700 Sundays by Billy Crystal

Contents

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

EPIGRAPH

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

EPILOGUE

For Mom and Dad

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Creating and performing 700 Sundays on Broadway was the most fulfilling time in my career. Many people helped make that journey the joy it was, and in many ways also made this book possible. So, to Des McAnuff, who directed the play, and to my collaborator and friend Alan Zweibel for his work, some of which graces these pages. I thank you.

To two David Steinbergs. One, my manager, who encouraged me to get back on stage. And the other David Steinberg, the comedian, who literally was on stage with me. To David Letterman, whose show became a safe place to go out and be funny. To Robin Williams, who always encouraged me to get back up there. To everyone at Warner Books and Jennifer Joel at ICM who has embraced the writing, and to the audiences at the La Jolla Playhouse in California and the Broadhurst on Broadway that were so extraordinary. To Steve and Andrew Tenenbaum, Larry Brezner, and Larry Magid, for all they have done.

To all my relatives, some long gone, I’m so grateful for your love and laughter. To Jenny, Michael, Ella, and Lindsay for their devotion, and to my brothers Joel and Rip, who were always up there with me. And to Janice: Did you ever think when we first met, that some day we would be on stage together at Radio Music Hall, Tony awards in our hands, standing in front of our kids? “Can you dig that? I knew that you could.”

—bc

“Consider the rose . . . The rose is the sweetest smelling flower of all, and it’s the most beautiful because it’s the most simple, right? But sometimes, you got to clip the rose. You got to cut the rose back, so something sweeter smelling and stronger, and even more beautiful, will grow in its place.”

—Zutty Singleton

CHAPTER 1

We got a new car! I was the most excited kid in the world because we finally got a new car, and I didn’t even know what make it was. All my father said on the phone was, “I just bought a new car, and it’s a surprise, so, everybody be out in front of the house because I’m going to pull up exactly at noon.” So right before noon, we stood in the driveway, my brothers, my mom and I, trying to guess what Dad bought.

“Maybe it’s the Ford Fairlane,” Joel, who was fifteen, wondered.

“No, I bet it’s the Bonneville,” Rip, eleven, said with authority.

“He mentioned something about the Chrysler Imperial,” said Mom.

I interrupted, which I always did because I was the youngest and the shortest, which made me the loudest. I was also nine. “Wait, he said it was a surprise! What if he got,” as I looked up to the sky with hope, “a Cadillac?” (I swear I could hear angels singing.)

We were silent for a brief moment, all of us considering that heavenly possibility, when we heard Pop’s honk, and there he was waving, as he pulled up in our brand-new, right-out-of-the-showroom, 1957 . . . gray-on-gray Plymouth Belvedere.

What the hell was he thinking? Of all the cool cars out there, he picks this one? A Plymouth? And gray? Gray isn’t even its own color, it’s a combination of black and white. And two tones of it?

This was not the car of my dreams, but at least it was a new car with big fins, red leather interior and push-button transmission. The Plymouth replaced the only car I ever knew in my life and I was glad to see this car go. It was an embarrassing-to-drive-around-Long-Beach-in big, black, boxy, 1948 Chevrolet. This was an ugly automobile. It had a sun visor over the front windshield, so it looked like the car was wearing a fedora. Sometimes it looked like the car was an old-time film noir detective sitting in front of our house. It wasn’t a family car. This was a getaway car. They killed Sonny on the Causeway in this car. Why on earth would he keep this car for nine years?

Two reasons. One, we couldn’t afford anything else; and two, my father loved this car. He took perfect care of this car. He even named the car. He named the car “Nellie.” Men always name their cars after women, and talk about them like they are women. It’s always, “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” It’s never, “Isn’t Ira a great-looking car?” Boats are almost always named