Hal Needham was a man’s man. And a woman’s man. And a kids’ man.
When he was mad, there was a no-nonsense glint in his eyes. When he saw a beautiful woman, his eyes glinted with nothing but nonsense and foolishness. He married and expensively divorced some gorgeous women.
Born to work in the dirt fields of Arkansas, he was barefoot until the sixth or seventh grade.
“I ain’t livin’ like this,” he promised himself as he chopped firewood one hot day. He was good at training horses so he took the one good horse he had, after serving as a paratrooper, and headed off to Hollywood. That Arkansas horse was so good that he made more movie appearances than Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, and John Wayne, combined.
When Hal found himself in need of money – which was pretty much of the time in those years – his bravery led him into being a stuntman. Fearless. Danger? He loved it. He once told me that he had lost track of all his broken bones but it was somewhere between 56 and 60.
“Broke my back twice,” he said. “That’ll put a hurtin’ on an ol’ Arkansas boy, I guarantee you that.”
Once, we were in Darlington for the Labor Day race. Hal and Burt Reynolds owned the Skoal Bandit car piloted by “Handsome” Harry Gant. Hal had flown all night from a movie shoot in Los Angeles, landed in Charlotte, then hired a helicopter to drop him on the front yard of a tiny house across the road from the track. Hal pulled out two, hundred dollar bills, handed them to the stunned homeowner, hollering over his shoulder (he could barely turn his neck), “I’ll be back to pick ‘er up later. Another $200 if you guard it and don’t let no body touch it.”
A bit later, I was standing on Darrell Waltrip’s rig, sipping a cup of coffee, when Hal came hurrying through the garage. His body had been broken so often that he walked stiffly, hunched slightly forward in a pair of heavily starched Wranglers. He looked over at me, I raised my coffee cup, smiled and winked. He responded with a grin stretching over his capped teeth, snatched off his sunglasses so I could see his wink, then tipped his white cowboy hat.
“See ya’, darlin’.” I admired Hal Needham greatly. Fear had no place in his body, he was generous, and he never backed down from a mean man or sassy woman.
“Hey,” I walked over and hollered from the back of the truck. “Where’s your Rolex?”
He stopped, turned, and tried to look mean but broke into a laugh. “Baby Doll, I got a feelin’ you done heard,” he shrugged. “Too much Jack Daniel, a blonde with gorgeous blue eyes at a motel bar last weekend.” He pointed his finger toward me. “Don’t you wonder your pretty little self none. I got at least two more in a safe deposit box and a couple more sommers else.”
Needham performed two of the movies’ more dangerous stunts. In Dustin Hoffman’s “Little Big Man”, Needham stepped easily between a team of six, racing horses. In Burt Reynolds’ “White Lighting”, he jumped a car from the riverbank to land on a barge and, due to the Captain’s nerves, almost caused Needham to miss the jump and probably lose his life.
One of Needham’s wives kicked him out of the house so Burt Reynolds graciously offered his guest house, saying, “Stay as long as you like.” — which turned out to be a year or two.
But during that time, he toted around a yellow legal pad, writing a script for a movie he planned to direct, and talked his buddy into starring. Four months of packed theaters and swooning young girls like me made Hal Needham one of the richest producers in Hollywood.
“Smokey and the Bandit” is still one of my favorite movies. And memories.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the Stella Bankwell mysteries series. Please visit www.rondarich. com to sign up for her free newsletter.
