Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (35 page)

That lack of pretension was what made him such a special person, and I’m sure that President Reagan recognized that same quality. I told the group that in the end Pat really was a model for all of us, a man devoted far more to his family than to the craft he had mastered. “He didn’t care what happened to his career,” I said, “as long as everything at home was okay.”

I would like to accept full credit for President Reagan’s generous comment about my “high ideals.” And it is certainly true that for me, my family is the one thing that is most precious in this world. But it’s equally clear to anyone reading this book that I’ve had my share of failings. Still, in the end, we are all more than our failings. No one lives a perfect life, but we are, I hope, judged by our best moments rather than our worst.

The receipt of that award also reminded me again of the enormous power of television. The many years on
Mama
and
Eight Is Enough
set forth an image to the world that no one could live up to. Still, I was always conscious of that image. I understood that the world saw me in a certain light and that there was something good about that; the presence of a Tom Bradford in American living rooms was ultimately a positive thing. I don’t take credit for it. Credit belongs mostly to people like the real Tom Braden, who lived it and wrote a book about it; Bill Blinn who worked with the book and through his wonderful imagination transformed it into a television show, and Fred Silverman who had the wisdom to see the attraction of something so wholesome at that time in our society.

At the beginning of this book, I mentioned that there is a great distance between a character and the actor who plays that character. That distinction should never be lost. Nevertheless, the actor does have the opportunity to bring some part of himself to the character; to help shape the character. The character in turn can help shape the actor. I’ve never fully lived up to the “high ideals” of Tom Bradford, but he’s always there for me as a model. Cynics often criticize “ideals” as unrealistic. But we create ideals not to achieve them, but to strive for them. Pat O’Brien understood that; so did President Reagan. The receipt of that award was a wonderful moment in my life.

*  *  *

At around the same time, I received a call from Mel Brooks, who was doing another film. It was going to be a spoof of the movie
Star Wars
. By this time, George Lucas had put out two sequels,
The Empire Strikes Back
and
Return of the Jedi
, so
Star Wars
lore had already become a familiar part of American culture. In Mel’s elaborate comedy, I played King Roland of Druidia whose planet is threatened by the planet Spaceball. In an attempt to steal Druidia’s air supply, Spaceball sends Dark Helmet, its evil fleet commander, who takes my daughter, Princess Vespa, hostage. He threatens to give her old nose back if I don’t tell him the secret access code for the planet’s defensive shield.

In one of those great Mel moments, everyone waits with bated breath as I reluctantly give Dark Helmet and his subordinate, Colonel Sandurz, wonderfully played by Rick Moranis and George Wyner, the top-secret code that protects Druidia from all its enemies:

King Roland:
One.

Dark Helmet:
One.

Colonel Sandurz:
One.

King Roland:
Two.

Dark Helmet:
Two.

Colonel Sandurz:
Two.

King Roland:
Three.

Dark Helmet:
Three.

Colonel Sandurz:
Three.

King Roland:
Four.

Dark Helmet:
Four.

Colonel Sandurz:
Four.

King Roland:
Five.

Dark Helmet:
Five.

Dark Helmet pauses. Then looks at me with contempt: “So the combination is…one, two, three, four, five? That’s the stupidest combination I’ve ever heard in my life!”

Some of
Spaceballs’s
critics complained the movie was a few years late. After all, the last of the Stars Wars original trilogy had been released in 1983, four years prior to
Spaceballs
. By then, there had already been a number of
Star Wars
spoofs, and, indeed, the box office numbers at the time were not as good as we had hoped. But time has proven friendly to
Spaceballs
, which turned into a kind of cult classic, extremely popular with kids today even though it’s been over twenty years since its release. In fact, I sometimes meet young people who know of me primarily—or even solely—as Druidia’s King Roland.

