Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (28 page)

Bobby Riggs was also there. One day he approached me and said: “I hear your kid is pretty good. I’ll betcha ten thousand he can’t beat me.” I laughed and told him I couldn’t afford that kind of bet.

Riggs was, of course, near the height of his notoriety as a tennis con man. But he was much more than that. In his prime during the 1940s, Bobby Riggs was the number one tennis player in the world. I happen to be friendly with the great tennis legend Jack Kramer, and Jack has always touted Riggs’s stature, claiming in his book that Bobby is the most underrated tennis player in history. Jack would know since he was the one who eventually took the top position in the world away from Riggs in 1948.

Riggs’s second life began when he started a career as a tennis con man. He was really more of a showman, making outrageous comments and challenging everyone to bet on a match, often giving his opponents some crazy advantage like placing a set of chairs on his side of the court, which he would have to run around to hit the ball. His star rose in the spring of 1973, when Margaret Court, very possibly the greatest female player in tennis history, agreed to meet Riggs in an exhibition match. We don’t hear much about Margaret these days, but she is still the all-time leader in major tournament singles titles with twenty-four, including a real Grand Slam, which means winning all four majors in the same year. Only Margaret, Steffi Graff and Maureen Connolly have accomplished that feat. And only two men have done it: Don Budge and Rod Laver, who did it twice!

It was a mistake for Margaret to take Riggs’s challenge. But at the time it probably didn’t seem like much of a big deal. She lost badly on Mother’s Day, May 13, 1973. It ended up grabbing more publicity than anyone expected, making the cover of
Sports Illustrated
and
Time
. Instead of being an isolated, modestly-publicized event, it became a prelude to the match everyone now wanted to see, Riggs against Billy Jean King, not because Billy Jean was better than Margaret—in fact Margaret had won the French Open before her match with Riggs and the U.S. Open before Billy Jean’s match with Riggs. But Billy was far more outspoken on women’s issues than Margaret, who was shy and reserved. Margaret, now long retired, works as a pentecostal minister in Australia.

Riggs versus King was everything the promoters hoped for. On September 20, 1973, Billy Jean King beat Bobby Riggs at the Houston Astrodome in the most watched tennis match in history. Even though Riggs had retired from professional tennis over twenty-five years earlier, the result was still a shock to many. Billy had played smart. Like Margaret, Billy Jean preferred to charge the net. But in the Riggs match she decided to stay in the back court, a brilliant strategy causing the fifty-five year old Bobby to tire out. Although he lost, Riggs quickly became one of the most recognizable people in America, and he parlayed his new fame into even more challenges on and off the tennis courts. The truth is I liked the guy, and we shared a penchant for betting.

So while I didn’t take Riggs up on his first offer, after speaking with Vincent, we agreed to a smaller amount. So they played. Vincent won a close match in a tie breaker, and Riggs paid me right after the match—which also means he had ten thousand dollars ready if I had taken the bigger bet!

Riggs wanted a rematch, but it didn’t happen until October when Vincent met up with him in another celebrity tennis tournament. And Vincent beat him again—this time, like Billy Jean—he won by using his head. After his match with Billy Jean, Riggs had published a book,
Court Hustler
, teaching the tricks of winning with your mind. Vincent read the book and employed some of Riggs’s own tactics against him. When the match ended, Riggs told the press: “The kid reads my book and knows all my tricks.” He also paid Vincent a very nice compliment, telling the press: “I’ve got to stop giving away my trade secrets. No wonder I couldn’t beat you. It was like playing against myself when I was in my prime.” In his “prime,” Riggs was the best tennis player in the world, so that was certainly high praise.

They played a final time at the LA Convention Center. It wasn’t advertised, but there were hundreds of people watching. Vincent won again, and Riggs gave me the thousand bucks on the spot. But he was annoyed. Nels and Casey both went to the match, and one thing stood out in their minds. In the early stages, Vincent was handling Riggs fairly easily. And so Riggs, in an attempt to upset Vincent’s rhythm, changed from his standard Dunlop Maxply to a huge oversized racket. We had never seen anything like that, and Nels wondered if it was legal. Later, of course, the oversized Prince racquet would be enormously popular, and today most players use a racket bigger than the old wooden ones. But at the time, it looked ridiculous. It was designed to throw Vincent off his game. But it didn’t work, and Bobby, as always, paid up when the match was over.

