by Rob Lowe
Earvin, who sees everything both on the court and off, sent his right-hand man, Lon Rosen, to change my seat at halftime, sparing me the wrath of Carr and the relentless heckling from the Celtic enthusiasts surrounding me.
The game was looking like a blowout, with the Celts up by fourteen. I had been placed high above the arena in the owner’s box. It was so far above the court, and also so close to it, that you could look directly down through the center of the hoops, giving you a surreal angle on the action.
“Sorry about the score, Rob. Looks like it’s over,” said one of the Boston brass.
“Mmmm. I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, and meant it, in spite of the odds of that kind of a comeback happening on an opponent’s court in a game of that import.
And with that, Michael Cooper took an outlet pass and raced uncontested downcourt. Instead of an easy dunk, he pulled up and buried a long three. One of the greatest comebacks in NBA history followed, and the stage was set for one of the most memorable and replayed shots in all of sports.
In the steaming heat of the rat-infested Garden, the greatest point guard who will ever play the game took a pass directly beneath me on the close sideline. Five seconds on the clock, Lakers down by one. Magic Johnson, one of the NBA’s all-time assist leaders, looked for the open man as he wheeled to the top of the key. Having watched hundreds of Lakers games, I recognized his body language: he was going to the hole himself. Robert Parrish and Kevin McHale, both seven-footers, closed the lane, arms outstretched, a dual ten-foot barrier. There was now no shot to be had, but Magic had committed.
“No no no no no!” I yelled, certain a rejection or turnover was imminent, and with it, probably the end of the championship series.
Magic picked up the dribble and as all of Lakerland groaned, forgetting in our anxiety exactly who we were dealing with, number thirty-two then unveiled a shot I had never seen him attempt in his career, ever. Including in warm-ups.
His old-school “baby” hook shot froze the building, arched over the twin seven-footers and fell like the dagger it was, through the net and into the hopes of the men in green.
Lakers by one.
Larry the Legend took a wide-open corner jumper (and from my top-down view it had a real chance) but missed. Perhaps the greatest NBA finals game was over. I looked for my Celtic hosts but they had already fled the scene of the crime.
Thank God for that seaplane; it had all been worth it.
* * *
Back on the set, they had apparently seen me at the game on television. They were not pleased that I misled them, but I wasn’t late for work so it was a nonissue. I would’ve done it again in a second.
Adventure is important in life. Making memories matters. It doesn’t have to be a secret seaplane and a historic sports moment, but to have a great life you need great memories. Grab any intriguing offer. Say yes to a challenge and to the unknown. Be creative in adding drama and scope to your life. Work at it like a job. Money from effort comes and goes, but effort from imagination and following adventure creates stories that you keep forever. And anyone can do it.
They don’t have to be Hollywood-style, famous-person-cast, big events, either. The snapshots of my life I relive the most aren’t.
My brother Chad and I have been obsessed with Bigfoot since we saw the B-movie The Legend of Boggy Creek at the Sidney, Ohio, movie theater as little kids in the seventies. In my area of Ohio, in those days and even later, when I would return for the summers as a teenager, there were movies and songs that were huge that my friends back in California never heard of. Movies like Billy Jack, Emperor of the North and Dirty Mary Crazy Larry and songs like “Billy Don’t Be a Hero” and “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” which to this day I’ve never heard on the radio in Los Angeles. The Archies’ “Sugar, Sugar” was such a sensation in the Buckeye State that you would’ve thought it was “Hey Jude.” It is still the Ohio State marching band’s go-to barnburner. Growing up in this unique and sometimes bizarre entertainment microclimate left me with a predilection for one-hit wonders, catchy bubblegum pop hits and . . . Bigfoot.
The plot of The Legend of Boggy Creek is foggy to me and that’s probably for the best. I can’t imagine the movie has aged well. But my seven-year-old self (what’s left of him) still remembers the source of the “legend,” a frightening “skunk ape,” a below-the-Mason-Dixon version of Sasquatch. It blew my mind. I began to go to the library any chance I got to research Bigfoot. (Side note: Has there ever been a more horrific barrier to reading than the Dewey Decimal System? No wonder libraries are becoming irrelevant.) I took notes on all sightings and kept them in a green, semirusted, tin three-by-five recipe holder I purloined from my mother. I came across it recently, still intact after all these years.
