700 Sundays (4 page)

“So we get to San Francisco. I’ve never been there before. It’s beautiful there. But you know something? There are a lot of gay people there. I mean, a lot. It’s like Starbucks, they’re on every corner.

“So we go to the City Hall there. They’re being married by a justice of the peace . . . No. A man . . . And all of their friends are there. Lovely women I have to say. Lovely women. Olivia teaches third grade . . . Of course they let her. It’s not contagious, Reba.

“Then, during the service, they say these vows, which they wrote to each other. Reba, they were so beautiful. How they met, when they fell in love, what they want for the rest of their lives. They were so loving. I couldn’t believe it. It was—it was wonderful. I had a tear in my eye. But then at the end of the service they— No. No, darling. They don’t step on a glass and scream ‘l’chaim,’ no. This is not a Jewish service. This is a lesbiterian service . . . But then at the very, very end of the service, they kissed. I mean a real boy-and-girl kiss.

“So after I came to, we go to the reception. Olivia’s parents throw the reception, at a beautiful ranch that they own out in a place called Napa. Her father does very well. He’s got a lot of money. He makes knockoffs of costume jewelry. All of their friends made all the food . . . No caterer. They made the food themselves. Let me tell you something, Reba. Best food I’ve had at any affair. You may not agree with their lifestyle, Reba, but these lesbians can cook. I had a short rib on a bed of Condoleezza Rice that was so delicious . . . the meat fell away from the bone. It was— Why? What did I say? What did I say? I said basmati rice . . . I didn’t . . . ? I said Condoleezza . . . ? I said Condoleezza . . . ? Well, she’s been on my mind.

“But then the head of the trio made this announcement to everybody at the reception: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the dance floor for the very, very first time as a married couple, Julie and Olivia.’ Okay. Guess what they dance to . . . ? ‘Sunrise, Sunset’! I plotzed. I couldn’t believe it, Reba. There’s my daughter dancing with her wus-band to that song. I looked at Leonard and that baboon tuchis face is filling up with blood, his eyes are bulging out of his head. He’s so mad he stands up and he walks right out . . . onto the dance floor. He came up behind Julie. She didn’t see him coming. He taps her on the shoulder. She turned around, saw that face and said, ‘What is it, Daddy?’ And he said to her, ‘May I have this dance?’ And he bowed . . .

“No, I’m here, I’m getting emotional . . . They start dancing. First a box step. Then another box step. Then he starts whirling her around and twirling her around. Because you know Leonard. He’s fat, but he’s so light on his feet. Oh Reba, the sight of them dancing and smiling after all of those hard years . . . I tell you, Reba, I just—I got reminded about how much I love this fat, little bald guy who tips eleven percent. So I got up and I danced with Olivia! . . . You bet your ass I did. And then I danced with her mother too. And then her father danced with Leonard! And before you know it, we were all in a lesbian hora.

“Reba, the sight of Leonard dancing with all of those lesbians . . . if there was a tape of him for nineteen dollars, I would have bought it. You know something? It was the greatest wedding I’ve ever been to in my life. I’m telling you, we’re on cloud twelve, you can see nine from there. You know, it’s just unbelievable. We’re just so happy . . .

“What do you mean does it count? Of course it counts. It was in the City Hall by a justice of the peace. It’s official. She said, ‘I love you,’ she said ‘I love you.’ They kissed and we had cake. To me, that’s a wedding . . .

“Reba, you can’t tell me my daughter’s wedding wasn’t a wedding, you didn’t hear the vows. They love each other, the same way you love your Herbie . . . You can’t tell me that’s not a wedding . . . Hello . . . ? Hello . . . ? Reba, I’m losing you . . . I’m losing you. Reba?”

She turns to see she’s standing in front of the picture of Leonard’s mother . . .

“IT’S A FUCKING WEDDING YOU SAD SACK OF SHIT! AND IT FUCKING COUNTS!

“Hello . . . ? Oh, there you are. I was afraid I lost you . . . No. I was just saying how happy we are for them. But listen, there’s more. Congratulate me and I’ll tell you why . . . Just congratulate me and I’ll tell you why because I’m bursting with the news . . . We are going to be grandparents! . . . Yeah. They called today. They adopted a baby together. A girl . . .

“What? No it’s not a lesbian, she’s eight days old! Give her time. What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t step on my happiness. They’re getting her next week, isn’t that something? A little brown-skinned, black-haired Cambodian baby named Tiffany . . .

