by Tim Conway
You meet all sorts of people when you’re involved in racing. Most of them are down-to-earth, but here and there you’ll come across some real snots. Charlene and I were at the opening of a new racetrack and seated at a table with all the big shots—track owners, racehorse owners, and officials of the racing community. Char and I didn’t have that much to add to the conversation because we didn’t own a farm, quality horses, or even a box at the track. One of the women, a real “fauwfeefon,” as Charlene calls snooty ladies, started questioning Char as to whether her family was in racing.
“Well,” answered my wife, “we were kind of connected.”
“How is that?” asked Madame Fauwfeefon.
“My dad was a bookie,” said Charlene.
I honestly thought that poor woman’s hair was going to blow off. Charlene’s bluntness broke the ice. The others at the table began laughing. Everybody wanted to talk to her and get an inside look into the world of bookmaking.
Probably the most amazing episode in my jockey/racing life came decades after I’d given up any hope of being a rider. Dick Van Patten was hosting a TV program where performers were challenged to compete with professional athletes in various sporting events. I was asked to ride against Lafitt Pincay, one of the best jockeys around. Was I wise enough to think, gee, the last time I was on a racehorse I didn’t even make it out of the starting gate so maybe I’d better decline? Sure, that’s exactly what I said. Ha! Who could turn down such an opportunity?
I trained for a few weeks and my pal Chris McCarron helped whip me into whatever shape I could achieve at that stage of the game. Lafitt and I met at the Hollywood Park. I noticed an ambulance parked on the side, and the thought crossed my brain that maybe someone would need it. Had I thought further, it might have occurred to me that between the two of us, I was the more likely candidate. Lafitt was in his jockey silks, and I had managed to squeeze my carcass into something resembling the proper attire. We mounted our horses, two old racing steeds who’d been put out to stud for years, and steadied them as the starter made ready to call.
“They’re off!” he shouted.
And we were. For a while, our horses were running nose to nose. I was on the rail and thought I’d pull ahead a little to create some excitement. I tapped, and I mean tapped, my horse with the whip. Big mistake. He must have had a flashback to his racing days because he took off like a rocket. Lafitt thought I was pulling a fast one; we were only supposed to lope around, so he snapped his whip. His horse took off. Now we were at a full gallop. I’ve mentioned that your legs have to be in top-notch condition in order to ride jockey style. They’re the only communication between you and your horse. My legs were way over al dente and in the next fifty feet they went to mush. I was no longer in touch with my horse. The only thing I could do to keep from falling off was to wrap my arms around the horse’s neck and hang on for dear life. Lafitt took a look at me and started laughing hysterically.
“Da es fonny,” he cried in his best, broken English.
I tried to explain that I was going to die, but he zipped by me and crossed the finish line. I was hanging on with my last bit of strength when my horse crossed the line. We zoomed by the outrider who was on the track to help out in case of an emergency. As we flew by I heard him call into a two-way radio, “You want me to pick him up or are they going to go around again?”
“Help!” I screamed just to make it clear that I didn’t want to go around again.
The outrider took off after me and, grabbing hold of the reins, brought my horse to a stop. It took three people to help me slide off. They had to hold me up because I could not put one foot in front of the other. I was dragged to the ambulance and told to lie down for a minute. I closed my eyes and did as I was told. For nearly a week, I couldn’t get my legs into my pants. It was impossible to lift and push them. Fortunately, my permanent trainer, Charlene, was there to help, otherwise I’d have been walking around in shorts for days. I donated my fee from the show to the Don MacBeth Fund. In case I ever decided to ride again, I wanted to make sure I was covered.
Excluding my “ride of death,” I had a ball with horse racing and my utter delight with all things racing was evident to my friends. Harvey Korman, Joe Hamilton, and Ernie Anderson saw what fun I was having and wanted in. They asked if we could buy a horse together. Charlene wisely sat this one out. I had Jude Feld, the trainer who worked for Charlene and me, purchase a horse for the four of us. Jude found Hail Columbus, an eighty-thousand-dollar investment that would surely prove its worth. (By the way, I know there’s a patriotic song called “Hail, Columbia” but the song was not related to our horse.)
