Grateful American

by Gary Sinise

  Each year, CBS televises a big charity pro-am golf tournament sponsored by AT&T. It’s all for a good cause, and the idea is that two professional golfers team up with two amateurs, the foursomes play together, and it’s broadcast on national TV. I still didn’t know much about golf, but somehow in 2005 I got asked to play in the tournament. Actually, the term is “strongly encouraged” to play. CSI: NY was still young, and network execs recognized the opportunity for publicity when announcer could introduce me and plug my new series.

  I headed to the tournament in Pebble Beach, between Monterey and Carmel, California, my knees shaking. You play for three days, then if you make the cut, you advance and play a fourth day. Each of the first two days is at a different course. The third and fourth days are at Pebble Beach. Samuel L. Jackson and I were in a foursome together, and each of us was paired with a pro. To call Samuel an “amateur” is misleading. The man is an absolute golf ace. (He’s actually talked publicly about the clause written into his contracts stipulating he gets to play golf at least twice a week while making movies.) The other celebrities in the tournament were all aces too—Andy Garcia, Ray Romano, Kenny G, Michael Bolton, George Lopez, Tom Dreesen, Bill Murray. I, on the other hand, am a golf knucklehead.

  On hole number one, Samuel and I stepped up to the tee box. Samuel teed off first and hit his ball 280 yards right down the middle. A crowd had gathered to watch, but it wasn’t very large yet, and the people all applauded nicely. (As the tournament progresses, the crowd grows substantially bigger.) Then my turn came up. “Ladies and gentlemen, now on the tee, from the new hit series CSI: NY, Gary Sinise!” Yikes. Already my stomach ached. As I prepared to take my swing, I was sweating, and inside I was shaking, but I put on a good face, acting through my fear. I let loose with a nervous swing and sliced the ball down the fairway. At least I hit it, I thought. The crowd tried to be polite, clapping in that small-crowd golf kind of way.

  Few of my next shots went well. A slight rain fell, and I hit a ball into the woods, another into a water hole, another into a sand trap. Between the ninth and tenth holes, we passed the parking lot and I seriously considered jumping into my car and never looking back. But then I reminded myself that for an actor, the show must go on, so I powered up to the tenth tee and tried again. My golf pro caddied for me, so he gave me a few pointers along the way, and sometimes I hit a few good shots in a row. But nothing kept the feelings of panic under control.

  The good news was that Clint Eastwood hosted the tournament, and he subsequently became a friend as well as a big supporter of my foundation. The bad news is the second day went no better than the first. I hit the ball all over the place. By the third day, Saturday, we played at Pebble Beach, and the crowds had swelled. About midway through the course, as Samuel and I walked to the tee, the pro I was with knew the course and the tournament, and just before we turned the corner, he said, “Okay, get ready.” We turned the corner, and a massive crowd greeted us with applause. Literally thousands of people lined this hole, all the way from the tee to the green. My knees quaked. Again, Samuel’s shot flew straight down the fairway. I wound up with another big swing and launched. It didn’t look pretty, but again, at least I hit the ball and it stayed on the fairway. Still nervous but somewhat relieved, I glanced around for a tree I could throw up behind.

  On the tee at the eighteenth hole, in the distance, I could see that the grandstand surrounding the green was packed with people. And the fairway was lined with spectators all down the right side from tee to green. The Pacific Ocean was to our left. At least it’s a beautiful day, I thought. Here goes. My last drive. I’m going to nail this shot and walk to the green like a champion. I stepped up to the tee. The crowd grew quiet. I set up. Took my swing. Hit the ball, and . . . uh-oh . . . it soared over the crowd to the right. A polite little applause followed. I cracked some sort of joke and folks laughed. I wasn’t about to chase my ball into the crowd, so I said, “Guys, I’ll just walk it in from here and enjoy this beautiful day. You guys finish strong.” Samuel and the pros all kind of nodded and chuckled. They finished up, and I walked it in. I never pretended to be much of a golfer. It was a truly humbling few days. I was glad I did it, but I was also glad it was over.

