When the Keys Changed Hands
The morning began with a handoff—Peter on assignment, and Dom Genova sliding into the driver’s seat of The Next Steps Show. The familiar hum of WYSL carried something different that day: not just talk, but the kind of conversation that reminds you what America used to sound like—real, direct, and grounded in gratitude.
First up, broadcasting icon Don Alhart, a man whose calm voice has carried Rochester through decades of triumph and t...
When the Keys Changed Hands
The morning began with a handoff—Peter on assignment, and Dom Genova sliding into the driver’s seat of The Next Steps Show. The familiar hum of WYSL carried something different that day: not just talk, but the kind of conversation that reminds you what America used to sound like—real, direct, and grounded in gratitude.
First up, broadcasting icon Don Alhart, a man whose calm voice has carried Rochester through decades of triumph and tragedy. Don spoke about service and discipline—how a few years in the Army Reserve shaped a lifetime of purpose. He talked about that fifth-grade classroom where a teacher built a fake radio booth and unknowingly built a broadcaster. It was a reminder that greatness rarely starts on a stage. It starts in small rooms where kids are taught that hard work and creativity still matter.
Then came Gene Cornish, Rochester’s own Rock & Roll Hall of Famer. From It’s a Beautiful Morning to the halls of Shea Stadium, Gene’s story was pure Americana. A local boy who stood shoulder to shoulder with the Beatles, who went from playing school dances to shaping a generation’s sound. Yet what stuck wasn’t fame—it was loyalty. A man who still calls old friends, still loves his city, still lights up when talking about his father and the taste of a hometown burger. That is the kind of success worth celebrating—the kind that remembers where it came from.
But the tone shifted fast. A clip rolled from Sheriff Grady Judd, the straight-talking lawman from Polk County, Florida. His voice cut through the static like a warning flare: “When you have a breakdown of the rule of law, that’s a slippery slope.” He was talking about Chicago cops ordered not to help their own. Unthinkable once—routine now. Former Monroe County Police Chiefs Association president Jim VanBrederode joined in, frustrated and blunt: politics has no business in patrol cars. Law enforcement is family. You never let family fall. It was a gut check for every listener who’s watched the headlines and wondered how far we’ve fallen.
The show lightened, but never lost its edge. Talk turned to car buying, fine print, and truth in advertising. Dom’s new book—Don’t Be Taken for a Ride—is not just about dealerships; it’s about life. Read the small print. Question what you’re told. Demand honesty. America could use more of that these days.
There were laughs too—“Raccoon Man” tales, ketchup debates, and gentle ribbing between old friends. But even the humor felt like home. The kind of laughter you hear in garages, diners, and back porches—where people still believe in work, faith, and country.
By the end, the mics faded but the message stuck. Veterans, musicians, sheriffs, mechanics—it did not matter who took the mic. They all spoke the same truth: character counts, freedom demands backbone, and America works best when ordinary men refuse to bow to nonsense.
Peter may have handed off the keys, but the engine never stopped running. This was radio the way it was meant to be—honest, human, and wide awake.
