BEHIND THE CURTAIN BEHIND THE CURTAIN BEHIND THE CURTAIN (12 page)

Chapter Seven

Spying on Dennis Rodman
in Nashville

Dennis Rodman is a child of God. A lost child at times, as evidenced by his recent trips to North Korea. Still, he taught
my colleagues and me to focus on the book, not the cover. In his most recent book,
I Should Be Dead by Now,
Dennis
listed me in the acknowledgments. I have no idea why, but I’ll take it.

He was a gifted and graceful basketball superstar known for his incredible rebounding abilities and was inducted into the NBA Hall of Fame in 2011. But he was also self-destructive. I’m not talking out of school here; Dennis
was aware of his limitations and said as much.

He made twenty-eight appearances on
The Tonight Show with Jay Leno,
each uniquely bizarre yet oddly predictable in its own way. He was one of Jay’s most popular guests, even after his halcyon days on the basketball court ended. People liked Dennis
because he was an NBA titan with a lot of bluster. Underneath it all he was a sweet person who was flawed and vulnerable.

We had few rules for our studio guests. The most important one was to show up on time. But Dennis
was almost always late, which was potentially disastrous even though the show was pre-recorded a few hours before it aired. After all, we had the audience in place and other celebrities standing by who were often on tight schedules as well as a deadline to make the satellite feed to the eastern time zone. Besides, being late was just plain rude to Jay.

This was one battle I rarely won as tardiness was part of Dennis’s persona. He even said in his book,
Bad as I Wanna Be,
that he didn’t believe in punctuality. Nevertheless, I went through the motions and over time realized I was essentially just a player in Dennis
’s chaotic game. Every guest worth getting was a challenge, but Dennis
added a new dimension. After much trial and error and its consequential pain, I became an expert on Dennis
’s antics, which always began during the booking process.

Here’s how it worked: I would call his agent, Dwight Manley
, to see if and when Dennis
was available. This could take weeks because of his demanding NBA schedule, his proclivity to selectively answer Dwight
’s calls, and the mysterious “Dennis
factor.” In other words, Dennis
would only agree to do the show if and when he felt like it.

There was also the “Dwight
factor.” I didn’t trust him at first: he looked a bit too slick and projected a little too much self-confidence. So I looked him up and discovered he had no background as a sports agent or manager before he met Dennis
at a Las Vegas casino. Until then, he was best known as a coin expert who had a legendary collection known as the King of Siam.

I eventually realized that Dwight
was a perfect match for the eccentric NBA star, and in many ways I changed my mind about him. My opinion didn’t alter entirely, though. I never quite got over my first impression of Dwight as a flimflam man trying to pull a fast one, but I did come to like and even respect him. Working with Dennis
was not an easy job. Dwight
was essentially on call 24/7, and I believe he did his best to help Dennis
earn and keep as much money as possible, despite Dennis
’s efforts to spend it all.

Whenever Dwight
would call me to say Dennis
agreed to an appearance, I usually had mixed feelings. I knew Dennis
was good for the ratings, but I also dreaded the inevitable headaches that would result from our phone conversations. “Promise me he’ll be on time this time,” I would say. Dwight
would never concede any wrongdoing. He just denied the truth and claimed Dennis
always got to the show on time. True, but just barely, and that was only because of the extreme measures I had to take.

Debbie Vickers
also had lingering concerns about Dennis
and Dwight
, and she never let me forget it. She had an acerbic wit that was both funny and cautionary. Her mantra was simple: “a little paranoia never hurt anyone.” She lived by it, especially when it came to Dennis
.

Dennis
lived in Newport Beach, California, an hour’s drive from our Burbank studio in good traffic, and we taped during rush hour in the late afternoon. We would send a limousine to his house to pick him up. We did this for almost all of our guests not to pamper them but to make sure they would arrive at least forty-five minutes before the taping. This worked well for most, but not for Dennis
. He would never get into the limo on time, even though we called the handlers at his house numerous times. It was obvious Dennis
wasn’t running late; he was creating chaos and reveling in it. This was his protocol, and I soon learned how to abide by it.

After one too many close calls, I added a helicopter to the routine. So now whenever Dennis
decided he felt like sauntering into the limo, he would be rushed to nearby John Wayne Airport, where the chopper was standing by to fly him to the NBC lot. He usually arrived in twenty minutes with no time to spare.

I will never forget the time Dennis
pushed his protocol beyond the pale. I was suspicious from the beginning when I offered him a spot on September 25, 1997, and he quickly agreed to it. There were no apparent conflicts with either his NBA or personal schedules.
This was too easy
, I thought.
Way too easy.
And I was right. Soon after, Dwight
called to inform me that Dennis
was going to be on the Country Music Awards program in Nashville the night before his appearance on our show. That was a huge no-no. One of our few rules stipulated that a guest couldn’t appear on any other show prior to ours unless we had agreed to it at the time of the booking. And Dwight
knew that.

I usually didn’t raise my voice, but this time I did. “You can’t do that,” I yelled. “Cancel the CMAs.” But Dwight
insisted Dennis
would just be making a cameo appearance during a Deana Carter performance of her hit song called “Did I Shave my Legs for This?”
Dennis
would be seen wearing a dress in silhouette and then be revealed at the end of the song. It would just be a quick visual. All right, it was short and funny. Still, Dennis
would be in Nashville, two thousand miles away from
The Tonight Show.
When I told Debbie
about it, she went ballistic. To her, any change in the routine was a potential disaster. She let out a scream that was probably heard throughout the Hollywood Hills: “They absolutely can’t do that. Tell them no.”