  I think the ratings for CSI: NY actually went down after that.

  On my first USO trip to Iraq in 2003, I sat on the C-130 transport plane next to a man wearing a button with the picture of his two sons. His name was John Vigiano. His younger son, Joe Vigiano, was a highly decorated New York City police officer, and his older son, John Vigiano Jr., served with the FDNY in Brooklyn at Ladder 132, Engine 280, a station that lost six firefighters that terrible September day.

  John Vigiano Sr. and I became good friends over the years and remained so until his death in 2018. He served in the Marine Corps and is a legendary New York City firefighter himself. Both of his boys were family men and absolute heroes on the job. John Jr. was known as one of the best firefighters in his department, and Joe had taken three bullets in his career and received multiple awards for valor. John Sr. talked to his sons on the phone each day before work. His last line to each of them was always, “I love you.” He lost both of his sons in the Twin Towers’ collapse on 9/11. They laid down their lives trying to rescue others. John Jr. was thirty-six; Joe was thirty-four.

  After we returned from Iraq, John Sr. introduced me to many of New York’s bravest at the FDNY who inspired me with their selflessness and willingness to help others. John also proved a great inspiration to me in my Catholic journey. He was a man of deep faith who loved God. After losing both his boys and searching for their bodies among the rubble for days and days, John easily could have despaired or turned bitter. But he saw many people who came from all over America to help search for other people’s loved ones. He met many fellow Americans who passed out food and water to the rescue workers and who gave wherever they could. In light of the outpouring of support, John said to me, more than once, “I believe more good came out of September 11th than evil.” I will never forget that.

  John invited me to Ladder 132, the very station where his son John had worked, to meet the guys, have a classic chicken parm dinner (lots of bread, lots of pasta, lots of fun), and take a tour of the firehouse. The guys told me that if a bell rang and they needed to go out on a call, I should be ready too. So they dressed me up in full firefighter gear, and sure enough, a call came. We all jumped on the truck and headed out, sirens blaring. Somebody had fallen down an elevator shaft, and the guys set out to rescue him.

  Once we got to the site, one of the firefighters handed me some sort of tool and told me to look busy. Other engines from other houses were coming, and they didn’t want to explain me. Sure enough, other firefighters arrived, and they all sort of glanced at me and grinned. Turned out, the guys from Ladder 132 had handed me some sort of tool that no respectable firefighter would ever use in that specific rescue operation—so to their trained eyes I stuck out like a sore thumb. Like changing a flat tire with an egg beater. This was firefighter humor at its best, and everybody enjoyed a good laugh about it afterward, including me. The firefighters became an extremely important part of my life. These were the guys who were there during the first battle in the new war of the twenty-first century. They had lost friends and loved ones and seen horrific things that terrible day. I wanted to support them however I could, and many became great friends of mine. We’ve undertaken a number of initiatives together over the years. In 2016, to say thanks for championing their work, the FDNY commissioner Daniel Nigro made me an honorary battalion chief. My pals were all there for me, including John Vigiano, who drove into the city from his home in Long Island for this special day. I was and remain humbled to receive that recognition from the FDNY.

  In spring 2007, one of the firefighters I’d met on that first day, Mike Hyland, took me out to Coney Island, to nearby MCU Park, where the minor league Brooklyn Cyclones play baseball. Work had begun on a memorial for the firefighters of Brooklyn killed on 9/11. Mike intr
oduced me to Brooklyn-born resident Sol Moglen, who had dreamed up the idea to put beautiful panels with laser-engraved images of the first responders on the outside wall of the ballpark. About a third of the first responders killed on 9/11 had come from Brooklyn, and standing there, looking at the faces of the first responders who lost their lives, was very powerful. Sol explained how they wanted to expand the memorial to commemorate all 416 active duty first responders killed in the line of duty that day—including firefighters, Port Authority officers, NYC police officers, New York Department of State officers, New York Fire Patrol officers, responders from private emergency medical services, a canine rescue dog, and Father Mychal Judge, a fire department chaplain who was the first to lose his life at the Trade Center on September 11.

  A total of 417 faces on the wall.

