Rehearsals started a few days after that phone call. I learned that Garry Marshall was still casting the role of Richie’s younger sister, Joanie—they didn’t want the girl from the original pilot. I told him that I had just worked with a terrific young actress on a Hallmark movie, Lisa, Bright and Dark, and that she’d be great for the part. He brought Erin Moran in for the callbacks, and she walked away with the role of Joanie Cunningham. Harold Gould, who had played Mr. Cunningham in the first pilot, was unavailable, so Tom Bosley was cast. Don Most had actually screen tested for Potsie (he was half of one of the fourteen other duos the network auditioned when they thought Ron and I might be too old) and they liked him so much they created the role of “Ralph Malph” just for him. One more minor character was added, and it turned out this one would make sure I was employed for the next ten and a half years. Arthur “Fonzie” Fonzarelli was not created to be a regular on the show. The casting came down to two actors: Micky Dolenz, famous from The Monkees, and a short, thin, unknown actor by the name of Henry Winkler.
I’ll tell you a secret . . . Winkler got the part. Henry made the character his own, inventing the thumbs up, the magical knocks on the jukebox, the “not combing his hair because it was already perfect” move that was used during the opening credits, and the world-famous “Heyyyyy!”
Making this pilot was a blast. The entire cast bonded and got along great, and of course we all hoped that the show would take off this time. We didn’t have to wait long; because of the success of American Graffiti and the Broadway musical Grease, ABC was quick to give us the pick-up, and wanted us on the air as soon as possible. When I got the news that the show was green-lighted, I thought back to that day when I almost went home without auditioning. And then I remembered how disappointed I was that the first pilot wasn’t picked up. In both cases, Willie’s advice encouraged me to move forward and keep trying. I am so grateful that I did. If I hadn’t, I never would have experienced the most magical journey of my young life.
Two Pairs of Pants
“Nobody mo’ important cause things dey own or job dey do.”
Happy Days premiered on January 15, 1974, just weeks after we wrapped the pilot. Things took off so fast that Garry and his staff could barely keep up with the writing: We were shooting only two shows ahead of what was airing. The pace was exhausting—we got up when it was dark and got home when it was dark. The sometimes 16-hour workdays on a dusty, old soundstage didn’t leave time for anything else. We had no idea if the show was popular or not. My whole world became bed, shower, car, highway, shoot. And then reverse. One night I was talking with Willie in a dream just before waking up. “Nobody mo’ important cause things dey own or job dey do. Good heart, dat’s what make you mo’ important,” he said to me. It was strange; I’d been so busy I hadn’t thought much about Willie (or anyone else outside of the cast) for a while.
* * *
As soon as we got ahead in our shooting and had some shows “in the can,” the network put together the first Happy Days promotion tour: Henry, Don, Ron, and I were going to spend two weeks traveling to numerous states. Three of us would fly to Dallas together on a 6 a.m. flight; from there on, we would split up, Henry traveling with Don, and Ron (who had a commitment and couldn’t fly to Dallas) with me. Then we would all meet again for an appearance on The Mike Douglas Show in Philadelphia.
We got our first taste of VIP service in Dallas. A very, very long, black, sparkling limo was waiting for us on the tarmac, right next to the plane. Henry, Don, and I felt like the fab three! The limo took us to a fancy hotel where we could quickly shower and get ready for our first appearance, an event at a park amphitheater. The network gave each of us suites with two bathrooms, and even a dining room—it was just crazy and kind of intimidating. I got ready quickly. It wasn’t hard, as I’d only brought two pairs of pants, the ones that I was wearing, and one pair especially for The Mike Douglas Show, along with fourteen shirts and two weeks’ worth of underwear and socks.
As I was leaving my suite, I noticed a housekeeper with a cleaning-supply cart knocking on a door next to mine. As it opened, a small boy ran out. The hallway was airy and fancy, but only had a low wall protecting you from falling ten stories to the lobby. The housekeeper went after the boy and she stopped him before he got to the wall. The kid began screaming for her to let him go just as his mother came out. I watched this richly-dressed young woman as she rudely grabbed her son, walked back to her room, placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle, and closed the door. She did not even say “thank you” to the person that might well have just saved her son’s life.
Tears were in the housekeeper’s eyes as I passed her on my way to the elevator. I could not believe what I had just witnessed. Was this how people with more than two pairs of pants to their name lived? Like they were better than the rest of us?
Back in the limo, Don, Henry, and I were excited about our first appearance together, but weren’t certain anyone would show up. Since it was about a 45-minute drive to the event and none of us had eaten yet, an entire meal of sandwiches, salads, and drinks was set up in the car on a pop-up table. I felt like we had definitely landed in The Twilight Zone.
We knew the amphitheater was located in a large park. As we were driving up to it, we saw a huge crowd a few hundred yards away, and figured that a big concert must be going on. That was sort of strange, we agreed, because it was the middle of the afternoon. Driving up closer, the screams started. They were there for us! At that moment, our lives changed forever. A few weeks before, we were just regular guys fighting to get dates like everyone else. Now we felt like the hottest guys in the country, as hordes of girls literally began sprinting toward our limo. I think the only force more powerful than an atom bomb is an emotionally charged teen girl: They started rocking the limo, and the police had to physically drag them off. It was absolutely surreal.
