700 Sundays

by Billy Crystal

  "After a while, I bought my first store, a little dress shop, Fulton Street in Brooklyn, proudest day of my goddamn life. Then I wanted the store next to me so I could expand. So I worked harder. Every day, forty-eight hours a day, saving my money. I ate wood. I drank sand. And I bought the store next to me, knocked the wall down, now it was bigger yet. Then I bought the next store, bigger yet, bigger yet. I had the whole goddamn block. Saved my money because I had a plan, kid. I reached back across the Atlantic, got my family, and we were reunited here in America. Then I turned ten."

  I believed every word. Here was a self-made kid. Heroes don't have to be public figures of any kind. Heroes are right in your family. There's amazing stories in all of our families, you just have to ask, "And then what happened?"

  And heroes don't have to look like Derek Jeter. They can also have way too much makeup on and cotton candy hair, like my Aunt Sheila. She's heroic to me because she's a tough lady. Some people say she's got a big mouth, and she does, but I admire that about her, because she speaks the truth, and sometimes people don't like to hear the truth, especially in families.

  She lives in Boca Raton, Florida. What a shock! It's a perfect place for her to live because in Spanish, Boca Raton means "mouth of the rat." She's been down there for years, and never once has she had a tan, because she's always inside, talking on the phone. Recently, she went through something that was very tough to get through, and she came through it with flying colors . . .

  "Hello. Hello, Reba. How are you, dear? I got your message, we were at the movies, we went to see The Passion of . . . you know who. Can I tell you something, I was outraged . . . No, the movie was fine. Popcorn was seven dollars! Leonard said, 'Watch . . . this they'll blame on us too.' Hold on just for a second.

  "Leonard, get the car . . . Leonard, get the car . . . Get the goddamn car . . . Just pull it up, please. I'm tired . . .

  "Hello? . . . No. He and I are in the middle of a thing . . . Because he lied to me . . . He bought something off one of those fakakta TV ads . . . He bought a videotape for nineteen dollars and he kept it from me. He didn't want me to see it, but I found it when I was looking for loose change. It's the one with the college girls that come down here on spring break and show their knockers . . . So I didn't know that he had it. He would disappear into the TV room with this knocker tape, close the door, and for hours at a--hold on just a second . . . LEONARD! Maybe it's not tennis elbow!

  "So, Reba, I stormed in there. I said, nineteen dollars for knockers? Nineteen dollars for knockers? So, I hiked up my blouse and let them out. 'Look, these you can have for free!' He said, 'No, thank you,' and ordered Volume 2.

  "LEONARD! Get the goddamn car, please . . . Pull it up . . . You're on my list, mister.

  "Hello . . . ? Hello? Reba . . . ? Reba, Reba . . . ? Hello? Hello . . . ? Oh, there you are. I was afraid I lost you. I walked over to a place in the hallway where the phone never works, right in front of a picture of Leonard's mother.

  "Good. He's gone. Now listen. I'm going to tell you a story, Reba, but promise me that you won't be mad. Just promise me. Okay. Julie got married . . . You said you weren't going to be mad. Don't make a promise if you can't keep it. What is that . . . ? Look, I know she's your goddaughter, but she's my only daughter, so let me just tell you the goddamn story! Let me just tell you the goddamn story! And I promise you won't be mad. Okay?

  "You know how she always had boyfriends but it never worked out because she was so picky? She always found something wrong with them. Remember . . . ?

  "Okay. Five years ago she comes down here, and she says, 'Sit down . . .' So we do. 'I'm gay.' . . . No, not me. Her. Is this how you follow the story . . . ? Yes, your goddaughter is gay. I was floored. So I said, 'Really? Are you sure? Maybe it's a phase. You know, maybe it's like the Macarena. It will come and it will go and nobody will care.'

  "So she said to me, 'No, Ma. No. I think I've always been this way. Yeah, since I'm a little girl.' I said, 'What?' She said, 'Yeah. I just didn't know what it was.' She said, 'Mom, you know what? I'm out.' And I said, 'Of what, dear?' 'Out of lies, out of secrets,' she says. 'No more pressure, no more hiding. This is who I am. And I feel great about it, and I want it to be okay with you and Daddy . . .'

  "What are you going to do? It's your daughter. She's in pain. So I said, 'Listen, darling. I don't care what you are. I love you even more now that you were able to tell us. You're my daughter, and I'll love you forever.'

  "I thought I handled it great. Schmendrik didn't handle it well. No. Leonard gets upset when he hears the news. He doesn't say anything, and his face fills up with blood. You know, his eyes bulge out of his head, his face gets all red, he looks like a cherry tomato . . . Cherry tomato? The little hard ones . . . Remember that salad bar in Aventura we used to go to, they had those little cherry tomatoes that would explode in your mouth, like some nasty little surprise . . . ? Or better yet, he looks like that baboon's tuchis at Parrot Jungle. Remember when we went there?

  "And when I see his face look like that, there's only one thing I can say to him. 'Leonard, get the car.' And we took a drive up and down Alligator Alley just talking and talking. All the time he kept saying to me, 'Sheila, how could she do this to me? How could she do this to me?'

  "I said, 'Leonard, she didn't do anything to you. Don't make this about you. Why are you making this about you?'

  "He said, 'You don't understand. When Julie was a little girl, we used to play wedding together. And I would say to her, Julie, at your wedding, you and I are going to dance the first dance together to "Sunrise, Sunset" and now-- Yeah . . . From Fiddler. Is there another one . . . ? No, Reba. 'Sunrise, Sunset' from The Wiz . . .

  "He said, 'Now it's not going to happen. She's our only daughter, and now she's a gay person, and I don't even want to talk to her.'

  "I said, 'Listen to yourself, don't you ever say that.' I was so mad, but inside, Reba, I was very concerned too. Because let's face it. She is our only daughter, and Leonard and I are the only barren grandparents in our cul-de-sac.

  "It was very tense between the two of them for years and years and years after that . . . Reba, I'm telling you now.

  "Last month, Julie calls from San Francisco. She said, 'Folks, sit down. I've got to tell you something.'

  "'Okay. What is it now?' I said to myself.

  "She said, 'I'm getting married.'

  "I said, 'To a wo-- who?'

  "'Olivia,' she tells me.

  "I said, 'Olivia? I thought she was your housekeeper . . .' Because every time I'd call, Olivia would answer. I figured if you're calling and a woman's there, she's cleaning.

  "And she says, 'No. She's my partner . . .' That's what they call them, Reba. They call them 'partners.' No, no, no. Tonto was a faithful companion.

  "She says, 'You've got to come. It's on Valentine's Day. It won't be the same if you and Dad are not there.'

  "I said, 'Of course we'll be there. Daddy and I will be there. Give my love to Olivia. We love you both.'

  "I thought I handled it great. Schmendrik didn't handle it well. No. Leonard gets all upset. He starts with the yelling . . . 'I'm not going.'

  "I said, 'You're going.'

  "He said, 'I'm not going.'

  "I said, 'You're going!'

  "'I'm not going.'

  "I said, 'You're going.' So I made him a Judy Garland, nine Seconals, half a quart of Vodka, stuffed him in the pet carrier and loaded him on the plane.

  "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 w
ere 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

  May 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.