Here is a typical entry:
“Willow Creek, California. Mutipul sightings. Footprints left. 10 to 12 foot creature. Threw logs and pushed over an engine.”
Clearly, I was a little rubbery in my spelling but a little ahead of my time in my interest. Today, “Bigfoot hunting” is the new “Nazi hunting,” the go-to programming staple of much of cable television’s lesser networks. It’s comforting to know that if the acting police finally apprehend me, I could still make a living as a telegenic Sasquatch hunter. The “Scud Stud” of bipedal-hominoid fetishists, if you will.
I tried to pass my interest on to my sons when they became the same age as I was when I saw The Legend of Boggy Creek. Both Matthew and Johnowen had an inherent interest in spooky things as well as an appreciative enthusiasm for the tall tales I would concoct at bedtime. Although I read them (and tried unsuccessfully to hide my tears over) Where the Red Fern Grows and the never-ending Harry Potter books, I most enjoyed my ad-libbed stories. As you can imagine, Bigfoot was a very useful character. Sometimes I would attempt to fashion a sort of multimedia experience by referring to goodies I found on the Internet.
As it turns out, one of the most famous recordings of a Bigfoot howling was made not far from where I grew up. “The Ohio Scream” is a truly frightening snippet of a bizarre-sounding, high-pitched shriek ending in a low, moaning wail. Authentic or not, it will make the hair on your neck stand up. Being the inveterate mimic I am, it wasn’t long before I had my own version of the Ohio Scream. While the boys enjoyed a scary bedtime story or two, I wasn’t looking to traumatize them, so I kept my latest character under wraps. I believe that all parents, however on point they may be, will, in the course of their child-raising duties, give their kids plenty of ammo for the shrink’s couch, but I wasn’t going to make my Bigfoot thing one of them.
But then the family planned a trip to the Pacific Northwest.
It was during Christmas break on my first year on The West Wing. Having never been on an hour-long television series, I was already an exhausted husk of a man and we had thirteen more episodes still to do. And probably only an exhausted husk of a man would’ve agreed to the itinerary my well-meaning and adventure-minded wife had put together.
The plan was for us to join her sister Jodi; Jodi’s husband, Brian; and their two boys in a Winnebago caravan for a road trip up the coast, camping in remote campsites as we went. This would be a low-tech, old-school endeavor. I love to drive and I wanted my boys to have the same “Are we there yet?” odyssey that I had as a child.
I have my strong suits and long ago stopped beating myself up for my lack of facility in areas that aren’t in my wheelhouse. For example, I am not what you would call “handy.” I can’t fix anything if it breaks. I will never work for NASA. I will never even properly set my DVR. Although I could change a flat tire if I had to, it wouldn’t be pretty and it would likely take a number of days. Thankfully, my brother-in-law would be with us. He is not only unbelievably handy but a teamster captain as well. Between the two of us, I would handle the campfire stories, and he would make sure everything ran like a military operation.
In Hollywood, Western Costume is the place all movies and TV shows go to when stumped trying to fi
nd fantastic wardrobe. So naturally, I knew exactly where to go to find the most realistic Bigfoot costume. I found a genuine-looking and slightly frightening bodysuit, Velcro-ed up the back, with a sculpted headpiece and deep-set black eye sockets. My idea was to put it on at some point in the trip, to ensure that the boys had their own “Bigfoot sighting.” I hid the thing in the bowels of the undercarriage of the motor home for the utmost secrecy, and off we went.
For Christmas I had gotten Sheryl and the boys matching state-of-the-art bicycles. We hooked them to the back of the RV for the trail rides through the towering sequoias, but I crushed them into pretzel shapes backing out of our driveway. Brian, who had a long history of shooting projects on location, laughed. “Actors should hang out in Winnebagos, not drive them.”