Finally, with a line of police on both sides, we were rushed out of the limo and almost carried into the back of the theater. It felt like we were doing a remake of The Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night; that, or a Fellini movie. None of us had ever experienced anything like it before. And we had no idea that it was only a short preview of what was to happen to each of us on a regular basis.
The police slammed the theater door shut, and all was silent within—that was as disconcerting as the pandemonium outside. The theater staff put wireless mikes on each of us. It turned out that the event was a women’s fashion show, and that we were to go on stage to speak with the audience, the largest crowd in the amphitheater’s history. We got the cue to go. Walking out, we could feel the energy of over thirty thousand women who had attended just to get a glimpse of us. As soon as the audience caught sight of us, the screaming rose to a furious pitch. Lines of police were down front to protect us from girls rushing the stage. The three of us just stood there, dumbfounded, not really knowing what to do. Finally, Henry did a double thumbs up, “Heyyyyyy!”
That place exploded into decibels that reached fainting levels. Taking it all in, I turned to Henry and said, “I think we’re going to get lucky.”
Soon, we were back in the limo and returning to the hotel. The police had taken us out a different way to avoid the screaming throng. All of us were absolutely numb from the experience; we knew that life adjustments would be coming fast and furious. Henry had the best line, “And I thought that my bar mitzvah was exciting.”
Personally, I wasn’t sure if what we had just lived through was exciting or terrifying. But yes, it was definitely better than my own bar mitzvah.
When we got back to the hotel, we all went to our rooms to rest before dinner. I found the door to my suite ajar. I stepped in to my room and a thirteen-year-old girl with braces accosted me. “I love you!” she screamed.
Startled, I didn’t know what to say. She grabbed me in a hug that was stronger than the Jaws of Life. Gently prying her off, I said, “You have to go.”
&n
bsp; “No!” she responded, and went in for another monster hug.
Side-stepping her, I said, “You can’t be in here.”
Looking around, she said, “Do you have a picture?”
“I don’t, but if you give me your address I’ll send you one.”
“No!” she screamed. “I’ll only leave if I have something to prove that I met you in person!”
I noticed the monogrammed hotel towels. “What if I give you a towel?”
This seemed to pique her interest. “One from your bathroom?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
She mulled this over for a moment and then said, “Only if you used it.”
“I did.”
“You have to sign it.” Pulling out a red Sharpie from her pocket, she insisted, “Has to be in red.”
“Deal,” I replied.
I grabbed a damp towel from the open bathroom, and signed my very first autograph, one that I’d never forget. The girl grabbed it, gave me one more rib-crushing hug, and rushed out. I rested and then freshened up for dinner. I kept thinking, “I am a household name. Wow!”
I left my room to meet the others for dinner, feeling important. As I walked down the hallway, I noticed the same housekeeper who had helped the young boy earlier. She was having trouble getting supplies from her cart, so I stopped to help. She gave me the most genuine, beautiful smile, before getting back to work. It became so clear to me that, between us, she was the real star and, equally important, she was an unselfish, giving person who cared about others first. And then I thought of that dream I had about Willie. “Nobody mo’ important cause things dey own or job dey do. Good heart, dat’s what make you mo’ important.” I made up my mind, then and there, that no matter how strange being famous became, I would always be as generous and giving to others as possible. Even when they wanted me to sign dirty towels.
In case you were wondering, by the time I got to Philly, my pants were standing up by themselves. I threw them away, and wore The Mike Douglas Show pair home.
Singing to a Bulldog
“You gotta gift, gotta use it right.”
My entrepreneurial adventures started at the age of nine. My dad had created original cartoon characters on stationery while he was in college. He never did anything with them though, and a large, dusty box sat stored in our small garage. Every night at home, all I ever heard was my parents arguing about money. We didn’t have much and my mom wouldn’t work. She felt that she needed to be at home with me. I felt that she needed to go to work; felt it, didn’t say it.
One summer morning, as I was getting my bike from the garage, I noticed the grubby box and, Bam! It all came together. I would take my dad’s cartoon stationery and sell it door-to-door! I would “make money” and “make everything fine.” I told my mom that I was going to my friend Jeff Schredder’s house—he lived two doors down. Instead, I cleaned up that box of “Looney Letters” and I loaded it on my old wagon. That night at dinner, I proudly placed over ten dollars on the table. When asked where I got it, I told them the story. I actually thought I saw a hint of pride in my parents’ faces, even though they said to never, ever do that again. The money didn’t stop my parents’ arguments, but it did make me realize that I had a talent for knowing how to sell things.
Years later, while working with Willie, I was helping to take refrigerators with freezer compartments out of their shipping boxes so that they could be brought onto the appliance sales floor. All of the brochures we unpacked stated that new technology prevented ice from forming on the sides of the freezer compartment. I said to Willie, “They should have a big, red sign that says ‘Freezes Food, Not Your Freezer.’ Bet they’d sell a bunch more.”