What’s that old saying about never going into business with friends? Truer words were never spoken. When Harvey put up his twenty thousand, the pained expression on his face told me I was in for trouble. I knew horses, Harvey didn’t, and it would take an awful lot to get him to understand that, basically, it’s a crapshoot and there’s only so much you can do. Hail Columbus didn’t really understand the sport, either. Oh, he got the eating and sleeping part of it, but not the running. He went no place fast. In one race, Jude told the jockey riding Hail Columbus to go right to the front after the break and stay there. The jockey happened to be the great Bill Shoemaker.
“So,” concluded Jude after expounding on the strategy, “do you think you can do that?”
“Sure,” said the Shoe. “I can go to the front but what do you want me to do with the horse?”
That exchange perfectly illustrates the respect that Hail Columbus and his owners inspired in the racing community. Hail Columbus ran a few times and each time came in last, by a lot. We owners weren’t happy, but only one of us gave voice to his displeasure.
“How long is this crap going to go on,” demanded Mr. Korman who was desperately trying to recoup his money.
I asked Jude Feld what could be done to improve Hail Columbus’s chances of finishing in the front of the pack. Jude thought a bit and then offered his suggestions. The first was to geld Hail Columbus, which meant removing his testicles. I pointed out that if we did that we’d have a perfect product, a horse that couldn’t race and couldn’t breed. The word “worthless” came to mind.
“Look,” I said to Jude, “why don’t you have a conversation with Hail Columbus. Tell him what’s in store for him if he doesn’t start running faster. Trust me, that’s all you’d have to say to me to get me going.”
“I’m only suggesting this,” answered Jude, “because I’ve been trying to figure out what’s holding Hail Columbus back. I’ve looked that horse over top to bottom and I’ve come to the conclusion that his testicles are the problem; they’re just too big and they’re hindering his running potential. Look, if you don’t want to geld him, the only other thing I can suggest is that he wear a supporter when he runs.”
Picture this, my friends. The race is about to begin, the horses are led out, and the crowd sees that one of them is wearing a large, custom-made jockstrap. A quick check of the program reveals that Tim Conway and Harvey Korman are among the owners. The crowd roars and then the race begins. Hail Columbus does his best, but neither the jockey nor the jockstrap can help him improve upon his customary position, last place.
This is not the end of the story. Now comes a tale in which Tim Conway, once again, gets the better of his friend and pawn, Harvey Herschel Korman. The catalyst for this tale is none other than the late, great Dick Clark.
At the same time Hail Columbus was doing nothing on the track, Dick Clark was doing a Candid Camera–type show called Super Bloopers and Practical Jokes, where practical jokes were played on unknowing celebrities. He called and, after telling me that he’d been a big fan of the Burnett show, asked if I’d be willing to do his show. He wanted me to pull a gag on Harvey. This was a gift from heaven. I told Dick that not only would I do it, I had the perfect gag for them to use, one in which that great stallion, Hail Columbus, would be prominently featured. Briefly, I explained the situation and then suggested
that we tell Harvey that a gentleman from Australia wanted to buy a breeder for his granddaughter and was interested in Hail Columbus. I let Jude, Ernie, and Joe in on the joke and they agreed that it was a perfect setup. I called Harvey and told him the good news. He was elated at the thought of getting rid of our four-footed fiasco. I told him to come over to the Burbank stables where we’d meet the grandfather and his granddaughter and introduce them to Hail Columbus. When I told Jude where we were going to meet, Jude said he didn’t want to ship H.C. all the way to Burbank because it would be too expensive.
“Jude,” I laughed, “just pull out any horse from the riding stable. Harvey doesn’t know one from another.”