The trip improved rapidly once we got out of our driveway. We played cards, listened to music, played “spot the license plate” and all of the other family road-trip games that are in the American tradition. I was in heaven. Sheryl and I had created exactly the simple family vacation we’d hoped for.
Somewhere just south of Eureka, our caravan pulled into one of those irresistibly cheesy log-cabin tourist traps. When I was my kids’ age, it would have been a Stuckey’s with warnings of its impending freeway exit every mile. I have no idea why horrible Native American tchotchkes and maple-log rolls could’ve made a seven-year-old so happy, but they always did.
Although this place was no Stuckey’s, it did offer something even better. There was an entire section devoted to Bigfoot! They sold totems, postcards and Sasquatch stuffed animals. The boys loved it.
A pleasant, middle-aged woman rang up our purchases.
“See much of Bigfoot up here?” I asked with a chuckle and enough plausible deniability cloaking my interest.
“Not so much anymore,” she said with matter-of-fact seriousness.
I looked for some sign that she was being cute or pulling my leg a little. But she clearly meant what she’d said; it was as if I’d asked her about the snowfall levels in the area.
Not so much anymore.
I had to get to the bottom of this.
“Um, what do you mean?” I asked casually, as I didn’t want to spook her into clamming up.
“We don’t see them much now.” I waited for more explanation but none was coming.
“So . . . you have seen them?”
“Oh sure. Saw them a lot when I was a girl,” she said with not much enthusiasm, like she was describing a family who had moved away. “Most times I would be alone, and I would smell the bad smell and one would be there. When I was thirteen I was getting clothes off the line at sundown and it came out of the woods to look at me.”
“Whaaaaaat?!” I was thinking, but instead just said, “Cool.”
“Yeah. I think there’s been so many roads put in, so much building, that they went deeper in the woods.”
I shook my head.
“We don’t see them much anymore,” she said, and handed me my change.
Lucas and Jacob, my nephews, were towheaded, rough-and-tumble kids right out of Tom Sawyer. They loved my boys and vice versa. Brian and I spent a good part of the trip teaching them all the finer points of football as we camped in the pines and redwoods at our final destination, the almost unbearably gorgeous Patrick’s Point near the Northern California border. Sheryl and her sister Jodi made us nightly feasts, Brian played guitar and I told stories. I will remember us as we were then, forever.
As an adjunct to my storytelling, one night I decided to debut my Ohio Scream, which I had been perfecting in secret for a number of months.
Excusing myself to go to the bathroom, I stepped away from the campfire and walked into the forest.
“Uuuooowaaaaaah!”
“Uuuuooowaaaah!”
Cantor Lamb would’ve been proud; I was all diaphragm and vocal technique as my spooky shriek echoed off the redwoods through our campsite.
When I returned, the boys were wide-eyed and excited.
“Dad!! Dad!! You missed it!! We heard a Bigfoot!!”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I think I would know,” said Johnowen with a self-satisfied smile.
His brother and their cousins nodded their heads in agreement.
Later that night, as Sheryl and I cozied up in the back sleeping area of the motor home she asked, “Are you sure this Bigfoot thing is a good idea?”
“Absolutely!”
“Well, the cousins seemed a little freaked out.”
“Ah, they’re boys! It’s good for them! All kids love scary campfire stories.”
I could tell that she was not convinced and I chalked up our different views to yet another way that fathers and mothers see things differently. Which is good and the reason kids need both. One can say, “When you climb that jungle gym, be safe,” while the other says, “Climb your highest.”
The next morning I woke before anyone and stepped into the crackling frost covering the ground around our campsite. Soon everyone would be up exploring in the crisp December light, breath clearly visible but fading in the slowly warming sunshine. There was an unnamable satisfaction about it, about watching these boys together, observing them killing time, sometimes excited, sometimes bored, but always in nature and with very few distractions. I don’t know why but I knew even as I was living those moments that they would ultimately be as unrepeatable as they were magical.
