father of my early teenage friend, Bob Rudnick, ran the valet at the Deauville
Hotel in Miami Beach. Ed Sullivan was doing his show, Mr. Rudnick said, from
the hotel that night. Some band called the Beatles, said a not-too-hip dad, was
on the bill. Did we want to go?? “Duh!” had not been invented in those pre-Bart
Simpson days.
The lobby of the Deauville was a madhouse. The lucky, chosen few with tickets
stood in a long, single-file line waiting for the doors to open. The hotel
security staff, well-prepared to chase pool-hoppers, were outmaneuvered,
outnumbered, and outsmarted by the crush of kids. The Crud and I were both
sporting our very best madras shirts. With our special pass, we were among the
very chosen.
The noise, a long, rolling scream, like an endless wave, began well before the
broadcast commenced. Sullivan, wisely, opened the show with his headliners.
They played two songs. To be honest, I couldn’t hear a single word, such was
the volume of screaming. Ringo’s backbeat was vaguely audible. Hysterical,
jumping girls bouncing on seats made viewing impossible. As good as our seats
were, I watched the show, just like you, on the overhead monitors.
On the bill was Topo Gigio, the stupid mouse Ed was so enamored with, as well
as some bicyclists from Hungary. How would you like to follow the Beatles? The
shrieking never once let up, because Ed promised the Boys would be back later.
“Please,” he implored, “have some consideration for the other performers.”
Right!
After the show, Mr. Rudnick took us back in the bowels of the hotel. He
pointed to a door with a small window. The door was the kitchen exit to the
pool. Frolicking in the pool, 10 feet away, like any other tourists from
Liverpool, were John, Paul, George, and Ringo. They were the whitest white men
I’d ever seen.
Well there it is, I’ve spilled one of my best stories to the whole city. I
swore to myself, when ABC started promoting this Beatles Retrospective six
months ago, I wouldn’t watch. Oh, well.
The easiest job in the world? Being the commissioner of a major sport. What,
really, is there to do? You go to a lot of games, beam at award presentations,
and have a fantastic office overlooking Park Avenue. Occasionally, you might
have to make a semi-hard decision, but the media has a very, very short memory.
Even NHL commissioner Gary Bettman, a year ago scorned as the ultimate
management villain – a star player threatened publicly to kill him, so barbaric were his goonish
tactics – is now seen, even by the pro-labor New York media, as a forward-thinking
champion. It’s like being the King of England. I could do this job. So
could you.
The mensa of commissioners, according to the media, is David Stern of the NBA.
Never has a harsh word been written about this guy. Nary a snide remark, a
nasty curl of the lip. Why? Other than giving the Rockets and Bulls their
championship rings – he did a damn fine job! – what’s he done? The game’s soaring popularity has little to do with him or any
other executives. Still, Stern’s image as a genius was universal.
Until now. The NBA refs, currently on strike, desire a salary commensurate
with that of other professional officials. We’re talking something like $75,000
per year here. In a league where a cadaver like Jon Koncak makes millions,
where the league itself is swimming in more booty than an African potentate
could steal in a lifetime, this is the ultimate definition of chump change. By
trying to nickel-and-dime his refs, to break their spirit and make ’em crawl,
Stern’s exposing himself as nothing but another mean-spirited, administrative
hack in a nice suit. Stern makes $5 million per year to sit, free, in the front
row at the Garden. Even if the owners insisted on this stupid, moronic
position, Stern, if he were one-third as smart as the media claims, should
gladly, ecstatically, make up the difference out of his own pocket.
Well, it’s New York; $4.5 mil just doesn’t go very far anymore.
He could be a working class hero – Lennon on the mind – except this embarrassing fiasco seems to be his idea. He likes it. It’s like
he’s going to take out his frustrations over out-of-control salary escalation
on the hapless, blue-collar refs. Soon, this will pass. The league will have
needlessly humiliated some powerless employees. David will smile and smile and
smile. In a few months, this stupid episode will be forgotten by the scribes
and the subjects out in the provinces. Long live the king!
Paul Ray is playing nothing but Beatles on Twine Time. In a sweet
symmetry, my almost 13-year-old daughter is blasting the radio full volume. She
asks the old dad to dance if “I know how.” The daughter is surprised when the
dad displays hot moves usually reserved for late, hazy nights.
With no disrespect whatsoever to the Marvelettes, the Beatles rocked the
living shit out of that song. n
This article appears in November 24 • 1995 and November 24 • 1995 (Cover).