Modern Screen (Jan-Nov 1952)

reported for football practice, a couple of sports photographers from San Francisco asked him to pose for some pictures. "Give me a break," Gary said. "You don't want my picture. I haven't done anythmg to deserve it." In contrast to the actions of other famous mens' sons, this was a refreshing attitude. Almost at once, Gary was accepted by the other fellows on the squad as a regular guy. "He didn't make the team," one of the coaches points out, "but he sure worked hard. We had him holding tackling dummies and scrimmaging with the varsity. He was a pretty fair sort of line-backer in in prep school, but this is the big time up here, and the kid just didn't have enough of what it takes. You can never tell, though. Next year he's liable to be a world-beater. What we like most about him is his spirit. He has a lot of fight and a lot of humility, too. In a freshman, that s a good combination." Gary has reached that point in life where athletics count the most with him and girls the least. "I like girls," he says, "and I've seen Joan Benny a couple of times, but I just haven't got the time for dating. This is no snap school, you know. I'm carrying a pretty full load, and I've got to keep my grades up. Besides, my Dad keeps phoning three or four times a week. He calls from San Francisco or Pebble Peach or Tahoe, and if I'm not around, he wants to know why. "During the football season I didn t have a single date — on the level. Dad gave me a 1951 Mercury hardtop and on weekends, I drive over to San Jose and see my brothers. The twins' are at Bellarmine, you know. They play football, too." Bing has always believed in keeping a strong hand on his boys, and in Gary's case, he's been especially vigilant. Gary's recordings of "Play A Simple Melody" and "Sam's Song" have passed the million mark. More than a hundred requests have been received at the Crosby office for permission to start a Gary Crosby Fan Club, and the youngster has been offered, via his father, fabulous sums for radio and TV appearances. He's also been written up in several national magazines, and Bing has been justifiably worried lest all this go to the youngster's head. "You let a kid know he's making a little stir in the world," Bing says, "and he can become insufferable overnight. It's a good idea to sit on Gary for a while." ; , Not that Gary needs it. Another Stanford freshman, who lives at Toyan Hall, speaks for the rest of the boys when he says, "Crosby seems to be a pretty good egg. He doesn't throw his weight around, and we've yet to hear him mention his old man once. He dresses sloppily just like everyone else— denims and sportshirt— and he doesn't talk about Hollywood or the entertainment business at all. 82 BOB Hammond, one of Gary's roommates, says, "We do so much studying around here that we don't have time for cleaning. Besides, with four guys constantly coming and going, it's hopeless. Crosby's just about as clean as any other. He's easy to room with, never gives any trouble. "Does he play the trombone? Not that I've seen. He used to play it, I understand, when he was a kid in grade schooL But the only thing I've seen him play up here is football. Wait a minute! Last week, his old man sent him a guitar. Told him to start practicing in his spare time. "Gosh! His old man is strict. I mean he calls Gary practically every night. Really keeps close tabs on the guy. Even if Gary wanted to play around which he doesn't, he wouldn't have much chance. That Bing is a regular old eagle-eye." Gary, however, is more charitable where _ his father is concerned. "Dad," he says, "is a pretty nice guy. Just doesn't want me to step out of line." A review of Gary's educational history reveals he's caused, his parents surprisingly little trouble. Bing enrolled him at St. John's Military Academy in Los Angeles when he was a cocky 11, whereupon Gary announced that he was Bing Crosby's son. "You don't have to brag about it," a classmate told him one day. "We know who your father is. So what?" After that, Gary never again mentioned his Dad in school. Major Bill Warner and Major John Scanlon, instructors at St. John's, recall Gary as a lad who was always in and out of trouble, but none of it very serious. "He always seemed to have a good excuse," Scanlon says. "For example, if his shoes weren't shined, and he'd been given a detention, he'd bring along a witness to testify that originally his shoes had been shined but that the wind had been blowing very hard and had covered them with dust. He was a lieutenant at one point, I believe, but I think we had to bust him down to private." Major Warner who coached the football team at St. John's, says, "He developed into 'a pretty good football player near the end, but we remember him here as a great guardhouse lawyer. That Gary could talk himself out of anything. Persuasive? John Wayne regards anything but loafing clothes unnecessary torture. Last year when he took off for England, he thought he might need