One of my favorite stories from the early days is how Ed O’Neill landed the role of Al Bundy. Most actors walk into an audition and try to “perform” the character. They come in with jokes ready, voices prepared, a whole act designed to show off range. Ed didn’t do any of that. He walked through the door of the audition room, paused, let his shoulders slump, released this world-weary sigh, and shuffled in like life had just handed him one more bill he couldn’t pay.

That was it. The producers looked at each other and said, “That’s Al.” He didn’t have to force anything. He just embodied the guy from the moment he entered the room. I’ve heard this story repeated many times by people who were there—and it’s true. Ed O’Neill didn’t audition as an actor pretending to be Al; he walked in as a man who understood him.

The beauty of Ed’s performance is that he never tried to make Al loveable. He didn’t soften him. He didn’t wink at the camera. He didn’t play him as a joke. He played him as someone who was tired, beaten down, sarcastic, and deeply human. That’s why the comedy hit so hard. Because Al wasn’t a cartoon. He wasn’t a parody. He was a guy with a sore back, a thankless job, and a family that demanded more than he had left to give.

People forget how rare that was in the 80s. TV dads were supposed to be wise, nurturing, endlessly patient. Ed smashed that mold in one audition. He gave Al Bundy something no script could teach—honesty. Authenticity. Everyman vulnerability hidden behind insults and eye rolls.

And let me tell you, when we started shooting, that energy never faded. Ed showed up to work with that same deep sigh, that same defeated walk, that same perfect comedic timing. He made Al Bundy iconic before the cameras even rolled.

The role didn’t define Ed. Ed defined the role.