So, one fine day, Dick Clark’s crew set up an area at the Burbank Riding Academy, with two-way mirrors, cameras, and mikes, before Harvey, Joe, Ernie, myself, Jude, and a horse named Howard gathered there. The actors portraying the Australian grandpa and granddaughter arrived, and Harvey was introduced to them. Believing they were going to take Hail Columbus off his hands, Harvey was at his most charming. He chatted about our trip to Australia with the Burnett show and what a wonderful country it was, and how adorable kangaroos and koala bears were, and how he’d love to go back. Meanwhile, Gramps and his granddaughter smiled and nodded. For the record, neither of them had ever been out of California and didn’t know what Harvey was blathering about. Gramps asked to see the horse. Jude went and got him and led him into the area where we were standing. Just as I predicted, even though Howard was a hundred times sleeker than Hail Columbus, Harvey believed it was our horse and kept commenting on how great looking he was. Gramps appraised the animal in a very professional manner; he looked him up and down, felt his legs, opened his mouth and looked in at his teeth, then stepped back and said, with a terrific Australian accent, “Well, he certainly is a fine-looking animal.”
“He certainly is!” Harvey said, jumping in.
Gramps took out a checkbook and said, “As you know, I’m interested in a purchase for breeding purposes and I realize this horse has a glorious pedigree. (I wondered what he’d have thought if he had been confronted with Hail Columbus in his jockstrap.) Since that’s my main interest, I’m prepared to offer you ninety thousand dollars.”
“Sold,” cried Harvey. He practically went into a jig he was so excited.
The actor started to make out a check and that’s when I stepped in.
“Hold it,” I said, “let’s talk this over for a minute.”
You cannot believe the look of horror that flashed over Harvey’s face.
“What talk? There’s no talking. The horse is sold.”
I excused myself and called my fellow owners over to one side. We stood in front of a window that was actually a two-way mirror behind which Dick and the camera crew were positioned.
“What’s the matter with you?” Harvey whispered in fury.
“Look,” I said, “this is horse trading. I think we can get this guy up a few bucks.”
“If you screw this up,” whispered Harvey, “I’ll never speak to you again.”
I told Harvey to calm down; I was just going to test the waters. So the four of us went back over to the horse and the prospective buyer.
“We’ve thought about it, and we feel the horse is worth more than your offer,” I said politely, but firmly.
The actor looked at a paper he was holding and said, “Well, the information here does show that he’s from fine breeding stock.” He looked at me, shook his head, and smiled.
“You, sir, are a true horseman,” he said admiringly. “You know value all right, and I’m not going to quibble. Let’s make it an even one hundred thousand.”
“Sold. Sold. Sold,” cried Harvey, staggering forward.
“Hold it, hold it, hold it,” I countered. I turned to the actor and said, “We have to discuss this.”
Once again the four horsemen stepped over to the window; I practically had to drag Harvey there. Meanwhile the actor made out a check for a hundred thousand dollars—from a fictional account, of course.
“We have got to take this offer,” Harvey was positively threatening, but I managed to convince him that we had nothing to lose by going for more.
We strolled back to Gramps and told him we really were looking for a better deal. He gave us a long, serious look. Harvey began to tremble.
“I’ll give you a hundred and twenty thousand, and that’s my final offer,” said the actor.
“Sold, and I mean it!” cried Harvey.
We all smiled, shook hands, and confirmed the deal. The actor wrote out another phony check and was about to hand it over when his “granddaughter” spoke up.
“Grandpa.”
“Yes, honey.”
“Don’t you remember? I told you I wanted a black horse; this horse is brown.”
“You want a black horse,” cried Harvey, “we’ll paint it!”
“Honey, now that you mention it I do recall that you asked for a black horse. Okay, sweetheart, we’ll find you one.”
Turning to us he said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but my little girl here has to get what she asked for. It was delightful meeting you and I do thank you for your time.” With that, he took his granddaughter’s arm and they walked off.
Harvey was in shock. I had to get him back to the window, so I took him by the arm and led him over. As we walked, I started to let him in on the gag.
“Harvey, you know the show Dick Clark has that’s—” I didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Harvey cut me off as we reached the two-way mirror.
