"All right," he said, "what do you have in mind?"
"I have a great idea," I told him, "but I don't want to talk about it until I've had time to really put it together."
"No, no, what is it?" he asked. "You've got to tell me."
I said, "Look, I really do have a great idea, but I need a few days."
Of course, I did not have a great idea. I had no idea at all, but I knew that Frank needed a great idea less than he needed the prospect of a great idea, the promise of an event that would lift him out of his funk.
He said, "Tell me, Jerry. You've got to tell me."
So I started talking, improvising…
"Were going to do Madison Square Garden," I said.
"Yeah, so what?" said Frank. "We've done Madison Square Garden before. What's so great about that?"
"Now wait, Frank, hold on, let me tell you how we're going to do it…"
I kicked my voice up a notch, going into full ringmaster mode.
"… We're going to do it live, Frank! Live!"
"Yeah, so what? We're live every night. That's show business."
"Yes, but we're never live like this," I said, "on every television in America and all across the world."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah…"
And now that I had gotten the thread I was gone.
"And let's do it in the center of the Garden," I told him, "on the floor, in a boxing ring."
"A boxing ring? What are you talking about?"
"I'll tell you what I'm talking about. You're the heavyweight champion of the world, Frank. You hold every belt in the world of entertainment. The number-one singer in the world. No challengers, no one even close. So let's do it in a ring, and make it like a heavyweight title fight, and invite all the people who go to heavyweight title fights, because they're your fans. And let's get Howard Cosell to be the announcer. Yeah, wow, I can hear it!"
"Hear what, Jerry? What can you hear?"
"I can hear Howard Cosell. He's ringside, his hand over his ear, announcing it as you come down the aisle, climb through the ropes and into the ring: "Ladies and gentlemen, live from Madison Square Garden. Jerry Weintraub presents 'Sinatra, the Main Event.'
"And here's the best part," I told Frank. "No rehearsals."
"No rehearsals."
"No rehearsals. You just get there on the night of the show, and sing your songs, and do your thing, as fresh and spontaneous as can be-like a heavyweight title fight. Frank Sinatra Live!"
"The Main Event" was one of the great concert events of the age, Sinatra, in a ring in the center of his town, singing the story of his life, and this is how it began, on the roof of Caesars, Sinatra depressed and brooding, Weintraub talking and talking.
When we got to New York, Sinatra checked into a suite in the Waldorf Astoria and I went to the Garden to set this thing up. Live? In every house in America, in every nation on earth? What was I thinking? The project had grown quickly-too quickly. It started as a concert broadcast on TV, but there was now a record and a film. And we had five days to pull it off. Just like that, I had three hundred people working for me. By the second day, I was feeling pressure. By the fourth, I was in a mild panic. By the fifth, I was out of my mind. What had started as a ploy to snap Frank out of his depression had turned into a major deal-handled wrong, it could turn into a major embarrassment.
At such times, I become obsessed with details. That's where God is, so that's where I go, with my notebook and phone numbers and head full of ideas. The people, the angles, the chairs-I wanted to get everything exactly right. I hired Roone Arledge, who was then head of ABC Sports and ABC News, to produce the broadcast. I hired Don Ohlmeyer, who ended up being president of NBC, and Dick Ebersol, who later ran NBC Sports, and still does.
We built the boxing ring, arranged the seats, rehearsed the camera moves, intros, and exits, everything choreographed to a fraction of a second. Commercials were a major issue. We were supposed to break six times in the hour, and needed a system whereby Frank would know when to close out a song and when to start back in. Also, which songs would work the best as hooks, and which would work the best as lead-ins to new segments. Simply put, I needed Frank at the Garden for a rehearsal. But when I called his room at the Waldorf, there was no answer, nor a return call, day after day. Finally, on the morning of the show, a secretary answered.
"This is Jerry Weintraub," I told her. "I've got to talk to Frank."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Mr. Sinatra is not available."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I said. "We have a show tonight! At 8:00 P.M., we go live around the world."
"I'm sorry," she said "but he's indisposed."
Click.
I kept calling, but he never got on the phone.
At 2:00 P.M. a note arrived from Sinatra. It was his set list, the songs he planned to sing. It was ridiculous, absurd. I could not believe what was on there. "Crocodile Rock," "Disco Inferno."
To hell with this! I jump in a cab and head over to the Waldorf.
I went through the lobby, up the elevator, knocked on the door. I was in a panic. Clearly, Sinatra was not. He was, in fact, sitting in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette as he read the newspaper. I went over, holding the set list.
"What is this?" I asked.
"What's what?" he said.
"These songs."
He laughed. His hair was pushed back and every part of him glittered. His funk had clearly lifted. "Forget the list," he said. "I wanted to see you, and figured that list would get you here quicker than a phone call."
"Okay, great," I said, "why did you want to see me?"
"Because you've been calling every eight minutes. What do you need, Jerry?"
"Well, I'll tell you," I said. "We have a live show in five hours, Frank. I need you to come to the Garden."
"No, Jerry, you said no rehearsal, remember? Live?"
"Yeah, I remember, but this thing has grown."
"Don't worry, Jerry."
Sinatra obviously had a plan in mind, but he was not sharing it with me.
"Well, I am worried," I said. "Can't we just do a quick run-through?"
"No, Jerry, no rehearsal. That's what you said. I will be there when the show starts. That's when you need me. Not before."
At 7:30 P.M., his limo pulled into Madison Square Garden. The streets were filled with scalpers and fans-and that special electricity only Frank could generate. He had arrived with a police escort, sirens, flashing lights. He climbed out, straightened his tux, tossed away a cigarette, took my arm, and asked, "How you doing, kid?"
"Not great," I said.
"We'll fix that in a minute," he told me. "First, remember to tell your wife, Jane, to get in the car when I start singing 'My Way.' I want to go by Patsy's and pick up some pizzas for the plane."
So that was what he was thinking about-not the show, not the commercial breaks, not the slender thread that was holding me above the flames of oblivion, but the pizzas he would eat on the way back to Palm Springs.
As we were walking to the dressing room, his entourage trailing behind us, he said, "Okay, Jerry. What's the problem?"
"We're going to commercial six times in this hour," I told him, "and this is a live show, and you don't know when to break."
"Jerry, is there a kid around here with a red jacket?" he asked.
"I'm sure we can get one," I said. "Why?"
"Have a kid in a red coat stand up ringside with a sign that says 'five minutes,' " he said. "When I see him, I will start 'My Way.' "
"Okay," I said, "but what are you going to do during the six commercial breaks?"