Protégé

by Thomas Greco, Publisher

I have never been comfortable with the word protégé. I always thought it was a little demeaning.

But if you actually look it up, the word is defined as “a person who is guided and supported by an older and more experienced, or influential person.” Maybe I never understood it because I never thought of myself as such an “influential person” that would satisfy that definition. I also thought if someone called me their protégé, I probably would have rolled my eyes.

But isn’t a protégé really the other side of the word “mentor”? And whaddaya know, the actual definition of a mentor is “an experienced and trusted adviser who provides guidance, support, and advice to someone less experienced, often referred to as a mentee or protégé.” Aha!

So what does this word salad mean? Well, as you get older, you tend to look back. In doing so, I think I’ve had several people who I would call my mentors. People like John Maxman, Ron Mucklow and George Petrask, to name a few. There have been many others who absolutely did the things mentors do but they were more like peers than mentors. I am confident (or should I say, egotistical?) enough to think that I have been blessed to have three protégés in my career. (They may think differently, but this is my column so…) I’m pretty sure the last two know who they are. Let me tell you about the first.

John Maxman gave me my first break in the publishing business when he hired me in 1984. I was 24 years old and was named editor of a magazine called The Adjuster. By the time I was 26, I was the editorial director overseeing eight magazines (including New Jersey Automotive). I needed help, so Maxman gave me the go ahead to hire an assistant editor. At the time, we were located in Succasunna, so I interviewed a few locals when this six-foot-two-inch kid from Lodi walked in the room. My first thought was, “Wow, I wonder if this kid can help our Nutley recreation basketball team.”

His name was Rob Terhune. He had just graduated from Glassboro State College (now Rowan College of New Jersey) and wanted to be a writer. I went over his résumé with him, read some brief samples of his work and then popped the magic question:

“Do you play basketball?”

He laughed and told me that he played a little. By little, he meant four years of high school and three years of college. I hired him on the spot.

Rob was not only a basketball talent, he was a great all-around athlete. And he was an excellent writer. In fact, some of you may remember him. Over the years he wrote dozens of articles and covered many events for this very magazine.

Ron and I spent endless hours discussing sports (his passion was Duke basketball), music (he was a Rolling Stones/Springsteen fanatic), the girls in the office, hot dogs, you name it. He and I clicked like old friends. Like long lost cousins. Like an older brother and a younger brother. You might even say like mentor and protégé.

When I left Maxco in 1988, as soon as I got on my feet with Greco Publishing, I stole Rob. We spent the next two years together in my leaky basement home office, building my company. We had so many crazy times – like driving to Dallas for NACE. That’s a trip I will never forget. We got pulled over by state troopers in Arkansas for speeding. Two Italian Yankees far from home and “My Cousin Vinny” had just come out. We were scared to death.

We drove through the mountains of Tennessee and realized that Knoxville had the most gorgeous go-go-girls we had ever seen (even though the one we loved the most turned out to be from Jersey!). We planned to stop by Graceland (Elvis’ home) in Memphis for just an hour. We stayed 24 hours and missed the first half of NACE. It was worth it!

The only championships we ever won in recreation sports were because of Rob. My basketball question paid off when he hit a 75-foot shot to win the men’s league championship for us in 1992. He also hit the shit out of the ball and led us to a softball championship.

My favorite memory was when my German Shepherd Pepper pulled a stunt on him. Rob used to eat his lunch upstairs in our tiny kitchen. Usually sandwiches from home. Pepper used to sit there and watch him eat. One day, Rob went upstairs to eat and he accidentally left the door open. Pepper ran outside when he wasn’t supposed to. Rob ran after him, and of course Pepper hid, snuck back into the house and ate Rob’s sandwich. I can still see the look on Rob’s face when he came back downstairs. Priceless.

Unfortunately, Greco Publishing hit upon hard times and I had to let Rob go. I certainly didn’t want to. With one kid and another on the way, I just couldn’t afford to pay him. Of course Rob took it in stride. Never got mad. Never got angry. Just said “no problem.”

It turned out to be the best thing for him. He became a teacher and a championship-winning coach at Lodi High School. We lost touch during those years, though. I don’t know why. There were no hard feelings, no arguments. Sometimes people just go their separate ways. Once in a while, I had him do some proofreading for us but everything was through email.

I can’t remember what inspired it but shortly after the worst of the pandemic was over, I reached out to him through text and asked if he’d like to go to dinner. We hadn’t seen each other in probably 20 years.

We met up at Harold’s Restaurant in Lyndhurst in October 2021. We sat and reminisced. We caught up with each other’s lives. He didn’t know I had my heart problems. I didn’t know he had a wife. But just by talking, it seemed as if no time had passed at all. When they started to turn off the lights, we knew it was time to go. I told him to let me know when his team played Nutley and I’d go watch him coach.

As always, time gets in the way. We didn’t connect again until July 2023. I was at Hank’s Franks in Lodi, his favorite hot dog place and I texted him to come meet me. He said he’d love to but he had just had his hip replaced. And they discovered he had t-cell lymphoma. The good news was that they caught it early and it was treatable. Before I could even ask anything, he followed up with “How about you?” (That’s Rob. Drop a bomb about his health like it’s nothing and he’s more concerned about me.)

He had started chemo and was in very good spirits. Over the months, I would text him over some playlists and encourage him, asking him if he needed anything. In September, he texted me that he was cancer free, waiting for a stem cell donor and that the prognosis was good. He said they were looking for a match that would give him a new immune system for his cancer-free body. He texted, “Hopefully it’s someone with big muscles, a nice head of hair and a big you know what!” I told him those three requirements certainly ruled me out.

I would check in on him every month or so, seeing if he needed anything. He was still getting chemo in November and it was kicking his ass. “Better days in 2024” he texted. Then we went back to arguing about the latest Stones album.

Rob was back in the hospital in January getting his new stem cells. He texted it was a rocky road but more importantly he asked, “How are things in Nutley and at TGP?” (Of course he would). I asked if I could visit but because of his lack of an immune system, it wasn’t allowed. I sent him some books on the 1986 Celtics and the history of MTV. “Meet you at Rutt’s Hut (my favorite hot dog place) in February” he texted.

In February, the stem cell transplant went well but complications set in. I jokingly told him to hang in there, that we were gearing up for a return to the Nutley men’s basketball league in our 50s and 60s and we needed him. “Count me in! I have a new hip so I’m ready to go!”

When we texted in early March, he was back home. He felt like crap but there was good news. They said there was no evidence of cancer or infection. “Getting stronger little by little.”

Again. Time gets in the way. I got swamped with the NORTHEAST® Automotive Services Show for the next few months and finally got around to texting Rob in May. No reply.

I figured with all he had been through, he just didn’t want to be bothered. I tried a few months later. No reply.

That night I was in bed about to go to sleep when a crazy thought crossed my mind. It was about 4am. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and typed in Google search: “Rob Terhune obituary.” When I saw his photo pop up I lost it. Gut punch.

Rob Terhune died on March 12, 2024. Eleven days after our last texts. He was 58.

My protégé? Nah.

He was my FRIEND.

Want more? Check out the August 2026 issue of New Jersey Automotive!