  Right there, I offered to help them raise money to complete the memorial.

  On August 11, 2007, I donated my band, and we put on a concert at Brooklyn College that raised the funds to enable the expansion of the memorial, today named the Brooklyn Wall of Remembrance. The first responders memorialized on that wall gave everything. On May 18, 2008, the memorial was finished, and I was honored to help dedicate the wall at a huge ceremony. Rain poured, yet everybody stood solemnly in tribute. It was an amazing day, underscoring what great people serve at the FDNY and what fine work they do. I’ll always feel honored and blessed to have been able to help them establish that memorial to honor their fallen brothers and sisters.

  In 2011, for the premiere of CSI: NY season 8, I wanted to do an episode that featured the Brooklyn Wall of Remembrance and pitched it to our executive producer and show runner, Pam Veasey, who loved the idea. Pam assigned John Dove and Zachary Reiter to write the script. Both New Yorkers, John was actually a former New York City detective who was at Ground Zero on that terrible day. This script was very personal to them, as it was to me, and they did a fantastic job. We filmed the episode titled “Indelible” where Mac Taylor makes a speech at the wall. Art imitating life slightly, as Gary Sinise had made a speech at the wall on the day of the dedication. I suggested to our producers that we have a number of real-life first responders and their families standing with me in the scene, and they enthusiastically agreed. So I invited these special friends who had lost loved ones on 9/11 to be in the scene with me, with John Vigiano by my side. The premier date fell two weeks after the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and viewers tell us still today how much they love that episode. To me, it’s one of the best shows we did on CSI: NY, and one of the most special scenes I’ve ever done.

  Initially, we’d received a six-year deal for CSI: NY. That’s standard. It’s not a guarantee your show will last for six years, but if ratings show promise, then you’re locked in for that time. About three or four years in, CBS started talking about adding another season. So my agents did a little renegotiating, and we added a seventh season to the contract. It went year by year from then on.

  During all those years of TV work, I found the work honed my short-term memory. I could put lines into my head for a scene, deliver the lines, then almost erase my mind like a chalkboard so I could put new lines in for the next scene, then do it all over again the next day. The series as a whole is driven by plot, so we all needed to stay close to the scripts. You can’t really improvise forensic science, and the writers were very specific in how they wanted things delivered.

  In the beginning, the show revolved mostly around the work of solving murders—the science, the clues—but as the series went on, we delved into the personal storylines for each character. Melina Kanakaredes starred with me for the first six years. We were in a lot of scenes together and had great chemistry, I thought. Sela Ward replaced Melina for the last three years, and she was terrific too. We had a wonderful team of writers and producers, an amazing crew, a fantastic cast—Eddie Cahill, Hill Harper, Anna Belknap, Robert Joy, A. J. Buckley, and Carmine Giovinazzo—and I felt blessed to be part of the show, deeply appreciative of how well it was received, and forever privileged to work with such an excellent group of people.

  I had two linked setbacks on the show. Season 1, episode 21 featured a chase scene, shot on March 17, 2005, my fiftieth birthday. Carmine and I were working at night in an old subway tunnel in San Pedro, California. The two of us run after a suspect down a set of stairs into the subway. I warmed up and stretched out, and we did one take, then we headed back up the stairs and came running down for another take. Up and down we went. Take after take. On take seven, we were running hard down the stairs, and I still felt good, then whack—like a baseball bat walloped me in the back of my calf. I spun around to see if someone had kicked me, but nobody was there, and I collapsed on the floor in agony. Pain shot through my leg, and my whole body started shaking. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t put any pressure on my leg.

  I was taken to a car and then to the hospital. I had a gastrocnemius tear in my calf muscle. It was very painful. The doctor gave me crutches, a wrap, ice, and morphine, and the driver took me home to the San Fernando Valley. It was a Thursday night, about eight o’clock, and nobody was home. Moira had taken the kids to a school event. I sat on the couch and put my leg up. I felt blurry, buzzing on the morphine. The house was empty, I felt miserable, and I couldn’t help but mutter, “So this is fifty. Happy birthday, bud.”

