By Billy Crystal
Hailed as a triumph through all people from the hot York occasions to activities Illustrated¨, Billy Crystal's seven-hundred SUNDAYS is the crowning success of an awesome occupation. A poignant, hilarious, and private portrayal of his formative years, Crystal's play broke Broadway field place of work documents and didn't go away a dry eye within the house.To help his family members, Billy Crystal's father, Jack, labored jobs and lengthy hours and will simply spare Sundays to spend together with his family. those formative and favourite days have been in restricted offer, even though, as Crystal's father was once stopped brief through a middle assault while his son used to be 15. seven-hundred SUNDAYS refers to a unfortunately detailed dimension of time shared via an adoring father and a faithful son. This pleasant, autobiographical trip is certain to elicit tears and laughter from readers in all places.
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Additional info for 700 Sundays
I finished the bottle—and the thesis—off at five Monday morning. I fell asleep on the couch. Rhonda quietly got the Getting Here boys up and hushed them off to school, where she worked as a teaching assistant. Almost noon I woke up to find the empty bottle of Bacardi tucked in beside me on the couch. I wrenched it out with a little too much force and it flung past me to shatter on the floor. Shit. Shards everywhere. I rushed to pick them up, cutting my feet in the dash to the kitchen for the dustpan.
Whenever we get rollin’ on the booze, Todd retreats to the basement. I swing open the front door to get a breath of the cool, crisp fall air. How long since Dana left? I have no idea. Several plates littered with shards of burnt toast and hardened egg yolk ring my bed. I need a drink. I slink down the stairs into Todd’s tiny windowless, airless bedroom. I tiptoe my way through piles of stale, dirty laundry. I leave the light off—don’t want to alert him to my presence. I hear him laugh at the TV.
All of which is my way of saying I learned early the importance of perseverance and determination, of sticking up for myself. “Bitesize. Shorty. Half-a-Man. Little Fella. ” The nicknames stuck, said now with warmth and respect, the sting gone. I fashion us all fishing rods out of willow branches and some old line and hooks I find in a broom closet by the wood stove. The fire in the stove sputters and hisses. “Michael, Michael, take us down to fish,” my little sisters beg. I turn the little cottage upside down, but there is no bait to be found, and no shovel to dig for worms.