“Reba, you’re crying . . . Reba, why are you crying? Tell me . . . Oh, that’s so sweet. Now we won’t be the only barren grandparents in our cul-de-sac . . . No. I love you, too . . . You know I do . . . I love you. You love me. Far Rockaway High School forever . . . Now you got me crying too. Reba, you know what it is? Maybe it’s not what you dreamt about. It’s not what you thought would ever happen when they first hand them to you after they’re born. You know?

“Sometimes things work out different than you want for your kids. But you know what . . . ? It is what I wanted, because she’s happy. That’s it, and that’s all, as long as they’re happy, and they’re
so happy, I mean, who’s hurting who here? Who’s hurting who?

“Okay. Listen, we’re going out to dinner to celebrate the baby. Do you want to come . . . ? I know it’s two in the afternoon but it’s dinnertime. It’s Boca . . .

“Oh, you already ate? . . . Reba you’re not mad, are you . . . ? Told you . . . Goodbye.

“Hey, Grandpa? Get the goddamn car!”

CHAPTER 5

M
ay 30, 1956. Dad takes us to our first game at Yankee Stadium.

We were in Nellie driving under the elevated subway of Jerome Avenue, and the sun was playing peek-a-boo with the railroad tracks. We pulled into the parking lot. We got out and I said, “Where’s the field, Pop?”

He pointed to the stadium. “There.”

I said, “In that building?”

He said, “Yeah. Come on, guys. Let’s go. Hurry up. Come on. Let’s go.”

I held on to the back of Dad’s sport jacket, and we ran to the stadium with my brothers behind me. And as we got closer to the stadium, we got more excited. “Tickets, please. Yearbooks here. Programs. Tickets, please. Hey, there you go, sir.”

The ticket taker rubbed my head: “Enjoy the game, little man.”

I’m in the concourse of the stadium now. Men in white shirts and ties on their way to a hot Memorial Day doubleheader. I’m eight years old, and I grab on to Pop’s hand, as we walk through one of those passageways toward the field. It was so dark, you couldn’t see anything, but you could smell it. The smell of hot dogs and beer, mustard, relish, and pickles embedded in the concrete ever since the days that the great Babe Ruth had played there.

And then suddenly, we were there. The enormous stadium, the blue sky with billowing clouds that God hung like paintings looming over its triple decks, which in turn hovered over an emerald ocean. The people in the bleachers, seemingly miles away, would be watching the same game we would be. The three monuments sitting out there in deep center field, three granite slabs with brass plaques on them for Lou Gehrig, Miller Huggins and The Babe, and I thought they were actually buried in the outfield. The players in the classic pinstripe uniform, the interlocking NY over their hearts, running, throwing, laughing with each other, as if they were knights on a mystical field.

Dad took out his eight-millimeter camera to take movies so that we would never forget. But how could you? How green the grass was, the beautiful infield, the bases sitting out there like huge marshmallows, the Washington Senators in their flannel uniforms warming up on one side, and the Yankees taking batting practice on the field. The first time I heard the crack of the bat. It was so glorious. We had a black and white TV, so this was the first game I ever saw in color. We had Louis Armstrong’s seats that day, and before the game started, Louis had arranged for us to go to the Yankee Clubhouse. Joel had a slipped disc in his back, and Dad had been very worried about him, so Louis got the Yankee trainer, Gus Mauch, to examine Joel’s back. We stood just outside the clubhouse, as Gus worked on Joel’s back, and suddenly Casey Stengel walked out. I blurted out, “Who’s pitching?” Casey didn’t hesitate: “You are kid, suit up!” Someone took my program into the clubhouse, and it came out with several autographs on it, most notably Mickey Mantle’s. I felt like I was holding the Holy Grail. They led us back to our seats, and I was sitting on my knees because I couldn’t see over this rather large priest who was sitting in front of me in his black suit and white collar.

In the fourth inning, Mickey Mantle, Elvis in pinstripes, twenty-five years old, in his Triple Crown summer, batting left-handed, off Pedro Ramos, hit the longest home run without steroids in the history of Yankee Stadium. It went up through the clouds and struck off the facade of the once mighty copper roof. And as the ball ascended the heavens, the priest stood up blocking my vision of my first home run. And all I heard him say, in his Irish accent was, “Holy fucking shit!”

