though, because didn't he have one more MGM film
come out right around then? He did, yeah. It's
a slightly odd overlap. He had a minor supporting
role in a comedy called Don't Go Near the Water,
which actually came out in late 1957 and was
a pretty big hit for MGM. So he's technically
still on screen in a successful movie from the
studio that just let him go while he's scrambling
for TV gigs. Strange timing. Very strange. Yeah.
A bit of coda to his MGM period, I guess. But
the future wasn't in supporting roles in their
films anymore. It had to be somewhere else. And
he did land something significant on TV, didn't
he? His own series. He did. That was the next
big attempt to sort of relaunch himself. In 1958,
he gets the title role in an NBC Western series
called Jefferson Drum. Jefferson Drum. Okay,
what was the premise? He played a crusading newspaper
editor in the Old West. Jefferson Drum. had a
young actor named Eugene Martin playing his son.
It sounded promising. Westerns were huge on TV
then. Should have been a good fit for him physically.
You'd think so, wouldn't you? He looked the part.
But the show just didn't catch on. It was canceled
after only 26 episodes, ran across parts of two
seasons, but basically it lasted about a year.
Another failure. That's rough. It's like he couldn't
catch a break after those MGM films flopped.
It really seems that way. It's like Hollywood,
both big screen and small screen, was sending
him a pretty clear message. Whatever that star
quality was in Seven Brides, it wasn't translating
into audiences consistently choosing to watch
him. So after the TV show gets canceled, what's
next? Back to guest spots. Guest spots, yeah.
But also another attempt at finding stability
in films, this time with an independent production
company. In 1959, he stars in a sort of B -movie
adventure film called Island of Lost Women. Okay,
maybe not high art, but it's a lead role. And
off the back of that, he signs what sounds like
a lifeline, a five -year contract with a company
called Jaguar Productions. Five years? That sounds
significant. It sounds amazing. The deal was
supposedly for him to make two films per year
for them. That's ten films guaranteed over five
years. For an actor in his position, recently
dropped by a major studio, his TV series canceled.
That kind of multi -picture deal is gold. It
means security, planning, a chance to rebuild.
Okay, so this could be the comeback. A new home
base away from the pressures of MGM. That's what
it looked like on paper. But then comes... the
really crushing detail from the sources. Uh -oh.
Despite signing that five -year, ten -picture
deal with Jaguar Productions, Jeff Richards made
exactly zero further films for them. None. The
whole deal just evaporated. Completely. It never
happened. And that, perhaps more than anything,
shows just how difficult his situation was. Why
would that happen? They signed him. Well, signing
is one thing. Actually, getting the films financed
and distributed is another. It strongly suggests
that even with a contract in place, Jaguar couldn't
secure the funding or distribution needed to
make those films with him in the lead. His track
record, those three MGM flops, must have cast
a really long shadow. Producers, financiers,
distributors, they likely looked at the numbers
and said, nope, too risky, we can't back five
years of films starring this guy. His bankability
was just shot. Wow. So even the escape route
was blocked. That's incredibly tough. It really
paints a picture of an industry closing ranks.
Once you were perceived as box office poison,
it was incredibly hard to get back in, especially
in a leading capacity. So inevitably, it's back
to more television guest work. Pretty much. He
kept working through the early 60s. Shows like
Behind Closed Doors, Alcoa Theater, Adventures
in Paradise, and other popular Western Laramie.
He actually had a pretty memorable guest role
on Rawhide in 1961. Played a character named
Jubal Evans in an episode called Incident of
His Brother's Keeper. Apparently quite a physical
role, showing he still had that presence. But
the film roles, they were drying up. Completely.
His last actual lead role in a feature film was
in 1960, an underwater adventure thing called
The Secret of the Purple Reef. Doesn't sound
like a blockbuster. Probably not. After that,
it was just scraping by with smaller film parts.
Until the very last one. His final screen appearance
ever was a small role in a 1966 Western called
Waco, playing a character named Callan. 1966,
so he would have been, what, 42? Exactly, just
42 years old. And his acting career, the one
that had burned so brightly just a decade earlier,
was completely over. He just stopped, walked
away. And it's that final act, the complete contrast
to the Hollywood life that's maybe the most startling
part of the story. Yeah, and it's interesting
how the turbulence of his career peak seemed
to spill over into his personal life around the
same time. The marriages. Exactly. He had two
very short -lived marriages right in the middle
of that mid-'50s whirlwind. First to Shirley
Sabre in 1954, the year of seven brides. But
they divorced just a year later in 1955. Right
when the Golden Globe win happened and the pressure
was probably mounting. Precisely. Then he immediately
remarries in 1955 to a woman named Vicki Flaxman.
Okay. They did have a child together, a son,
born in 1957. Which, if you think about the timing...
That's the exact year MGM released him from his
contract. The exact year. So, you know, becoming
a father amidst that massive career upheaval.
