A genuine, dangerous spontaneity is what made Don Rickles one of the greatest late night television guests of all time. Who else entertained at such a high level? And who else did so consistently, and for so long?
Rickles always walked on stage to the matador’s theme, “La Virgen de la Macarena.” His arena was the dangerous spectacle of his own act. But when the theme played on late-night television and Rickles sat down across from the host, whether it be Carson, Letterman, Conan, or Kimmel, he took on the role of both matador and bull. To book Rickles, as The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson did more than one hundred times, was to accept battle.
In his later years, Rickles frequently noted the special bond he had with Johnny Carson. They would often ignore their notes, instead talking off the cuff. The example Rickles often gave of their banter goes something like:
Carson: How’s your mother?
Rickles: You never liked my mother, what are you bringing her up for?
Though Rickles played the part of the bellicose comic whom Carson himself nicknamed “Mr. Warmth,” there was more truth in his appearances than most on late night. His act from the couch served in effect to deconstruct the actual phoniness of most appearances. Who cares about the guest’s mother? The mission here is to entertain at all costs.
But Rickles also had range. On The Tonight Show, he was not limited to the confines of the couch, as he proved on November 14, 1973. On this night, Rickles had already wrapped up his own appearance when Olga Fikotova Connolly joined the broadcast. Originally from Czechoslovakia, Connolly won a gold medal for discus at the 1956 Olympics games. It was there she met another Olympian who would soon become her husband, James Connolly of the United States, leading to a wedding that wrought a media frenzy at the height of the Cold War. By 1973, she was divorced and director of recreation at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles.
As Connolly sat down on the couch, Carson turned to her and said, “It looks like we have something dangerous planned here tonight.” Following some discussion on the role of women in sports, including Connolly’s thoughts on the recent “Battle of the Sexes” tennis match won by Billie Jean King, the two pivoted to the evening’s main event: a series of athletic competitions, featuring the trio of Carson, Connolly, and Rickles.
Before leaving the couch, Connolly and Carson arm wrestle. Carson takes off his jacket and tosses it to Rickles: “Have this back Thursday,” he says. Rickles then takes the jacket, stands up, and tosses it to Ed McMahon, “Eddie, have this back Thursday.” Connolly and Carson then engage in their battle, which ends without either claiming victory, although the win must surely go to Connolly, who is holding back laughs the entire time as Carson winces and wails.
Then comes some conditioning: sit-ups. “You want to get involved in this, Rickles?” Carson asks. “Whatever you say coach,” he replies. At the outset of the segment, Carson had said nothing was rehearsed— and here, it sure looks like it.
The trio walks over to a mat laid out stage left. Rickles incredulously points out that Carson is wearing sneakers while he is stuck in dress shoes. Rickles smacks his belly, ready for work. Connolly then leads them through the form of a perfect sit-up and reveals the challenge: the first to do 25 sit-ups wins. Carson and Rickles can’t believe it. “25?!” they both say. “Get an emergency squad here,” Rickles adds.
They begin, with another of the evening’s guests, the legendary former baseball player Leo Durocher (then in his sixties), keeping count. Connolly soon begins making quick work of Carson and Rickles. Realizing this, the two behave like brothers, reaching over to hit one another in the chest. Carson reaches over and hits Rickles in the throat. Rickles responds by jumping on top of Carson, pretending to kiss him. The audience—and Connolly—love it.
“He made me kiss him!” Rickles declared.
“No wonder you didn’t get married until you were 38,” Carson replied, without missing a beat.
After a commercial break, the show returns with a basketball hoop now on set. The trio are going to play one-on-one, but Connolly jokes that perhaps, following their display in the sit-up competition, she should play them one-on-two.
Instead, the series begins with Connolly v. Carson. She misses the first shot. Carson gets the rebound. “Do I have to take it out?” Carson says, asking whether he needs to bring the ball back to the top of the court before shooting again. Rickles can’t believe he would ask a question with such an obvious answer: “Think, dumbbell, think.” Carson then shows off his dribbling skills, backing Connolly down into the paint before trying out a winding hook-shot that misses.
Then it is Rickles’ turn. He insists she play offense. She soon takes the ball, driving to the basket. “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he says as she puts up a shot, “Let’s talk about this!” Swish. The audience goes wild. “You came from a little country,” Rickles jokes, “try to be humble.”
Rickles gets the ball. He starts to dribble before Carson cuts him off: “That’s a double dribble!” “Story of my life,” Rickles replies. Olga then gets right up on him, playing tight defense, doubling over in laughter. “I hope that’s you, Olga,” he says. “Because you’re starting to make me smile.” Olga’s head leans back in laughter and Rickles takes his chance. In this game of athletic skill, disorienting his opponent with laughs is the only chance he has. He spins around and shoots, missing by several feet. A moan from the crowd.
“She fouled me!” Rickles declares. “Two shots! Number 4, pushing off! His timeout! Cleveland!” As wonderfully nonsensical as ever. Carson gets another chance, but Connolly quickly drives right past him. She misses a lay-up but gets her own rebound and puts it in. The boys, realizing just how outmatched they are, come up with another idea: play one another.
Carson takes the ball out against Rickles and sticks his leg up, back, and between Rickles’ own. “I love you,” Rickles says, hugging Carson from behind. Eventually, Carson backs him down. Rickles plays defense by more or less wrapping his arms around Carson, who, naturally, misses his shot.
“You tired, old man?” Rickles asks, once again bringing the ball back to the top of the key.
Rickles begins to make a joke about Carson, as an old man, spitting up. But before he can even finish, Carson, from behind, reaches between Rickles legs, trying to grab the ball. And he, well, let’s just say he hits him in a place you really don’t want to be hit.
After the hit, Rickles sells the moment, stomping away. The band begins to play, drumming to his every step. The audience laughs and gasps. Connolly has a hand to her forehead. A bugle begins to play the military song of mourning. Carson takes one last shot.
Rickles limps back to the desk chair and Carson returns to the desk. “That’s the way we used to play on my team back in Nebraska,” quips Johnny.
Watch the full segment at the top of this post.