Later, Mickey hit a triple, and he rumbled into third base and pulled himself up like a runaway mustang. And there he was right in front of me, No. 7, in the afternoon sun. Then I knew who I wanted to be. I wanted to be Mickey Mantle. I was eight years old, but I walked like him, with a limp. My bar mitzvah I did with an Oklahoma drawl. “Shemaw Israw-el . . . Today I am a ballplayer.” And that’s all we did, Joel, Rip and I, was play baseball.

That’s all I wanted to be . . . a Yankee. Then on Sundays, Dad would take us out to the Long Beach High School baseball field to teach me how to hit the curveball, which he had mastered. He was a pitcher at Boys High in Brooklyn, and played sandlot ball, and he still had a great curveball. And all summer I couldn’t hit it. As the ball came toward me, I thought it was going to hit me, and I would bail out, and it would break over the plate.

“Bill, don’t be scared up there. Wait on it. Watch it break, and hit it to right. Okay? Wait on it and hit it to right.”

Those summer Sundays belonged to October now. The leaves had changed. We’re in sweaters. World Series weather we used to call it, and I still couldn’t hit his curveball. October became November. “Wait on it.” November became December and we’re still out there. It’s hard to hit a curveball anyway, but curveballs in the snow?

“All right, kid. Come on, Billy. You can do this now.” He blew on his hand to warm it, smoke coming out of his mouth.

He wound up, and as it whistled toward me, Dad whispered loudly, “Wait on it . . .” I watched it curving away through the falling flakes . . . CRACK! The ball sailed into right field and buried itself in the snow. I looked at it in wonder, my red nose running, my hands tingling with excitement. I looked at Dad. He smiled. “Now you’re getting it. Now you’re getting it.”

Rip retrieved it, and threw it to Joel, who tossed it to Dad. “Okay, let’s do it again.” He started his windup and threw me another beauty . . . “Wait on it.” CRACK!

Baseball became a huge part of our lives. Joel, Rip and I would always head out to the mall in front of our house. It was a grassy island in the middle of Park Avenue, about seventy-five yards long, with some trees on it, traffic moving in both directions on either side of it. But to us, it was our stadium. We would always be out there, playing ball. Traffic would slow down to watch us. We’d practice double plays, play “running catch,” which meant you had to throw it over someone’s head so they would have to make a difficult play. Sometimes drivers would honk their horns in appreciation. We would fungo hard grounders at each other, and if you could field a grounder on that mall, you could field anywhere. We always played with a baseball. There was no organized Little League in Long Beach, and the schoolyard games were always on concrete, played with a softball. That’s why those Sunday batting sessions with Dad were so important, because we were playing good old-fashioned hard ball.

I did everything I could to make myself a better player. To practice, I took a golf ball, and my glove, and I would go to our tiny backyard and throw it off the concrete wall of the garage so it came at me at great speeds. I’d catch it, and I’d throw to either side, harder and harder so my reflexes got to be really fast. Then I would move closer. It was like pulling a bullet out of the air. I could catch anything, and I learned not to be afraid of the ball. When I started to play baseball in ninth grade for Long Beach High, no matter how hard a ball was hit to me, I had seen faster.

Imitating players also helped me develop skills. The Yankees had a second baseman named Bobby Richardson, who had great hands, and could get rid of the ball very quickly. I would study him, his feet, his posture, where he held his hands before the pitch, how he made the pivot on the double play, and just as I could imitate my grandfather, the musicians and other relatives, I would “do” Bobby Richardson. Eventually, like a good impersonation, you put yourself into it so it becomes a blend of the best of you and the best of the person you’re imitating. And I became a really good-fielding second baseman and shortstop with my own style.

Just because your dad takes you out and tries to teach you how to play baseball, doesn’t mean you have to like it. I loved it, because he was so patient with us. He loved the simplicity and the beauty of baseball, and because of that we loved it too. I would go on to play and become the captain of our high school team. I also played basketball and soccer for Long Beach High, but baseball was really my sport. All those years playing with Joel and Rip were some of our best times. We weren’t competing for laughs or attention, or having our occasional fights. Baseball was the great equalizer. All we had to do was throw the ball to each other and say, “Nice catch,” or sometimes, nothing at all.