But that marriage didn't last either. They divorced
in 1959. It really speaks to the immense pressure
he must have been under, doesn't it? The studio
demands, the public image, the financial failures.
Absolutely. Trying to maintain a stable private
life while... Your professional world is first
rocketing up and then crashing down. It must
have been incredibly difficult. It often takes
a toll. And there's a small note about Vicki
Flaxman later marrying another actor. Yeah, just
a small detail. The sources include she later
married Van Williams, who was known for playing
the Green Hornet on TV. Just one of those little
Hollywood connections linking her back to the
world. Richards was about to leave entirely.
And that departure, it was total, wasn't it?
After that last role in Waco in 1966. Completely
total. He didn't just stop getting lead roles.
He stopped acting altogether. He retired. Walked
away from the business entirely at age 42. And
where did he go? What did he do? He deliberately
got out of the Hollywood orbit, moved away, ended
up in San Bernardino County. And this is where
the contrast becomes just... incredibly stark.
The source material is very clear about his final
decades. He lived in a trailer park. And for
the rest of his life, he collected disability
payments. From Golden Globe winner MGM's Great
Bet to living in a trailer park on disability.
That's... Quite a fall. It's staggering, isn't
it? And it forces us to connect the dots right
back to the beginning of his story. The baseball
injury. Exactly. Here's a man whose entire public
persona, both as an athlete and then as an actor
in westerns and action roles, was defined by
his physicality, his athletic build. Right. He
was always the strong, capable type on screen.
And yet he ends his public life at 42 needing
permanent disability assistance. The shift is
just profound. From the bright lights of Hollywood
premieres to the quiet isolation of a trailer
park. unable to work. It really emphasizes how
fragile a career built on physical typecasting
can be, doesn't it? It does. And while our sources
don't specify the exact medical condition that
led to the disability. You can't help but wonder.
You absolutely have to wonder about that original
ligament tear. Was it something that caused degenerative
issues later on? Did the years of stunt work,
riding horses, doing action sequences for films
like The Marauders or even his TV work? Did that
exacerbate the old injury or cause new ones?
Could the very thing that made him a viable actor,
his willingness to do physical roles have contributed
to his early retirement? It seems entirely plausible,
doesn't it? The body that was his ticket into
acting after his baseball career ended might
have ultimately been the reason his acting career
also had to end prematurely. He basically traded
one physically demanding career that broke down
for another, possibly accelerating the damage.
So he had this incredibly brief, intense peak
as an actor, maybe three or four years in the
spotlight. Sandwiched between two careers, potentially
cut short by physical limitations. And then he
just lived out the last 23 years of his life
in complete obscurity. Wow. Yeah. He died quietly
July 28, 1989, age 64. The cause was listed as
acute respiratory failure. He's buried at Riverside
National Cemetery. A very quiet end to a life
that had for a brief moment been incredibly public
and full of Hollywood promise. Hashtag hashtag
outro. So wrapping up this deep dive on Jeff
Richards. It's just such a powerful story, isn't
it? More than just a biography. It feels like
a case study in just how volatile that mid -century
Hollywood system could be. Absolutely. You've
got this incredibly compressed timeline. That
window from, say, 1954 with Seven Brides to 1957
when he's released by MGM. It contains the entire
rise and fall. Yeah, from pro athlete to breakthrough
star, Golden Globe winner, and then bam, immediate
collapse. Driven almost entirely by those three
films losing money back to back. It's a brutal
illustration of the gap between Hollywood hype,
the most promising newcomer buzz, and the cold,
hard reality of career sustainability back then.
Dore Sherry, the studio head, might have seen
tremendous personal charm, but when the box office
receipts came in red... Charm became irrelevant
very quickly. The financial losses were immediate,
the studio's loss of enthusiasm was total, and
the plug was pulled. Talent. Promise. None of
it mattered against the bottom line. And that
financial failure clearly had long -lasting consequences,
didn't it? Even when he tried to rebuild independently.
Oh, yeah. That Jaguar Productions deal falling
through is maybe the clearest sign. Signing a
five -year contract meant nothing because nobody
was willing to actually finance films with him
anymore. He was tagged as a flop, and that label
just stuck, forcing him out of the industry so
young. Which brings us back. inevitably to that
final lingering question we know the money problems
killed his mgm career but what about his physical
health exactly that's the provocative thought
isn't it we started with the baseball injury
that pushed him into acting we ended with him
living on disability after retiring from acting
at just 42. so the question you're left with
is how much did the physical demands of the very
roles he was typecast in the Westerns, the action,
the stuff that relied on his athletic look. How
much did that contribute to the physical breakdown
that led to the disability and the early retirement?
Did the industry not only break his bankability,
but also, inadvertently or not, contribute to
breaking him physically? It adds another layer
of tragedy, doesn't it? suggests maybe a synergy
between the career failure and the physical decline?
We can't know for sure, but looking at the whole
arc, it's hard not to wonder. A really potent
question to leave our listeners with.