Today’s release of Paul Newman’s long-anticipated memoire, “The Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Man” strikes me as a good occasion to post this essay I wrote a few years ago. Hope you enjoy.
“Old age and treachery beats youth and inexperience.”
That’s an old saying, but it was new to me when I first heard it more than 30 years from Paul Newman. He told me to use it as his response to a reporter who wanted to know how a racer in his 60’s could beat a field of drivers who were each half his age.
My then British kids knew him as the voice of the Hudson Hornet in “Cars” and as the guy whose face was on the carton of their favorite brand of American lemonade. Most everyone else knew him as an icon of the 20th century. The ultimate leading man. But when I started my agency career, I knew him as “Newmie,” just as all the guys at Bob Sharp Racing called him. Our client was Nissan. Paul Newman was our hero race car driver. And my job was to serve as the middleman between the news media and the world’s most famous actor/salad dressing magnate/race car driver.
It was often a tricky place to be. At every track – from Watkins Glen, N.Y. to Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin to his hometown course at Lime Rock Park in upstate Connecticut – Newman was by far the biggest draw. But he was notoriously reluctant to talk to journalists and purposefully shied from his adoring fans. Nissan, who footed the sponsorship bill for the race team, was in it for the media exposure and P.L. (his racing moniker) was in it purely for the joy of controlling a race car at the limit and the thrill of winning authentic competition. The public attention was a necessary evil, and by extension, so was I.
My first road trip as a junior account executive was to Braselton, Georgia where I met him and the team for the Sports car Club of America’s National Championship Run-offs at Road Atlanta. My instructions were brief. Don’t talk to Paul directly. Stay in the background. Listen carefully. His feedback to the race team was my best (and only) chance to capture quotes that I would be responsible for relaying to the awaiting media. Any quotes I attributed to Paul would not be approved by him, so I was on my own. If he didn’t like what he saw in the newspapers or on TV, I was history. Oh, and if he wins, make damned sure you get the Nissan hat on his head.
He won the race going away. And I got that damned hat on his head (even though I guessed incorrectly at the proper notch on the adjustable headband). But in clearing the cheering crowd that stood between the newly crowned champion and winner’s circle, I almost knocked over a beaming Joanne Woodward, who had worked her way through the madness to hug her husband. I hadn’t recognized her, but she is a gracious and kind woman and didn’t even raise an eyebrow. (I still cringe at the memory.)
I was honored to be asked back and served in the role for many races over several seasons. Getting our messages across was never a problem, but serving as Newman’s spokesman, often in the firing line of throngs of excited, star-struck media was thrilling, and often terrifying. If there were complaints, they were shielded from me. And as my face became more familiar to Paul and the team, we developed a trusted, if sometimes uneasy, working relationship.
My job was made easier by the fact that he had a one liner for nearly every occasion. “Hey Newman,” one boisterous fan yelled at him when I was taping up his hand before the start of practice at Mid-Ohio, “Take off them sunglasses and show me your baby blues.” He didn’t look up but said evenly, “Lady, I stopped taking orders when I left the Navy.”
I heard similar requests for him to remove his sunglasses countless times over the years, some more polite than others. The line he used most often was a version of “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. My pants will fall down.”
My Mom always got a kick out of seeing me in AP wirephotos with him. It sounds crazy, but when the media couldn’t get to Paul, they settled for me. Unbelievably, I was on the front page of the Detroit Free-Press, quoted at Paul Newman’s press agent. I did TV interviews for him. The questions were always the same – “How does acting compare to race car driving?” and “Acting or racing, which does he like more?”
The job had awesome fringe benefits. One race weekend, the race team served as a focus group for Newman’s Own Lemonade. Jane Fonda hung out in the pits with us at Riverside. I flew back to LA from Brainerd, Minnesota with Marsha Mason. I got to work with Tom Cruise, who Paul introduced to racing during the filming of “The Color of Money.” And when the day was done, as part of the race team, we all chilled together and downed ice cold Buds with our driver.
When he was racing, he rarely mixed talk about his acting and his philanthropy – such was his intense focus on being the best racer he could be. He was a film star of the highest magnitude, an activist and an entrepreneur who gave away millions, but at the track he wanted nothing more than to blend in with the team. There was no hiding the fact we were all in the presence of greatness, but the unspoken word was that at the race track, we only talked racing.
I have bored my family and friends senseless with old bench racing tales, but my favorite is the one that took place on the day after Oscar night in April 1988. Paul, having won the year before, had presented the Best Actress Oscar to Cher for her starring role in “Moonstruck.” But on this Monday morning, it was all about racing and there we were, gathered at Willow Springs Raceway, about 90 miles north of LA, for the first practice of the season. Owing to the off-season, we hadn’t been with each other since the previous November and it was good to see everyone again.
After the usual pleasantries, I took up my usual position on the pit wall with my stopwatch and clipboard. I sat down with my back to Paul, who had climbed into his brand new 300ZX Turbo race car and fired it up.
Over the belching roar of the engine, I heard him yelling “Peter! Hey, Peter! Peter!” I didn’t pay much attention and fiddled with my stopwatch. Again, I heard him yell “Peter! Peter!” Now he was seriously agitated. For crying out loud Peter, will you turn around?” Oh man, Peter is in for it now, I thought to myself.
I looked over and there he was, obviously frustrated and waving ME over to the car, where he wanted my help with an ill-fitting glove. When he was satisfied, he dropped the car into low gear and screeched off, down the track into Turn One.
I remember thinking, geez, I know it’s been a long winter but after a few seasons of this, you’d think he’d remember my name. Peter?! Guess I’m not as tight with ol’ Newmie as I thought.
A few hour later we were all eating lunch and he came up to me. “Jon,” he said with emphasis and shaking his head. “Why the hell was I calling you ‘Peter? It’s been bugging me all morning.” (Ah – he DOES remember my name, I thought, feeling relieved and suddenly proud of the attention.) “But I finally figured it out.
“Peter Higgins is the kid who lives down the street and delivers my newspaper.”
He had confused me with his 10 year-old paperboy. Then he gave me a wide smile, yes, flashing those famous eyes of his, and then burst out laughing.
– Peter