Joel was a graceful player, tall at six foot two, and lean. He played first base and the outfield, and was a strong power hitter. Rip was left handed, so he played outfield and pitched. Rip was a nickname; we’re still not sure how he got it—Richard was his given name—but some claim it was because he loved this player named Rip Ripulski. Others say it was because he kept ripping his pants. Only two years older than I, Rip was a very charismatic kid. He was handsome, a talented musician and singer, great personality, girls loved him. His legacy at school was a tough one to live up to.

He had amazing energy, always walked ahead of us, sometimes by as much as a block, which drove Mom and Dad crazy when we were in Manhattan with its crowded streets. We shared the room in the back, and he could drive me nuts. Too much energy, even for sleep. He’d kick his leg, like a metronome, over and over into the mattress. He’d keep me up, and, I’d yell, “STOP WITH THE LEG,” and he’d be fast asleep, still kicking. Today he’d be on a Ritalin drip. That’s one of the few things we would ever fight about, kicking that damn leg.

Joel, six years older than I, was quieter than Rip, but who wasn’t? Really fast and funny, he always had a great line for any situation. Joel also had a natural ability to draw. Sketching and painting came easy to him. When Mom and Dad would be out together, he would invent games for us to play. He took his first baseman’s glove, a plastic golf ball, and Mom’s three iron. He’d sit in a chair, in one corner of the living room, and Rip and I would take turns hitting the ball at him, as if we were hockey players, and Joel was the goalie. You would get ten shots “on goal,” and then we would rotate. The one who saved the most shots was the winner. Our hallway became a bowling alley, complete with minature pins. He made a small basketball hoop, like those Nerf ones that are so popular now, which we would hook over his bedroom door, and with a tennis ball, his room became Madison Square Garden. The best game, and one that would become important to us, was “Bird.” This was our version of stickball.

Our little backyard had the same physical layout as Yankee Stadium—short right field, which was where the garage was, and deep left center, which was the back wall of the house. There was a cement patio, which simulated an infield, and a small diamond-shaped patch of grass, ending in a dirt patch, our home plate.

Joel fashioned a strike zone out of some kind of drywall material, and attached it to a painting easel, and that stood at home plate. We used a badminton shuttlecock as a ball, and a Little League bat, and we played a “baseball” game back there, with our own intricate set of rules. If the shuttlecock hit off this window it’s a double, the higher window it’s a home run, et cetera.

And not only did we play, we also “broadcast” the games. I was Red Barber or Mel Allen, two of the greatest Yankee announcers, and we would call the game as we played it. Houses were on top of each other, so the neighborhood would hear the action. We would pick teams. I was always the Yankees, Joel was the St. Louis Cardinals, Rip was the Dodgers. We had a pregame and postgame show in the garage “studio.” Neighbors would call Mom, saying, “I fell asleep, who won the game?”

There was a newsletter, and we even played an “Old-Timers Game,” imitating the former Yankee Greats, playing a few innings as old men. We played night games by taking all the lamps out of the living room, removing the shades and with the use of a few extension cords, placing them around the backyard. We played doubleheaders and, of course, the World Series. Our home was a two-family house. There was a one-bedroom apartment upstairs, where Abe and Estelle Marks lived. They weren’t happy with us.

After all, they lived over Yankee Stadium, Madison Square Garden, and a bowling alley. She was English, and during one of our more spirited “Bird” games, she yelled down to us from her bedroom window (the left field bleachers), “I know it’s the World Series, but Abe just had surgery.”

We played “Bird” until I moved to California. I was twenty-eight years old.

Remember that program Mantle signed in 1956? Well in 1977, I was on
Soap
, playing the first openly homosexual character in a network show, and ABC had me appear on every talk show. I called it the “I’m not really gay tour.” Mickey was a guest on the Dinah Shore show, and I brought the program, and he signed it again, 21 years later. We became good friends, with Mickey sometimes telling me very intimate stories about his life, usually over too many drinks. I always wanted to pick up a phone and call Dad when I was with Mickey. When Mickey died, the night before the funeral, Bob Costas and I spent the night in a Dallas hotel, writing his eulogy, which Bob would so eloquently deliver.

In 1991, the Anti-Defamation League named me the entertainer of the year, and gave me an original seat from Yankee Stadium. It was given to me at the premiere of
City Slickers
. In the film I talk about my “best day” being that first game at the stadium. Mickey signed the seat for me. It reads: “Billy, wish you was still sitting here, and I was still playing.” When Mickey died, I thought my childhood had finally come to an end.