When I was seven years old, I wanted nothing more than to be Superman. I would have preferred to become him immediately, but I didn’t care if I had to wait until I grew up. As long as I was Superman. By the time I’d gotten to 5th grade—that made me what? 11 or 12?—the coolest guy I could imagine was Tommy Smothers. I used to mimic his slurred laugh much to the irritation of my mother who would sometimes threatened to smack me a good one! By high school Joe Namath was perched firmly at the top of my hero list and I thought being him must surely be the coolest thing ever.
I suppose that hero worship has its advantages and disadvantages. I mean, it’s not a bad thing to look up to some people and admire who they are or what they’ve accomplished in their lives, but even if we pattern certain behaviors after another’s, we can ultimately only be ourselves. Except, there was this one day that I got to be Jerry Vale.
If you’re unfamiliar with Mr. Vale, he was an American singer of Italian descent, born in 1930 in the Bronx. He was most famous for romantic Ballads sung in his distinctive tenor voice.
Imagine me—of all people!—walking out onto the main stage at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas and singing all of my favorite songs to the adoring applause of a thrilled audience.
If our lips should meet, innamorata…
Kiss me kiss me sweet innamorata…
After a few numbers I loosened the tie and removed my tuxedo jacket as I casually bantered with my audience and, as the orchestra swelled beneath me, smoothly launched into my next song.
Penso che un sogno cosi non retorni mai piu,
Mi dipingevo la mani e la faccia di blue…
The single best night of my life. Or, it could have been. Except I can’t carry a tune and that’s not how I got to be Jerry Vale for a day.
Back in my days of producing television programs for nonprofit agencies, I was invited to their fundraising golf tournaments. One of my clients, United Cerebral Palsy of the Inland Empire was holding their tournament in Palm Desert at a Nick Faldo designed golf course and it happened to fall on my birthday. And on that day, the celebrity in our group was Jerry Vale.
As fate had it, I was riding in the same cart as Mr. Vale and he was a most pleasant playing companion. I played pretty well that day and the weather was perfect. At one point someone in our group commented on how smoothly I was swinging the club and I said that I had Al di la in my head. Everyone chuckled and Mr. Vale grinned. It was actually the truth. I often would try to pace my swing with a slow ballad. Being that Jerry was playing in our group, it was no real stretch to understand why I’d chosen that song that day. I mean, it was one of his most famous and he was sitting right there!
After we’d all hit our shots and were driving down the fairway, I mentioned to him that I never really learned the exact Italian lyrics to the verse at the beginning of Al di la. Mr. Vale began singing…
Al di la; del bene piu prezioso, ci sei tu
Al di la; del sogno piu ambizoso, ci sei tu
And when it came to the English section I joined in…
Where you walk flowers bloom
When you smile all the gloom turns to sunshiiiiiiine….
The sudden realization that I was singing with Jerry Vale! quickly brought a smile to my face and I nervously gulped and let the song fade.
This was the same year my father had passed away and my mother was spending some time with me. She came along to the tournament that day and waited for me in the clubhouse with the people from the charity. When we finished our round and met for the luncheon and awards, I introduced her to Jerry. He greeted my mother with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. (It’s an Italian thing.)
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On our drive home that day, she asked several questions about him and I was dumbstruck with a sudden realization of my stupidity; though it continually shines with such blazing intensity that it should never surprise me. I should have asked if Mom could ride along with us on the course that day! What an idiot. There was a foursome of players joined by a celebrity. That made five players and six cart seats. She could have ridden along while we played and gotten to sit next to one of her favorite singers. I have always wished that being a moron would have served me better in my life. Anyway, I shared my stupidity with my client (the charity) and a few years later they asked me to bring Mom along again and paired me with Mr. Vale.
Again he greeted Mom with a kiss and hug, treating her as a lifelong friend. (It’s an Italian thing.) My client arranged it so she got to ride in the cart with him and she later told me that she had a wonderful time talking with him.
And that’s the day I got to be Jerry Vale for a day!
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By this point in his life, Mr. Vale was recovering from a stroke and he couldn’t really play golf that well. He brought along his putter and putted on each hole, but the tournament organizers told us to take turns hitting Jerry’s shot for him. That’s pretty much standard practice in a scramble golf event; when a team is short a player, they rotate, taking turns hitting an extra shot to ensure they get as many chances as the other teams. And, to tell you the truth, it’s an advantage because the person whose turn it is to take a second try has already made a swing or felt the speed of the putt. And on this day, it quickly evolved to the three other players telling me to go ahead and hit the extra shot.
So I hit last in our foursome, usually hitting a moderately crappy shot, then I’d get another swing at it and clobber the ball or hit one closer on 
approach. Immediately the other three guys would turn to Mr. Vale and say, “Good shot, Jerry!” It became quite comical. I doubt I can now recall a shot I hit well on my first try, but I always managed a good or better shot on my second try. And they’d say, almost in unison, “Good shot, Jerry!” I’d look to find him grinning at me.
At one point I stepped past him on the way to my cart and said, “I will always remember today as the day I got to be Jerry Vale for a day.” He laughed, patted my forearm warmly and smiled up at me. It was a wonderful day. And though he was never able to play golf with us in subsequent tournaments, he always went out of his way to greet my mother at the annual banquet the night before the event.
Also, the year my mom rode in the cart with him, she asked him if he’d ever made a Christmas album. Of course he had. Following the round, he gave me his home phone number and asked me to call him the next morning, which I did. He told me he had some of his Christmas music for Mom and told me where he was having lunch that day. He said if I’d bring her by, he’d give it to her.
Mom with Jerry Vale
I stopped at the local store and bought two of his CD’s for him to sign for Mom, which he graciously did. Then he gave her a cassette tape, saying that he could only find one copy of this Christmas CD so he recorded it to tape for her.
I think, if you’re going to look up to someone, this is the kind of person I’d like to become.
When he passed away in 2014, I felt like I’d lost a family member.
Mille grazie, Signore. For all your kindnesses to my mother. 