Willie stopped working and stared at me.
“What?” I said.
“You right! Dat is smart, boy.”
I felt a surge of pleasure. “Not a big deal,” I replied.
“Is a big deal! You gotta’ gift of knowin’ words dat make people buy things, gotta use it right, boy.” He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and repeated, “Gotta use it right.” After he was sure it registered, he went off to speak with the appliance manager. Two days later, a banner soared above the appliance area. It stated in red: “Freeze Your Food, Not Your Freezer.” Fifteen years old, and I felt like an official marketer. Leonard’s sold a bunch of those refrigerators.
I really believe that those marketing skills helped me move forward in show biz. They definitely helped on Happy Days. In the seventies, we weren’t paid like today’s television stars; salaries were decent, but not extravagant. I innately knew that I could supplement my income by using the show for other opportunities. But what could I market? After watching a rerun of The Partridge Family, I had the answer. The fifties were known for cars, girls, and music. Happy Days had everything except a band. Maybe my talent night skills could pay off . . .
The next day, I spoke with Garry Marshall. He was busy and didn’t have much time, so I did a quick, elevator marketing pitch: “We have girls, we have cars, where’s the music? What if Potsie sings in a band?”
He thought for a moment and then said, “A band would be good. Ralph and Richie could also be in it. You sing good?”
“Yeah, pretty good,” I replied.
“Alright, but you gotta pick a song.”
Yes!
Starting to leave, he added, “I’ll have ya’ sing to a bulldog. If you’re not good, I’ll get laughs, and if you’re good, I’ll still get laughs.” And then he left.
That’s how I sold my first televised singing gig—the right words at just the right time. I also acquired some responsibility beyond acting: choosing a song and recording it. I remembered that Willie was a huge fan of Elvis Presley, so, in his honor, I picked one of Elvis’s most famous songs, “All Shook Up.” There was a frat party scene in the next episode of Happy Days, and that’s where Garry wrote in the new band. And yes, I sang to a bulldog. Garry liked it, and started adding the band to about every third episode.
From this, I was able to get a record deal (on the same label as David Cassidy), put together my own (real life) band, and book concerts all over country. By using my talent, I was able to create a whole other business for myself beyond Happy Days. I was in charge of all the band’s music on the show, and was fortunate enough to write some originals with my composing partner, Ron Rose. These experiences really benefited my future producing endeavors. Perhaps best of all, Garry was proud of me. He said that instead of complaining about the size of my salary, I used what I had to create more opportunity for myself. Whenever I look back on those days, I do so acknowledging two things: Without Garry, I would never have had the option to move my career in the directions that I have, and without Willie, I never would have realized that I had gifts beyond acting to share.
Day With a Beatle
“Da real great people is humble.”
Despite the craziness in Texas, Happy Days was only a modest hit as we came to the end of the first season (we didn’t become a phenomenon, and the number one show in the world, until the third season). Still, Fonzie, Richie, Ralph, and Potsie were hugely popular. Of course, viewers only knew the characters we played; as guys we were all basically nerds, and we knew we were only “hot” because we were on the tube. I won’t lie though: We all took full advantage of our new status with the ladies—all of us except Ron. He was in love with his high school sweetheart, Cheryl. She was the love of his life and the girl he married.
Actually, Ron was the main reason we all stayed pretty normal. He was the seasoned pro in the group, and already famous when we started. His work ethic, lack of ego, and great character influenced all of us to follow suit. He was the leader and set the tone for everybody. Henry Winkler, Don Most, and I owe him a great debt of gratitude.
One day during lunch break, Ron told me he wanted me to meet somebody, but he wouldn’t say whom
. It turned out it was John Wayne. He was shooting a promotional spot near us. Ron had worked with him on his last movie, The Shootist. When John Wayne spotted Ron, he instantly left the set and gave him a bear hug. Ron introduced me, and I’ll never forget John Wayne’s words: “Nice meeting you, Anson. You stick with Ron here and you might have a chance of staying in this business. He’s going to go far.”
Well, he couldn’t have been more right.
Another time, I complained to Ron about everyone calling me Potsie.
“What are you complaining about?” he said. “I’m stuck with two, Opie and Richie.”
I had to laugh. Then he put it all into perspective. “Of course people are going to call us by our characters’ names; that’s how they know us. We have to earn our real names. We need to accomplish things as individuals.”
His words were a Ph.D. in moving forward and never resting on your laurels.
One early morning, we were shooting some simple scenes on a smaller stage. Ron, Henry, Don, a guest star, and I were the only ones working. During a lighting set up I walked over to what looked like a large tin can of coffee. Craft service (which today provides gourmet snacks, lattes, and organic pies) was not a big deal back then. Stale coffee and old apples were pretty much it. In fact, Louie, our set electrician and bookie, was in charge of it. You were lucky to get milk with the black sludge. Anyway, while I was pouring a cup I noticed a man who looked just like John Lennon with a young boy. Walking back, I told Ron and Don.
Singing to a Bulldog Page 3
