Columnist Joe Delaney: One man's memories of a master entertainer

JOE DELANEY is a Sun columnist and critic who has been active in the entertainment industry for more than 50 years.

Frank Sinatra, the man and his music, touched us all during these past seven decades. The man may have been less than perfect, proof that he was, in fact, human. No one can quarrel with the quality and the extent of his contribution to popular music in this century.

Only one artist has had hit records in every decade for the past seven. In 1994, his "Duets" album was certified platinum, signifying sales of more than two million units. That artist: Francis Albert Sinatra. Look for his outstanding recordings to be re-mastered and re-issued and, in many cases, with sales that exceed the original release.

He started out as part of the Hoboken Four. My first awareness of Frank Sinatra was an indirect one. My grandfather was a faithful listener to radio's "Major Bowes Amateur Hour." The Hoboken Four was his favorite of all the weekly contenders. It was sometime later that I learned that Sinatra was a member.

In 1939, I was just out of high school at age 17. Frank was 23, and I bought his recording of "All Or Nothing At All," featuring the Harry James Orchestra. Sinatra made national headlines when he left the orchestra in the late '30s for the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra. A year later, Frank recorded his first best-seller, "I'll Never Smile Again," with Dorsey.

Earlier that year, I had organized the workers in an Italian-American bakery. Shortly after, as I left work early one morning, five men jumped me and I received quite a beating. As I passed out, I heard a voice say, "That's enough."

Badly beaten, I spent the next six months in the hospital and had the last rites of the Church. It seemed that every other record played on the radio was Sinatra singing "I'll Never Smile Again" as I lay there depressed over the loss of my girlfriend and very slowly working my way back to health.

Many years later, I told this story to comedian Shecky Greene and he turned it into a Sinatra story. Greene had worked with Frank in Florida, filming "Tony Rome." Shecky would set it up by saying that Frank had saved his life. "Five guys were beating me up outside the Fountainbleu Hotel in Miami Beach and I heard Frank say, 'That's enough.' "

When I graduated Tulane Law School in 1953 and returned to New York City, I became associated with Tommy Dorsey, who had reunited with his brother, Jimmy, and was doing a national television show on CBS, preceding "The Jackie Gleason Show" and produced by Gleason.

Dorsey was a stern taskmaster, but fair. Sinatra acknowledged that Tommy was his first mentor and most profound early influence. A great deal of Frank's business acumen, and certainly his lifetime love for good songs, the authors, composers, arrangers and musicians are a direct result of his association with Tommy Dorsey.

Tommy called Frank "my best pupil." Dorsey once told me he tried to get him to change his name -- that Sinatra was "too Italian," difficult to pronounce and too long for a theater marquee. Frank's reply (expletives deleted) was, "Sinatra is my father's name, it's my name and I would give up singing first." Dorsey said he never brought the matter up again.

My personal association with Sinatra began in the '60s, when I began writing for the Las Vegas Sun. It was during the '70s that we began to work together on various charity and fund-raising activities, including telethons and the "Nites of Stars" events for St. Jude's Ranch for Children, and the KLVX Channel 10 weekend fund-raising marathons that I hosted.

On one occasion, the KLVX marathon had come up short of its goal. A week later, there was a call from Dorothy Uehlmann, Frank's longtime secretary, asking how we made out. Two days later, there was a check to make up the difference.

Comedian Pat Henry and Frank Sinatra not only worked together (Pat was his opening act), they were also the best of friends. When Pat would finish his act, Frank would call him back for another bow. Just as Pat would appear, Frank would say, "That's enough." It was in fun and good for a laugh.

On one "Nite of Stars" at Caesars Palace, I was directing and the sequence had the opening acts introducing the closing acts at their respective hotels. That night, we had Norm Crosby introducing Tony Orlando, then Pat Henry was to introduce Frank Sinatra.

Crosby was onstage and Orlando's sidemen had already taken their place on the bandstand with the Dick Saxe Orchestra. Word came down that Sinatra had his private plane waiting at the airport and had to get back to Palm Springs for an affair at publisher Walter Annenberg's home.

I sent a note to Crosby, asking him to introduce Sinatra rather than Orlando. Tony consented to pull his sidemen off the stage in favor of Frank's back-up players. This meant that Pat Henry would folllow rather than precede Sinatra. It had been a difficult moment.

Calling Pat aside, I reminded him of all the times that Frank had called him back for another bow then said, "That's enough." This might be his only chance to get even. Norm did introduce Sinatra, who sang four songs. Pat came onstage as Frank walked off, and called him back for another bow. With perfect timing, Henry did unto Sinatra what had been done to him so many times. The audience loved it.

As Frank was leaving, he pointed a finger at me and vowed to get even, which consisted of sending me a 10-pound sack of pistachio nuts, accompanied by another of his warm, personal "Francis Albert" letters. We had been fellow pistachio nut nuts. Sinatra had a great sense of humor. The exchanges stopped when he told me that he had developed diverticulosis.

In my three decades at the Sun, Sinatra never said "no" when I called upon him for a worthy cause. He responded to others as well. Frank loved Las Vegas. No one person did more to put the city on the map.

Whatever the event, Sinatra would come through, financially as well as personally. I was the conduit in helping some performers who had fallen on tough times or needed medical attention. The condition was, "they're not to know and no publicity, please."

The last time I saw Sinatra was at the Desert Inn, earlier this decade. My daughter, Kathleen, then 29, had never seen him. She was my date. I was concerned that she would not see Sinatra at his best. I shouldn't have been -- Frank was in top form.

He even included an extra encore, the very difficult "Soliloquy" from "Carousel." It was a most rewarding evening for both father and daughter, one to be treasured always.

Like the little girl with the little curl in the center of her forehead, when Frank was at his best, there was none better. On his worst behavior he was formidable, one of the best at being at his worst.

Now that he has rejoined most of his old associates and erstwhile Rat Packers, and as that Great Accountant in the sky makes up a final balance sheet for Francis Albert Sinatra, we know the bottom line will be overwhelmingly positive.

Thank you, Frank, for so very much.

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