  About an hour later, my family came home. Everybody fussed over my leg and wished me a happy birthday. Cake and ice cream and cards appeared as if by magic, and a lot of love and care were shown.

  Back at work, though, we still needed to finish shooting the episode. So we eventually completed the chase scene by having me sit on a stool and shooting close-ups that showed only my face popping into the frame. I’d be huffing and puffing as if I’d been running. The rest of the episode I’m either sitting at a desk or leaning against a wall. The final two episodes of the season were rewritten slightly so I could take it easier. But as I recovered, I gave those final two shows everything I had.

  Years later, in season 7, I was running after a bad guy again. I caught him and slammed him into the side of a truck. Whack—the same baseball bat hit my leg again, only this time my other one. I went down, my body went into shock, and it turned out I had another gastrocnemius tear. I now had a matching set. All nine seasons had physical stuff, and our stunt coordinator always took special care to determine which stunts I should or shouldn’t do, depending on their difficulty. I was fifty-seven, almost fiftyeight when the show finished its run, and though I always tried to keep in shape, the body has its limits. I found most of them.

  The end of season 4 and the start of season 5 featured a big two-part show, the first part a real cliff-hanger where a kidnapped Mac Taylor is knocked out and thrown into a car; then the car is dumped into the Hudson River. In the second part, Mac wakes up as the car goes down and escapes just in time. We shot the first part of that scene in a big tank in the San Fernando Valley. The plan was to shoot me inside the car as it slid underneath the water. I’d give the signal to be let out by banging on the car door. A diver with air tanks was stationed just outside my door, and his job was to listen for my signal, then yank the door open for me so I could swim out. Another diver with air tanks would be in the back seat of the car in case anything went wrong. His job was to quickly reach over and give me air in case of any delay.

  We did the first take, and everything went smoothly. The director called for a second take. The camera rolled, the car started submerging, and as I slid underneath the water inside the car, I banged on the door, but this time, nothing happened. I banged again. The door still didn’t open. Completely submerged, I could feel the air bursting inside my lungs. I couldn’t see a thing. I fumbled around, trying to reach back to the diver in the back seat so he could hand me air, but I couldn’t find him. I panicked, my lungs throbbing. I lay back against the opposite door, banged hard with my legs, and kicked the door open myself. I was nearly inhaling water by then, but at last I swam out, reached the top, and sucked in a huge lungful
of fresh air. Angry and frightened, I swore and shouted. Everybody looked alarmed, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Turned out the diver outside the door hadn’t felt my first two bangs. The diver in the back seat had tried to find me, but everything was happening so quickly, I was already out and up before we connected.

  Everybody was highly apologetic. We had worked out the safety precautions beforehand, and the first take had gone smoothly. But it was a fresh reminder to me on those risky shoots of the need to work out every contingency plan beforehand. As for me, takes were over for that scene. We flew to New York and shot the rest of the scene, with me walking out of the actual Hudson River, the car submerging in the background. That moment—and my calf issues—aside, everything went relatively smoothly on set, and I loved coming to work at CSI: NY.

  Apart from being artistic director at Steppenwolf, my role as Mac Taylor was the only job I’ve held for a long period. The network stayed solidly behind the show, and I was grateful for this good run. The production team appreciated what I wanted to do for our military and veterans, so they agreed to flexible shooting. As one example, in the 2012 season I had the opportunity to go to Kuwait and give a concert in January. One concert then home. CSI gave me a couple of days off from shooting, so I finished work one night, got on a plane the next morning, and flew to Kuwait City, returning to Camp Arifjan for a concert there the following night. The day I arrived I got in a nap, headed to the airstrip at Arifjan, boarded a Blackhawk, and flew out to Camp Buehring to visit troops. I was there for about three or four hours then jumped on the helo again for the ride back. Next day I visited with more troops, did our sound check, played the concert at night, and then headed to the airport for a late-night flight home. There and back in seventy-two hours. It was a great visit with the troops, although as soon as I returned home I was back on set with a ton of scenes to catch up on. No rest for me that week.