*  *  *

In the years after
Eight Is Enough
, I also became further involved in various tennis events, particularly those associated with Nancy Reagan’s campaign against drug abuse. During the Reagan years, Nancy made headlines with her famous, “Just say no,” policy. Some people criticized the First Lady for what they perceived as a simplistic message. But I think they were wrong.

While it’s certainly true that addiction is a complex phenomenon, and for the hard-core drug abuser, getting clean requires more than just will power, Nancy’s message was designed to reach the millions of children who are not junkies but have been tempted to experiment. At that point, the very best advice to those kids is to “Just say no.” No matter how slick and enticing the drug purveyors can make their deadly product, kids need to have engrained in them a zero-tolerance attitude—one strongly reflected in those simple words.

In June of 1987, I had the great fortune to actually run a tennis tournament at the Reagan White House under the auspices of the Nancy Reagan Drug Abuse Fund. It was a terrific event, with a great group of celebrities and politicians, including Tom Selleck, Chris Evert, Dorothy Hamill, John Forsythe, George Shultz and many others. As it turned out, I was partnered with Secretary of State James Baker, who was an excellent player. We made it all the way to the finals. But that’s when our luck ran out as we lost to actress Catherine Oxenberg—who was married to my friend, Bob Evans, for a full nine days in 1998—and the ringer of the foreign dignitaries, Count Wilhelm Wachtmeister, the Swedish Ambassador to the United States. Later Wachtmeister would become a favorite doubles partner of President George H. W. Bush.

And the worst part of losing was that President Reagan and Nancy were there in the stands watching our demise. Anyway, it was great fun and all for a wonderful cause.

*  *  *

Life is full of dreams, and mine as a child wasn’t of stardom on radio, stage, television or in movies; what I really wanted was to be a jockey. I learned to ride horses at an early age, and one of the greatest thrills of my entire life was the day I bought Penetrator, my first horse, back in 1946. I rode constantly throughout the years and became an excellent horseman. I mentioned earlier how I got in trouble when I did my own horse stunts on
Rawhide
.

I was sixty years old in 1989 when ABC asked me to participate in a show called
War of the Stars
. There had been television programs called
Battle of the Stars
that pitted the cast of
Eight Is Enough
against the cast of other shows. These were fun, but they were just quiz or game formats designed to promote the programs. This was different. ABC had lined up a group of celebrities and great athletes, and they wanted to have some actual competition. Obviously the athletes would win, but we were to go all out—which suited me just fine.

The lineup was impressive. They had Milton Berle, who was a great pool player, matched up against the legendary Willie Mosconi—it was Mosconi who, as technical advisor to the film
The Hustler
, taught Paul Newman how to act like a pool shark. Willie even made the most difficult shots for Paul’s great character, Fast Eddie. Jackie Gleason, who played Minnesota Fats, made his own shots. They also had Jack Lemmon set to tee off against Arnold Palmer, Martin Sheen playing basketball against Michael Jordan, and Gabe Kaplan to bowl against the legendary Dick Weber.

Probably because of Vincent’s reputation as a world-class tennis player, they decided I should play a match against the great Bjorn Borg. I remember they were really enthusiastic when they suggested the idea; they were also certain I would share their enthusiasm.

But I’d already played tennis with great players—including my own sons and other tour players at a large number of celebrity tournaments. So they were surprised when I said I really wasn’t interested. But I proposed an alternative: I’d love to run a race against a great jockey. At first, they balked. But I persisted, and after a while they started warming up to the idea. Soon they suggested getting Willie Shoemaker, the all-time great jockey whose loss at Belmont Park on Gallant Man had sent me into the real estate profession. Despite that debacle, I’d always loved to watch Willie race.

I had developed a friendship with Chris McCarron, however, who was fast becoming one of the great jockeys of his generation. I explained to them that Chris was going to be a Hall of Fame Jockey—which he now is—and that he had just won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness in 1987. When they gave me the green light, I called Chris, and he immediately agreed. Finally, I would get the chance to be a real jockey. I only wished my grandfather, Jimmy Vincent, was alive to watch.