a new suit in formal London, so he called up his tailor. "How's that suit coming along I ordered a few weeks ago?" he inquired. "Mr. Wayne," he was told, "it wasn't a few weeks ago. It was three years ago. I thought you didn't want it so I sold it." Kirtley Baskette He was more than that. We've had all four Crosbys here, and I think Lindsay, the youngest, is probably the sharpest. The twins, Phil and Dennis, are wonderful athletes. But Gary has them all beat when it comes to eloquence. Real good at the blarney, that one." The twins have caused much more trouble at school than Gary ever has. And family intimates predict that when those two go off to college, Bing will look back upon Gary as a comparative angel. Physically, Gary resembles his mother mere than his Dad, but there is little doubt that he inherited his voice from Bing. Over the phone he sounds very much like him, which pleases Gary no end. He also seems to have developed his father's easy way with a tune. "I've been around singing all my life," he says modestly. "I guess it just comes natural." Gary never knows when he's going to cut a record with his father or appear on Bing's radio show. It's always during school vacation since Dixie will permit nothing to interfere with her brood's education. "I'll go down to a rehearsal with Dad, Gary explains, "and the next thing you know we're singing together and cutting a record." Last Summer just before the Crosby clan took off for Elko where Bing owns the Quarter Circle S ranch, Gary was told he could accompany his father to a recording rehearsal. At the rehearsal, JDave Kapp formerly with Decca, talked Bing into doing two sides with Gary. The record was made in 90 minutes flat, and the Crosby s took off for Nevada. En route, Gary turned to Bing and said, "How much do you think I'll make from that record?" "Maybe a few hundred," Bing said. But only if the public likes it." To date, Gary Crosby's recordings have earned him a cool $25,000. Gary himself, however, hasn't seen a cent of the money. It's being held in trust for him by Jack O'Melveny, the Crosby lawyer who oversees the basic $200,000 trust fund which Bing and Dixie have given each son. Gary claims he doesn't need very much money. "I hardly get into town," he says. "Biggest expense outside of tuition, food, and stuff like that, is my car." Eventually, he may join a fraternityseveral houses have shown an unofficial interest in him— but right now, fraternities interest him far less than football. He very much wants to make the varsity one day and to maintain high academic standards. Bing thinks the second ambition much more valuable, and never fails to impress on Gary that he was sent to college primarily to study. "If Gary loved books as much as he loved sports," Bing has said on occasion, "He'd wind up a great scholar. Gary's the most serious athlete we have in the family. ' Last year he dislocated his shoulder, so vicious was his football tackling, and the Summer before, he refused to talk to his Dad for two days because Bing clowned around while they were playing baseball up at Spokane. "If you want to goof around," Gary yelled at der Bingle, "I'll goof around, but I came out here to play ball." . , • Off the playing field, Gary is modest almost to the point of retiring. In contrast to his days at St. John's, he doesn't talk very much, and if he pulls a boner, he's the first to acknowledge it. Gary has been identified with Bing so much that most people forget it was Dixie Crosby who brought him up — and beautifully, too. Dixie imbued him with a good sense of values and the fact that he is regarded as a well-bred, regular, modest young man is a tribute to her maternal ability. This past summer, just before Gary entered Stanford, he underwent an operation for a shoulder injury. After the operation Dixie took him to Lake Tahoe for a vacation. "I had more fun with my mom up at Tahoe last summer than I've had in some time," Gary recently told a reporter. Gary doesn't particularly like the Crosby ranch at Elko since it usually means hard work. Bing pays all his boys cowhand salaries, and the standard rule is: no work, no cash. Two years ago, Gary was given the job of creosoting some fence posts. He fell asleep on the job and some of the ranch posts caught fire. Bing deducted the damage from Gary's pay, ana Gary hasn't forgotten it yet. Like most college freshmen in this troubled world, he feels that sooner or later he will wind up in the armed forces. Until such time however, he plans to keep working and playing. "I'm taking business administration," he says, "but I may end up coaching or even fooling around in show business. My dad and mom dont care just so long as I choose something respectable. They've always wanted me to be happy." Right now, he's trying to summon up enough courage to phone a certain freshman over at Roble Hall. Her name is Joan Benny, and he strongly hopes that the two of them may have a little more in common than famous fathers. The End