I enjoyed my dealings with Bobby Riggs, and not just because my son got the best of him. The truth is we shared an appetite for putting it on the line. He was a real character. Vincent also stayed friendly with him and years later worked with him in a movie starring Ron Silver titled
When Billy Beat Bobby
. I also respected Riggs. In his youth, he had been a great champion, the best player in the world. But he also showed that a guy could still get out and play and enjoy athletics into his old age. I played tennis nearly every day of life into my late 70s—right up until my first stroke. There was more to Riggs’s message than just the overly-publicized battle of the sexes. And in the end, he also became close to Billy Jean. She spoke to him right before he died in 1995, and the last thing she said to him was “I love you.” I give her a lot of credit. In the end, Bobby Riggs, despite his sometimes controversial antics, was a class act.

Each generation has its feminine icon. There’s no way to fully understand the phenomenon, but the world—and particularly the world of men—seem to regularly come together like a wolf pack to elevate some woman to a status above all others. The women they choose are the women who have “it.” What exactly “it” is remains a mystery, but of all the women I’ve seen through the years, Marilyn Monroe had it; so did Jean Harlow, Betty Grable, Sophia Loren, Liz Taylor and Raquel Welch. In the 1970s Farrah had “it.”

One thing these women have in common is, of course, beauty—in fact, stunning beauty. But that doesn’t tell the half of it. They also have that special something, a charisma that eludes precise definition. And yet despite its elusive character, we all know exactly who they are; we all know because each one of them projects a self-image that somehow manages to ignite the imagination of entire generations.

I first met Farrah Fawcett while my son Vincent was doing a show,
Apples Way
, with my good friend and longtime neighbor, Ronnie Cox. One day this beautiful young woman did a guest appearance on the show.

In the meantime, Farrah and my wife Pat, who was sitting with Vincent on the set, were also becoming very friendly. In time Pat would choreograph some of the dance skits on
Charlie’s Angels
, and she and Farrah remained the very best of friends up until Farrah’s death.

I remember early on telling Bill Sheppard of Disney that I knew a young actress who might be good to have in one of their movies. They met with Farrah, and I recall his humorous and prescient response when he said to me, “Dick, we’re trying to promote a wholesome look over here. This girl’s a knockout.”

That was, of course, true. In fact, it was around this time that Farrah made that transition into something bigger than life with her historic poster, which within months was the biggest seller in the world, eventually smashing all records for poster sales. It was even shot into outer space as part of a time capsule launched in a NASA space probe in 1977. At around the same time of the poster’s release, September of 1976, Farrah debuted on
Charlie’s Angels
. And with the new role, the poster and her own marvelous charisma, Farrah transformed into the biggest sex icon of her generation. It was amazing for us to watch this fun-loving, witty young woman, who had none of that self-destructive craving for stardom too common among Hollywood celebrities, transform unexpectedly into this giant iconic figure.

In the meantime, Farrah remained a close friend of our family, especially to Pat. In recent years she had been a model of dignity and courage as she fought her battle with cancer. Pat was by her side throughout much of her struggle, even visiting her in Germany while she received treatment. One of our most treasured possessions is a beautiful picture of Farrah in her famous red bathing suit in which she signed: “For my second family, I love you, Farrah.”

I always believed that if anyone could win that fight it would be Farrah. Survival involves the will to live, to persevere against the odds. Farrah had those qualities and more and became a wonderful role model for those afflicted with this terrible disease. Before her death, she made headlines again with her television special,
Farrah’s Story
, about her struggle with cancer. Many have expressed different views on whether she should have done it. I don’t have an easy answer for that, but I do know that it took guts. And if that show makes it easier for even one person to face this terrible scourge of cancer, then it was certainly worth it. In the end, Pat and I believe that Farrah’s courage and dignity throughout her long ordeal will be her greatest legacy.