The race was held at Hollywood Park. Everything was all set, but on the big day, Marge Everett, the owner of the track, came running out, saying we couldn’t race. It turned out she was unable to get me insured. The insurance company wouldn’t indemnify the track if something happened to me in the starting gate.

Most people think horse racing is dangerous because of the speed and the proximity of the horses to one another. But the most perilous moment is actually just as the horses are coming out of the gate. A few years later there was a tragic accident at the Santa Anita track, the track made famous in the film,
Seabiscuit
, when a jockey, Alvero Pineda, was adjusting his helmet in the stall. His horse reared and threw Pineda upward so he hit his head on the steel top of the starting gate. The blow killed him. Since then the roofs have been changed to rubber. To add to the tragedy, Pineda’s brother, Roberto, also died in a race in Pimlico, Maryland.

Someone suggested we could still do it if I started with the gate open. We all agreed. The cameramen set it up so it appeared as if the gate was closed. Everyone was ready. They gave me a faster horse because at 165 pounds, I was much heavier than Chris who weighed just 110 pounds. He was a real thoroughbred racehorse who was competing in major races at the time. In fact, Chris had ridden my horse a number of times, and it turned out to be a good thing for me that he had. As we waited for the start, Chris said to me: “Dick, when he gets under the finish line, he has a tendency to bear out, and if you’re not expecting it, he’ll throw you. So when you pass the line, take a good hold of him up here, so he doesn’t turn out on you,” pointing to the place on the reins he wanted me to grab.

That was just what I needed to hear: my horse had a mind of his own! My son Nels was terrified as his sixty-year-old father prepared to take off for the full, five furloughs on a real thoroughbred horse in a race against one of the top jockeys in the world.

The bell sounded, and we were off. I’ll never forget those two minutes. My horse ran like the wind. We actually kept even with Chris all the way around the track. When we hit the homestretch, we were neck and neck. For a brief moment I actually thought I might win. But the truly great jockeys, like Chris, know just what to do in a pinch, and Chris pulled it out in a photo finish.

And just as Chris predicted, the moment we crossed the finish line, my horse began bucking violently to the right. Had I been unaware, he would have thrown me. Instead, I pulled up on the reins just as Chris showed me, and the horse immediately straightened out. It’s a good thing Chris warned me, or I would have been splattered all over Hollywood Park.

I’ve always admired jockeys. They really are terrific athletes. Many people think it’s all the horse, but that’s not true. If they’re riding Secretariat or, more recently, Big Brown, or my grandfather’s favorite, Man o’ War, then, naturally, the horse is the key. But a great jockey will almost always beat a lesser jockey who’s on a faster horse.

Several years ago, Tim Conway, who is not only a dear friend but one of the great comic actors, along with Chris McCarron and his wife, Judy, started a charity called the Don MacBeth Fund. It was named after a jockey whom Tim and Chris both admired for the help he had given to other jockeys when they were down on their luck. MacBeth died of cancer in 1987, and the Memorial Fund was immediately begun, helping out injured and disabled jockeys. Unfortunately, accidents happen far too frequently, and often the jockeys don’t have the means to support themselves. There’s a special place in my heart for the courageous athletes who mount a thousand-pound thoroughbred and put themselves on the line day after day.

*  *  *

In 1990, I began my final television show,
WIOU
. This was the sixth straight decade that I took a recurring role in a TV series. I don’t know if that’s a record, but it must be close. In fact, I nearly had it going for seven. My dear friend Joe Urbanczyk, a cameraman on the popular
That ’70s Show
, recommended that since it dealt with the 1970s, they might have a spot for me. It turned out they liked the idea and brought me in to play a recurring role as “Murph” a drinking buddy of Red Foreman, played by Kurtwood Smith. Unfortunately, after appearing in just one episode, I had a stroke and that ended that.