How I Got This Way Page 22

  Then later, as the years passed, Claudia became quite ill. You could see it developing over time, starting maybe around 2005. No one was sure what was happening to her, but it was increasingly noticeable, serious, and heartbreaking. Eventually we learned that she’d been stricken with ovarian cancer. She spent a lot of time in Germany looking for a cure. Her ex-husband, Ron Perelman, who always adored her, spared no expense in searching out new experimental treatments—but none worked. It was beyond sad. Here was this dynamic woman in the prime of her years, in love with her life, her family, and her friends—and unable to conquer this beast.

  Joy and I saw her for the last time in the hospital. She was wearing a Yankee baseball cap and a robe, and even though she was in certain pain, she still had the courage to pretend everything was just fine, that it was just another Sunday in New York. Claudia died a short time after that visit, on June 15, 2007. It was a blow to everyone who knew her—and practically everyone did. At her funeral, the synagogue was packed with family and friends, numbering nearly one thousand mourners. Naturally, countless New York boldfaced names were there, too—Calvin Klein, Barbara Walters, Senator Al D’Amato, Matt Lauer, Jon Bon Jovi, Diane von Furstenberg, Bryant Gumbel, Rudy and Judith Giuliani, Penny Marshall, Lorraine Bracco, Graydon Carter, Liz Smith, Donald and Melania Trump—the list was overwhelming. And of course, most all of our show’s staffers—past and present—had also come to pay their respects, including Kelly with her husband, Mark Consuelos, Kathie Lee and Frank Gifford, the Gelmans, and the battalion of people behind the scenes who keep us going every day. Claudia had been part of the fabric of our lives in such a special way.

  I was privileged to be asked to speak among the eulogists, who were quite eloquent and spoke beautifully about her. I followed them and talked about the quality of friendship Claudia displayed, the way she introduced me to New York, the way she wanted me to succeed—but above all, how she loved all the people there and always, if they were in her company or at her parties, wanted them to have the best time. She really cared about them. “She had a terrific zest for life,” I said. “And she made you enjoy your life more.” Then I told the story of how she once called me every night for two straight weeks before one of her parties, only to talk about who should sit next to Calvin Klein. “Two weeks! Calvin Klein!” I marveled. For the first time on that sad, solemn day, the mourners laughed long and loud. Claudia would have loved it.

  I miss her.

  WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL

  New York is a breeze as long as you’re lucky enough to know the somebody who knows all the other right somebodies.

  A generous spirit is an unforgettable spirit—and also irreplaceable.

  Photos

  After twenty-eight years in L.A., it was off to the Big Apple and Kathie Lee . . .

  Steve Friedman

  My great friend and the entertainment reporter, Claudia Cohen, opened up New York City for me when I first arrived.

  Steve Friedman

  Fifteen fun-filled years later I would sing “Thanks for the Memories” to Kathie Lee on the day she left the show.

  Steve Friedman

  And then, in 2001, the exuberant Kelly Ripa came on and the laughs continued.

  Disney/ABC Domestic Television

  In the time between cohosts, I won my first Emmy! Later, Kelly and I managed to get one together.

  © American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.

  But awards aside, the real thrills have been in meeting and getting to know some truly amazing people.

  Jack Paar was the one who showed me what my true talent was—it was what he did so well to open his own show: just talk about your daily adventures.

  The very wise, droll, and somewhat mysterious Charles Grodin always kept me on my toes. I never knew what he’d say—or what he meant after he’d said it.

  Steve Friedman

  Jerry Seinfeld, of course, stole our show’s philosophy of talking about “nothing” and became a billionaire. But I still think his is the best sitcom ever!

  Then there’s Dave Letterman, making a rare guest appearance on our show. We’ve had some memorable moments together on his show as well. . . .

  Disney/ABC Domestic Television

  How could I ever forget the Christmas I became the good cheer guy on Dave’s Late Night holiday card . . .

  Worldwide Pants, Inc.

  or the time Dave desperately tried to figure out who the surprise guest was under that Shrek costume? (Me, of course!)

  Worldwide Pants, Inc.

  I know I’ve asked Who wants to be me?, and I’ve meant it, too, but every guy wants to be George Clooney. Me, too. That’s us at George’s villa on Lake Como. You should have been there.

  Hey, it’s just me and Jack getting together again. This time at a Lakers game with coach Bryan Scott. Jack never had so much fun.

  AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill

  Then there was the time I made that infomercial for The Dean Martin Variety Show. Even though Dean wasn’t there, we closed with a song together (thanks to computer graphics technology). It was the biggest TV thrill I ever had.

  Can’t believe I was in the Steinbrenner box with the Yankee Clipper at Yankee Stadium. Me and Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, just the two of us talking about the old Yankees days.

  What great times I had hanging out with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. There will never be another like him.

  And here I am at beautiful Mar-a-Lago with Joy and the Trumpster.

  Photographs by Paulette Martin

  Trump is a pretty good athlete. He should buy the Mets, play first base, and talk them into a championship.

