The first time I met former Claims Editor-In-Chief Phil Schreiner was five years ago, when I walked into his office to interview for an entry-level editing position. As I was led into his office, my eyes first landed on a wall covered with Neal Awards, the “Pulitzer” of the business media world. There were 22 plaques in all, and they served as an immediate testament to his 40 years of work in the publishing world.
Phil had a taste for the theatrical, something that became immediately clear when I was introduced to him by HR. His back was to me, a shock of white hair brushed backwards, and an enormous floor-length fur coat lay draped on a desk (the appearance of his raccoon fur coat officially signaled the start of winter at National Underwriter headquarters). He kept this position during the introduction, never turning around until we were left alone and it was time for him to begin the interview. Slowly, deliberately, he spun around in his chair, tenting his fingers in an unintentional homage to The Simpsons' Mr. Burns, until finally turning to give me a once-over by simultaneously staring over the rims of his glasses and down his nose.
His eyes narrowed and his chin came up. Pleasantries were not exchanged. Instead, he barked the first of many imperatives at me: “Spell the word 'accommodate,'” he said. That was part of Phil's signature editing test; if you failed, then you were eliminated from consideration. I was successful, and we moved on to what turned out to be an informal interview. When I left his office, I remembered being excited about the prospect of changing careers and putting my degree to work alongside someone so full of experience and personality.
Throughout the next three years, Phil became more than just my boss — he was a mentor and a friend. He gave me the opportunity to succeed — as well as to fail. He was a gruff man, but it belied a patience to teach and a willingness to embrace new editorial challenges. He told me in my first month that he wanted me to take over the magazine when he retired, and he made every effort to put me through the paces to ensure I was prepared.
Six months into the job, I found myself sitting in a room of about 300 attendees at our annual ACE conference, a show over which the editor of the magazine typically presides. Right before he took the stage, Phil patted me on the knee and whispered, “I've got a little surprise for you.” I'd already come to realize that “surprises” from Phil rarely meant birthday candles or bows. To my horror, he proceeded to the stage, gave a brief welcome, and then called me up so that I could introduce the morning's keynote presenter.
The room was deafeningly silent as I made my way to the podium. I had no script, just a few notes that he hastily shoved at me along with a smirk the Cheshire cat would have envied. I delivered a few lines and exited, taking my place next to him in the crowd. I leaned over and tersely reminded him that most people feared death less than public speaking. The grin once again spread across his face.
That's what it was like to work with Phil. You never knew what to expect. However, the lessons he taught, while sometimes unorthodox in execution, still serve me well. He taught me how to stay prepared and calm under pressure, and most importantly, about selflessness and leadership. His mentorship developed into a bond that I will never forget, and is something for which I will always be grateful.
Phil passed away suddenly last month at the age of 66, just a year and a half after retiring. Three weeks prior, he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and, when we last spoke, I knew that he was scared. But in typical fashion, he was more concerned with what was going on at the magazine and with me. He was a giver until his last breath, and, without him, my life and career would be significantly different. So I'm pouring a glass of Phil's favorite Scotch and offering a final toast to the man to whom I owe so much: Here's to you, Phil. You may be gone, but you couldn't possibly be forgotten.
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