This was merely her way of expressing frustration. She knew about Dennis
’s antics and was aware that it didn’t matter how loudly she yelled. Dennis
would be going to Nashville, and we wouldn’t be canceling his booking on our show. She, too, was fond of Dennis
and in a strange way viewed him as our prodigal son. Still, she was angry, and she wanted Dwight
to know it. So I went through the motions, telling Dwight
to pull Dennis
from the CMAs. But Dwight insisted Dennis
couldn’t break his commitment. I expected that answer and went straight to my biggest concern: how would he get Dennis
from Nashville to Burbank in time for our show all in the same day? Dwight
assured me he would be with Dennis
at all times and told me not to worry. Yeah, right!

When I told Debbie
this, she came up with a new plan on the spot: “Looks like you’re going to Nashville to shadow Dennis
. Make sure he gets back here in time. But don’t let him see you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I said. I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t.

“You heard me.”

Okay, Debbie
was going off script here, and I was incredulous: “How exactly do you expect me to do that?”

Without missing a beat or looking up she said, “You make the big bucks. You figure it out.” It was her sardonic way of closing conversations.

I was stunned and didn’t have the slightest idea what to do next. There was no template for this. But I had to do something and time was running out, so I drew upon a lesson I had learned during my earlier years at the show: when backed into a corner and you don’t know what to do, do something you know how to do. I booked a round-trip flight to Nashville and a hotel. I also figured it would be a good idea to attend the Country Music Awards where Dennis
would be performing, so I got myself invited to the show, which had no available audience seats. But I had friends in low places: Garth Brooks
and his people, who got me a ticket.

I called a friend of mine who was the publicist for Word, a Nashville record company. I asked her where to hang out in Nashville the night before the CMAs. “Sunset Grill,” she said without hesitation. “It’s where the songwriters will be.” I never considered myself a Hollywood guy, but Nashville was different. I loved everything about this center of country and worship music. I had written a number of country songs, and when my friend said the words “songwriters” and “Sunset Grill,” I knew one place where I definitely wanted to go.

Then reality hit again. Here I was doing what I knew how to do without giving much thought to carrying out Debbie
’s cloak-and-dagger assignment. I did know one thing: The plan didn’t feel right. I would be going to Nashville in four days and didn’t have a clue about Dennis
’s travel plans, including his flights to and from Nashville, his hotel, or his rehearsal time at the CMAs. Some spy I was. And that’s when I realized there was a pit in my stomach, reminding me of another lesson I had to learn, un-learn, and re-learn almost every week: your gut is very real . . . never ignore him. Everyone has gut instincts. Mine are very real, especially when I’m desperate. I actually experience a persona. His name is Mr. Gut. I’ve had a life-long, love-hate relationship with Mr. Gut, who through his still, small voice is always giving me advice that I mostly ignore. The funny thing is that when I have listened to him, I’ve rarely regretted it, although I hate letting him know that
.

When I was trying to figure out what to do about Nashville, Mr. Gut became unusually aggressive. He wouldn’t leave my conscious mind, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He made it very clear that stealth was not my style, and that I needed to stop trying to come up with a way to carry out the boss’s plan and start coming up with my own.

I commiserated with my real-life colleagues, who thought my dilemma was the funniest thing they had ever heard. While I didn’t share their amusement, I was struck by the absurdity of the situation. They assured me Debbie
would change her mind about shadowing Dennis
if I came up with a better idea. So I headed home for the weekend to formulate a new strategy by Monday morning. But what?

I told my wife, Mary, I felt a little like Peter Graves playing Jim Phelps on
Mission: Impossible.
Your mission, Mr. Berg, and you
will
accept it, is: First, become invisible. Second, get Dennis Rodman
to show up on time at
The Tonight Show.
I realize the second part is harder, but you’ll figure it out.

Then Mr. Gut had some advice:
Tell Dwight
you’re going to Nashville, but don’t tell him the real reason. Spying on Dennis
would be much easier than shadowing him.

Me:
How would that work?

Mr. Gut:
Tell him you just got invited to the CMAs yourself, and wouldn’t it be fun to hang out together in Nashville?

Sometimes you can tell a little while lie.

Me:
Where are you going with this?

Mr. Gut:
Just say Garth Brooks
invited you and you couldn’t say no.

Me:
That would be a lie. Garth
didn’t exactly invite me. I invited myself with his help.

Mr. Gut:
It’s a white lie. Close enough.

I never liked lying because, well, it’s just plain wrong. And it’s bad business. People never trust you once they find out you’ve deliberately misled them. Besides, I’m a bad liar because I can’t keep my stories straight. Mr. Gut admitted it was a grey area, but not over the line, and the white lie was so simple that even I could handle it. I had to agree. Besides, it might work.

On Monday morning I said a prayer as I walked into NBC. I had to call Dwight
as soon as possible before self-doubt took control. When I got to my office I took a deep breath and dialed. I had two diametrically-opposed thoughts: 1. Please don’t be there. I don’t know if I can do this, and 2. Please be there. I have to do this, now!

Turned out Dwight
was in, and when I told him I had just been invited to the CMAs, he was predictably incredulous: “Why would they invite you?” I told him country music was one of my specialties at the show, and many artists had offered me seats to the CMAs over the years, which was true. This year it was Garth Brooks
. How could I say no?

Long pause.

“You like country music?”

“Yeah.”

Another long pause.