“Dick Clark, that cheapskate,” said Harvey. “He does all those shows where he gets people to do stuff and never pays anybody for doing anything.”
Before I could stop him, Harvey went on a tirade about Dick Clark’s cheapness. Finally I managed to inform him that we were on Dick’s show and that the whole thing was a televised stunt. Harvey was furious. He didn’t speak to me for weeks, but it was worth it! When he finally thawed, I gave him the two phony checks and he kept them in his desk drawer for the rest of his life. By the way, I can’t let this story go without adding that, contrary to what Harvey said, Dick Clark was a very generous producer.
A Little Friend-Dropping
While I sometimes think that I may be possessed, I know for certain that I’ve always been blessed. My pals are blessings, and I don’t think you could find a more wonderful group of people than those whom I call friends. Because I’ve been in the business for so long, most of them are entertainers. You’ll recognize some because they’ve entertained you for years but, whether or not they are familiar names to you, my life has been enriched by knowing each and every one of them. Years ago, a core group of us—Bob and Ginnie Newhart, Mike and Mary Lou Connors, Dick and Dolly Martin, Charlene and I, and, on occasion, Barbara and Don Rickles—formed a dining club. (Carol and her husband Brian Miller and Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé drop by whenever they’re in town.) Bob and I were the founders of the club. Just to show you how nice Bob and I are, we chose Tuesday night because we didn’t want to interrupt anyone’s weekend. We’re still at it, but now that Dick’s gone, Dolly comes on her own. And she can hold her own with any of us. Having that Tuesday dinner is a tradition that we all want to keep up. While a few things have changed, mostly dietary ones, the fun remains.
Now, I’d like to introduce you to my circle of friends, not alphabetically or in order of importance, just as they come to mind.
I’ve known Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, The Duke and the Duchess of Vegas, about as long as I’ve known my own wife. We were never formally introduced at the time, but they were on The Garry Moore Show when I went on. We became pals when we all appeared on Steve Allen’s show. Steve and Eydie are great performers individually and together. He’s a terrific comic and a helluva singer. She was a spectacular singer and a darn good actor as well, but she retired in 2009. Steve will still trot out for a gig. Enough of this, I feel like a press agent.
I have to credit Steve and Eydie f
or bringing me to Las Vegas. They talked me into opening for them at Caesars Palace. Vegas is where all entertainers eventually want to play. Really, you have to play there if you want to round out a career. Frankly, I don’t think there’s a more threatening place to perform than that desert city. There aren’t many second chances in Vegas. You go on and if you stink you go home—usually before the second show. There are too many acts waiting in the wings to take your place for you to be less than good. The first time I appeared, Steve had to push me onto the stage. I managed to start talking and somehow thirty minutes passed and no one threw anything at me. I left the stage with applause ringing in my ears and sweat rolling down my back. Steve and Eydie gave me my standup wings, and thanks to them, I’ve played casinos all over the States and in Canada, too.
Eydie and Steve have been part of my life for many years. I was asked to speak at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration. I thought about the two of them and their lasting relationship, and I wanted to contribute a serious note to the occasion.
Here’s my tribute:
In the beginning God created heaven and earth. And on the seventh day he rested. He stood upon a hill and looked out on the wonders he had wrought. He looked at the beautiful mountains and the lush prairies and flowing waters. A peaceful silence enveloped the earth and God said, “Let there be noise.” And God created Eydie. And Eydie sat by a creek, babbling and alone, not the creek, Eydie. “Create for me a companion,” Eydie said unto the Lord. “A man who will make beautiful music for me to enjoy.” And God created Mel Tormé. And Eydie said, “No, Lord, I want a man who will make me laugh when I am sad, a man who will bring joy into my life.” And God created Steve. And Eydie looked upon Steve and harkened unto his songs and his humor. Then Eydie said unto the Lord, “Could I see Mel, again.” But the Lord said, “Mel is booked at Caesars.” And so Eydie said, “Okay, give me Steve.” Thus they were united and lived happily ever after and brought joy and laughter and music to us all.