  Radio villain Howard Stern turned out to be one of the best neighbors I’ve got. Here he is with his wife, Beth Ostrosky, and the love of their lives, Bianca.

  Splash News

  Every now and then I get the urge to do this to Gelman, but then I realize, What would I do without him?

  Steve Friedman

  Yes, the years roll by, but Joy just gets more beautiful.

  She’s still the greatest joy of my life.

  KMazur, WireImage, courtesy of Getty Images

  Chapter Twenty-one

  GEORGE STEINBRENNER

  Here is how the Boss entered my life: Surprisingly, it didn’t happen in the Bronx, where his Yankees were based and my own boyhood was spent. No, instead we came together in Indianapolis, of all places, where we both wound up one Memorial Day weekend in the early nineties to enjoy the hoopla and excitement surrounding that greatest of great auto races, the Indy 500. As part of the race day festivities, I’d been given the honorary and truly incomparable thrill of being paraded around that famous two-and-a-half-mile track in an open car with four hundred thousand people letting out a roaring cheer I’ll never forget.

  But on the night before that overwhelming experience, I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting this unforgettable man who knew a thing or two about roaring. And also about cheering. That night, I was invited to dinner by my old TV executive friend Chris Kelly, whom I’d known in both St. Louis and Chicago, and who was now running a major Indianapolis station. Chris’s other guest that evening turned out to be none other than the colorful and controversial New York Yankees owner, George Steinbrenner, who was then somewhere in the midst of riding out his second baseball suspension for a stupid mistake he regretted very much. It was not a good moment in his life, to say the least. He missed his Yankees terribly—“Owning the Yankees,” he once said, so proudly, “is like owning the Mona Lisa”—but he was happy to be at the 500 that weekend, which probably made for a perfect distraction from his troubles. We hit it off almost immediately and had a great, lively dinner.

  The next day we toured those Speedway spaces beside the track that housed the cars and driver crews, all prepping themselves for the race. As we wandered around together, we started playing a made-u
p baseball trivia game along the lines of “Do you remember this guy?” That is, we would quiz each other about who played what position during whatever year from long ago. I remember being impressed when I threw a real tough one at him: “First base, Cleveland Indians, 1949?” And George smiled confidently before he shot back: “Hal Trotsky.” I didn’t think anyone remembered Hal Trotsky anymore, but I always loved that name when I was a kid, and sure enough, George did, too. I was amazed that he got it—until I later realized that George grew up in Cleveland, so of course he knew Hal Trotsky! But still, you’ve got to love the sound of that name. Anyway, we shared a terrific day at the big race and didn’t lose touch afterward.

  Once George’s ban had finally been lifted and he returned to his beloved team, he invited me to come watch ball games from his private suite at Yankee Stadium, which was always such a pleasure. And he also made sure to let me know that I’d be a welcome guest during spring training in Tampa if I ever happened to be in Florida when the Yankees were getting ready for the season ahead. Well, one springtime during the height of my big Who Wants to Be a Millionaire prime-time quiz-show-hosting heyday, I came through Tampa to perform my concert act. George not only gave me the royal treatment at the beautiful Legends Field complex that he’d built for his minor-league franchise and also for the Yankees to use as a workout facility, but he instructed me to go to manager Joe Torre’s office and put on a uniform—yes, those immortal pinstripes!—and then join in a practice session. He wanted to get me into the mix with Joe’s current crop of players, as well as with the former Yankee greats who’d regularly turn up down there to help stoke the team during the preseason. What a thrill it was to hang around the batting cage with those formidable Bronx Bomber heroes of years gone by, like Reggie Jackson and Chris Chambliss, along with all the new younger guys. Soon enough, they insisted that I get into that cage and take some swings. Willie Randolph was on the mound doing the practice pitching, and of course everyone stopped whatever they were doing to see what this TV guy had to show for himself with a bat in his hands.

  I can’t tell you how nervous it made me. I mean, talk about pressure! Keep in mind, I’d done plenty of silly batting contests out on Columbus Avenue in New York with all kinds of big-league hitters who’d guested on our show. But now I felt so awkward, like some out-of-place interloper in their exclusive world. Every time I swung and missed, or hit a little harmless ground ball, I was totally humiliated and devastated. Here I was, right in the heart of Yankees spring camp—actually wearing the sacred pinstripes!—surrounded by all the players who’d won all those pennants and World Series rings and made baseball history, and I could barely dribble a ball out of the infield. Some of the guys on the field and fans in the stands kidded around, hollering out my Millionaire show catchphrase, “Hey, Regis! Is that your final answer?” I can’t tell you how often I was asked that question wherever I went during those years—but for some reason, hearing it now as I took my not too impressive cuts at Willie Randolph’s pitches was not helping me feel all that confident.