Upon hearing of her death, Farrah’s millions of friends and fans poured out their words celebrating her life and expressing sadness at her leaving. Of them all, Pat and I were especially moved by the beautiful tribute of her former
Charlie’s Angels
co-star, Jaclyn Smith, who simply said: “Farrah had courage, she had strength, and she had faith. And now she has peace as she rests with the real angels.”

When my mother became seriously ill, also with cancer, she had been living nearby in Los Angeles for the past few years. In the spring of 1976, her cancer had spread, and soon she was in the end-stage and had to be hospitalized.

Hearing the prognosis, my father came to California to see Jo for the last time. When he arrived, Casey took him to see her at the Brotman Memorial Hospital in Culver City. To alleviate the pain, Mom was receiving injections of morphine every three hours and was not always lucid. When Casey and Dad entered her room, she was asleep. Dad knelt down by her bedside and went to kiss her hand. At just that moment her eyes opened, and she saw my father for the first time in many years. “Dick, what are you doing here?” she said. He lied and told her he just happened to be out visiting his family and heard she was not feeling well. Casey listened as they spoke for a few minutes about old times, and I was so happy later when I heard this.

Yet, even at the end, Mom just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“When did you arrive?” she began interrogating Dad.

“Just yesterday.”

“How was your flight?”

“Oh, I didn’t fly, I took the train.”

Mom paused for a moment.

“Why would you take the train, Dick?”

“Well, it’s so interesting, you meet people; you get to see the country….”

With that, Mom looked over at Casey with a look of disdain: “I just can’t believe it. After all these years, he’s still so cheap!”

That was Jo—a straight talker, right to the end.

In truth, Dad really was the kind of man who would enjoy the adventure of a cross-country train ride. But this time, seeing the countryside and meeting an assortment of characters along the way, was, no doubt, a bittersweet experience as he journeyed to see the girl he first loved for the last time.

When Jo died, on May 17, 1976, my father felt there was something that needed saying—some acknowledgment of all she had done for us. He wrote to Joyce and me: “I feel that it is not enough to have lived selflessly all those years, as she did, and then just die and that’s the end of it.”

But that wasn’t “the end of it.” Together my parents left an extraordinary legacy. They gave to their children and grandchildren a genuine love of entertainment—a love sparked that magical night in 1928 when Mom and Dad were stagestruck by Edna Ferber’s
Showboat
. They went on to create not only young children with stage careers, but an entire family of entertainers. They watched as their grandchildren grew into accomplished actors. Vincent even became a child star. They saw Jimmy and Nels, as well as Joyce’s children, Casey and Talia Balsam in numerous shows, plays and films. And my Dad watched his son, Tim Van Patten—my half-brother, although a contemporary of my children—become a teenage star in
The White Shadow
and go on to be recognized as one of the finest directors in television. The legacy my parents left behind was one to be tremendously proud of. Jo didn’t just die and, as my father feared, that was “the end of it.”

Dad, of course, fully understood Jo’s legacy, but he wanted to make sure that we also understood—that Joyce and I fully appreciated the fact that Mom, while flawed like everyone, really had sacrificed so much for us and for all her family. For such a woman, Dad wrote to us, “something more enduring must be stated.” To find the right words, he turned again to his trusted muse, ending his letter with Portia’s judgment that even a small light of goodness shines bright amidst the troubles and turbulence we make for ourselves. Borrowing from the Bard, he wrote of my mother: “her life will stand out as ‘a good deed in a naughty world.’” Dad got it just right.

Since Mom’s death, there is one thing that has always bothered me: she never got to see my success in
Eight Is Enough
. She worked her whole life to make that happen. Within a year after her death, I had the lead in one of the most popular television shows of the decade. It would have meant a great deal to her. It might have been a final confirmation that all her sacrifices had been worth it. In fact, my sister Joyce recently commented on what a great shame it was that Jo didn’t live just a little longer to watch
Eight Is Enough
take off. Life rarely works out exactly as we plan, but I’ve never forgotten the role my mother played in preparing me for that success. Nor has a day gone by when I haven’t thought of her. She was one of a kind, and saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.