The Daughter of a Mad Dog

My father is a millionaire. You need only a smart phone and wifi to know that. A quick Google search with keywords “Mad Dog” and “net worth” yields a number with six zeros.

I’ll let you finish typing in the search bar.

For the record, I didn’t know he was worth twenty-two million either. I’m both an intimate benefactor and unwitting spectator of my father’s livelihood.

If this is old news, congratulations. He’s not exactly shy about his earnings.

On Howard Stern last Fall, he admitted to making ten thousand dollars per appearance on ESPN’s First Take. This was shortly before he agreed to wear a bikini in Times Square and hold a sign claiming he’s a “liar and a dope” after reneging his initial promise to “retire on the spot” if the Diamondbacks won the World Series.

He did neither. And for that, I’m unspeakably grateful.

I ask him if he’s worth twenty-two million dollars. He says it’s too high. Whoever edits www.celebritynetworth.com, please revise. While you’re at it, add me to the Wikipedia. Twenty-three years and not a single Wikipedian line to prove it.

Given my father’s excessive candor, you’d be surprised that I, his only daughter, found out his net worth on Google, too. His wealth, in addition to his fame, have always been public enterprises.

I was born ten years into a hugely successful sports radio host career. He was being recognized before I was even a blip on his radar. He was the Mad Dog before he was my father.

There were the years with Mike Francesa on WFAN, the strain of a partnership shielded from me. There were the years at Sirius XM, where his voice reigned above all. And there are the years, nearly forty-years into his career, where my father is experiencing a renaissance as a recurring guest on ESPN’s First Take with Stephen A. Smith and Molly Qerim. His fame and wealth seem only to grow. At sixty-four–when most folks retire–my father is cresting a new height.