  Then Coach Bill Robinson had me shift my stance at the plate, and suddenly I began lifting some balls with more distance into the outfield, at least. I got a little cockier with each swing, hoping to crush a couple and shut everybody up. Like an idiot, I’d loudly announce: “Okay, watch this, guys! This one’s going all the way!” I swung at the next pitch and fouled the ball down with a hard slam, right onto my shin. We’ve all seen this sort of thing hundreds of times in games, and the batters just shake it off and get ready for the next pitch. But I’m here to tell you that it hurts. Like crazy, it hurts! And stings. And keeps on stinging. I almost crawled out of the batter’s box. It was actually bad enough that someone decided I should let the Yankees medical staff take a look at it. So I wound up in the first-aid room under the stadium on a table next to right fielder Paul O’Neill, who was there with a real injury, I’m sure.

  Needless to say, I didn’t get immediate attention, but I did have a lot of fun showing off my wound—a swelling black-and-blue bump on that shinbone—especially to Boss Steinbrenner. “George,” I joked, “I love you, but if this welt is still here tomorrow . . . I’m getting a piece of the Yankees!” He just laughed. Naturally. And back in New York on our Live! show, I proudly displayed that welt every chance I got, day after day, both at the time and also over the years to come—because it didn’t go away anytime soon!—while receiving no sympathy at all from Kathie Lee or Kelly. All they did was call me a wimp. But to tell you the truth, it became my badge of honor. No, I didn’t get any big hits wearing my Yankee pinstripes, but that mark on my shin became my favorite new claim to fame—an authentic major league injury!

  Meanwhile, my friendship with George continued. He honored me at one of the Yankees’ spring training games, and I even threw out the first pitch that night. Another time, when Don Rickles and I did our show in Tampa, George was in the audience cheering us on. He was as generous in spirit as he was in rewarding his players those astronomical salaries. Everything was a class act with Steinbrenner. He took such tremendous pride in all things related to the Yankees, especially winning. “Winning is the most important thing in my life, after breathing,” he once said. “Breathing first, winning next.” And did he ever make sure that winning remained not only a tradition in the Bronx but an absolute requirement! So many times over the years, I’d be up in his suite at Yankee Stadium, with the team nearly always thick in a pennant chase. Steinbrenner watched every game with a life-or-death intensity, and if the Yankees fell behind and lost, many of his friends would disappear very quickly to let him get over it privately.

  I remember one year, as World Series fever again swept New York, I was there for a play-off game against the Minnesota Twins. The Twins had taken a 2–0 lead very early on. But play-off games are difficult to predict; any team can get hot without warning. In postseason action, you can never be sure of anything. Somewhere around the third inning, nature called and I decided to quickly dash off to the men’s room. I’d been watching the game from the special mezzanine box seats just outside of George’s suite, which I’d have to pass through in order to get to where I suddenly needed to go. At that particular moment, the suite—a beautifully spacious room equipped with a large-screen TV—was empty. Empty, that is, except for George, who sat there all by himself, intently studying the game. He looked lonely, and I thought I’d stop to briefly cheer him up with some light banter about his assistant football coaching days at Northwestern University. George loved his early football experiences, so we reminisced a bit and also compared notes on all the great Notre Dame coaches we’d known over the years—frankly, anything to take his mind off this potential loss the Yankees looked like they might suffer that night.

  Suddenly, though, the Yankees pushed across a run, which I thought would give me an opportunity to finally make it to the men’s room. But as I got up to quickly exit, George said, “No, wait! You can’t go now. Your sitting here just brought us luck. We need more runs. You’ve got to stay.” I thought he was kidding, but I could tell by the tone of his voice and the determined look in his eyes that he really meant it. And God forbid if I did leave and the Yankees lost any momentum toward taking the lead, I would never hear the end of it. So I sucked it up and stayed put beside him, shifting this way and that to offset the need for my bathroom break, while the game droned on.

  Around the seventh inning, the Yankees scored a second run to tie the game, and I thought maybe I could slip away. I promised that I’d be fast about it! But that burning look in his eyes was still there. “No,” George said firmly. “Now more than ever the Yankees need you to stay right where you are. You can’t move.” Okay, maybe I’ll admit that this was kind of flattering—that the entire fortunes of the Yankees suddenly rode on the strength of my bladder—but now I felt in real danger. I mean, let’s be honest, the men’s room was really just a few feet away. I could slip in and out before the commercial break ended. But it was unthinkable.
I had helped the Yankees tie the game, and now I was responsible for helping them win it. And then, to my absolute horror, the game actually went into extra innings! I thought I might explode, but there was no escape. I think it must have been in the eleventh inning when the Yankees scored the game-winning run. What a relief! And I do mean relief. George and I congratulated each other, and that’s when he asked me, “Can you come back tomorrow night?”

  George Steinbrenner was one of the greatest characters New York City has ever known. Certainly there’s never been another baseball owner like him—in any city. Yes, he made mistakes and paid heavily for them. And the sports press was relentless about taking shots at him, always finding some new reason to criticize the larger-than-life way he ran his legendary ball club. But his players, believe it or not, understood him better than anyone outside of the franchise. He just wanted to win. He wanted his team to always score one more for New York City. His motto: “The way New Yorkers back us, we have to produce for them.” That mission simply became his life.