Free 700 Sundays by Billy Crystal Page A

the finest piece of recorded comedy ever—is a routine called “Noah,” and it’s about the building of the Ark. It was an amazing piece. So I took that recording, and I memorized it, and I did it in the school show called “The Swing Show” at Long Beach High School. It was a variety show . . . a big band, singers, and I was the comic. And it was the only time that my dad ever got to see me perform in a sport jacket, “live,” in front of an audience that wasn’t relatives.
    I was a smash. Well, I was doing Cosby’s stuff, but I didn’t think that I was stealing. I was fourteen years old. I just did it word for word in front of an audience. Is that stealing? In Hollywood, they call that an homage. And then years later, friends were now listening to Cosby and they’d say to me, “Billy, there’s this guy, Cosby. He’s doing your stuff!”
    I loved being in front of audiences. It always felt like one of the safest places for me to be. Fielding ground balls, and being on a stage, that’s where I really felt most at home. My friends would come over and listen to these records. One of them, Joel Robins, would become my comedy partner. He was hilarious. A moon face, with great timing. We started doing things together. We would imitate Laurel and Hardy, derby hats and all the trimmings, and do their routines and others we would come up with. We lip-synced the entire Stan Freberg
America
album, over an hour long, playing all the characters, perfectly lip-syncing all of the songs. He and I performed together at sweet sixteens, “The Swing Show,” in the hallway, and basically at the drop of a laugh. Comedy was becoming more and more important to me. If I couldn’t be the Yankees’ shortstop, I was going to be a comedian. Or better yet, the funniest shortstop the Yankees ever had.
    Uncle Milt was always my mentor. He always had great advice and stories of the giants that he was working with at Decca Records. Uncle Milt always made sure to take the time to tell me something that would inspire me. He never discouraged me. Never said, “It’s a tough business. Have something to fall back on.” He always made me feel that I could be funny anyplace, not just the living room. He’d say, “Listen, Billy. I’m producing a guy now. I think he’s a genius. You must watch him. His name is Sammy Davis, Jr. He can do everything. He sings great, he dances better than anybody, and he does great impressions. If you want to be a performer, great, but try to do a lot of things. Not just one thing. Watch Sammy Davis, Jr.”
    Ironically, Sammy was the star of the first Broadway show that I ever saw,
Mr. Wonderful
, which also starred Jack Carter. Dad got tickets from his friend,
The Daily News
critic Douglas Watt, and we sat in the front row. I remember the house lights coming down, the orchestra playing the overture, and then Sammy walking out to a great ovation, and I also remember feeling I wanted it to be me.
    I watched Sammy every chance I got, never once thinking that someday I not only would become his opening act, but that I would also become Sammy Davis, Jr. Opening for Sammy was the greatest thrill, we became good friends, and I would watch his show every night. We did three weeks together at Harrah’s hotel, in Lake Tahoe. I went on at 8:00 P.M. , and I would get to the dressing room, around 7:00 or so. Sammy had been there since 6:00. I would always go in to say hello, and we’d play backgammon and talk. The stories he would tell were priceless. He was mesmerizing. Listening to his history and firsthand accounts of the biggest stars in the business was simply sensational . . . that’s how I developed my impression of him. I couldn’t help but absorb him, and many a night I would leave his dressing room with his sound, his inflections, his “thing,” man, ringing in my head. And Sammy could do something I never could do. He could tap-dance with both legs.
    But then I discovered something that made me forget