Secretly, I unearthed the Bigfoot costume from the luggage compartment under the RV. I inspected it closely for the evening’s performance, as all actors should before going onstage. The suit was impressive, like the one in Harry and the Hendersons. The eyes in particular were quite good; they were dark marbles with irises that seemed to stare. The actual eyeholes were two diagonal slots below them, camouflaged with black netting. I rolled the thing up and hid it in the bushes for easy access that night.
After a long day of hunting the agates that peppered the rocky beach at Patrick’s Point, we had a big dinner and broke out the s’mores at the campfire.
“Rob, did you see any Bigfoot tracks today?” asked Brian helpfully.
“I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean much. They are very stealthy. I mean, one could be out there, just beyond the firelight.”
I stole a glance at the boys, who hung on every word. Soon Brian brought out his guitar and had everyone singing songs. This was my cue.
I made my escape with the costume unnoticed and found a hollow in the dense forest about one hundred yards from the campsite. Not too close but close enough to be well seen. I unfolded the suit.
It was show time!
The first problem was the fit. Why I hadn’t bothered to try it on is anyone’s guess (laziness?), but as I slid my legs into the bottom half, it became clear that it wasn’t meant to be worn over clothes. I wasn’t about to strip to my underwear in the evening chill, so I forced my legs inside till they looked like hirsute sausages. I then realized that I needed a second person to Velcro closed the back. Finally, using a tree trunk to pin it and rolling my torso around, I got the dammed thing semiclosed.
I gave an Ohio Scream shriek. I could hear the campsite go deathly quiet. I grabbed the Bigfoot head, ready to put it on and step out into the trail where the boys would see me.
The second I put the head on I knew it was a disaster. The eyeholes were a good four inches too high. I could see nothing but black and could feel the rubber on my eyelashes. I was completely blind. No matter how I pulled and adjusted, I couldn’t get the eyeholes to my eye level. But I had come too far; the stage was set, and there could be no turning back. With another shriek, I stepped out into the moonlit trail, caught my foot on a root and fell over headfirst.
“Mom, there’s a dog lying down in the trail!” said one of the boys. (Although I couldn’t see, I could hear perfectly.)
I was flooded with humiliated panic, convinced that imminently the boys would charge the “dog” to discover me in costume, flat on my face. There would be no way to explain it th
at wouldn’t be the kind of mortifying scenario all parents desperately spend their lifetimes trying to avoid.
“Aaauuuughoooh!” I screamed, hoping to stave them off, as I crawled around on all fours, the tightness of the suit making it impossible to stand. “Aaauuuughooh!”
I made my way back into the thicket and out of eyeshot. By bear-hugging a sequoia trunk I was eventually able to get to my feet. I was ready to try again.
I stepped back onto the trail. I tried to do the famous arm-swinging Bigfoot walk as best I could, considering I was trying not to fall over again. Now I heard the sounds of the kids freaking out.
“It’s Bigfoot!”
“Oh my God!”
“Aaaah!”
There were excited—if petrified—squeals and then the unmistakable sound of my nephew Jacob throwing up, which he did whenever he was scared. (Yet another thing I hadn’t taken into consideration.) It began to dawn on me that maybe Sheryl had been right about this caper all along. But if I’ve learned anything in my decades as an actor, it is that if a performance is going into the weeds, you must commit even further. I assumed the body language of a “shocked” Sasquatch as best I could and grunted like a silverback.
The reaction from the campsite was exactly the clambering ruckus I had hoped for, save the vomiting. It was time to get offstage while the getting was good. Always leave them wanting more. But as I slowly attempted to get back to the forest, I heard the sounds of tiny feet running my way. Within seconds whoever it was was right in front of me.
“Get out of here! You . . . you . . . college student!” said a voice I recognized as Matthew’s. Then he kicked me in the nuts.
This time, my Ohio Scream was authentic. As I doubled over, I pulled the mask down to better see my attacker. Matthew stood before me defiantly. He wasn’t going to let this hairy beast into his campsite. For all he knew, I was a college student, hopped up on God knows what, but he wasn’t scared and was clearly taking no shit whatsoever.