It’s a sign of our parents’ integrity that this was their version of moving on up. As possibly the most ethical talent managers in the history of show business, they were significantly underbilling their clients, Clint and me. Managers usually collect up to 15 percent of their clients’ earnings, but Dad felt that most of what he and Mom did fell under the rubric of parental responsibility rather than professional management. They found the idea of taking anything more than 5 percent to be immoral, though Clint and I would not have objected in the least.
Mom and Dad were concerned about the damage it might do us boys if we were taught to think of ourselves as the family breadwinners. And they simply didn’t hunger for a flashy life or a Beverly Hills address. They were sophisticated hicks. They had all that they wanted.
BECAUSE DAD ADHERED to a policy of transparency about money, I was aware pretty much from the outset of The Andy Griffith Show of how much I was making. I was also alerted by Dad to the offers that came my way outside of the show. Pretty early on, for example, a manufacturer approached my agent about launching an Opie Taylor line of children’s clothing, for which I would serve as ambassador and spokesmodel.
The agent really pushed hard on the offer, telling Dad that it would be lucrative. But Dad told me that he turned it down because it would have entailed frequent travel and in-store personal appearances that would have cut into my time being a kid. “You need to play,” he said. “Promoting clothes is not acting. You’re not going to learn anything by doing that. You might be upset with us later that we turned this down, but your mom and I don’t think it’s worth considering.” I’ve never once regretted their decision, and I appreciate that they let me know about the opportunity in the moment rather than have me learn about it years later.
It never really kicked in that I was earning serious money until one day in 1966, when I was doing my usual routine of reading the sports pages of the Los Angeles Times first thing in the morning. The paper contained troubling news: Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale, the future Hall of Fame pitchers who anchored the rotation of my beloved Dodgers, were holding out of training camp for more money.
This was in the days before free agency, when players had little leverage or negotiating power. Koufax and Drysdale, the Times reported, were making $85,000 and $80,000 a season, respectively, and wanted to be paid about twice that amount. This seemed fair to me. The previous season, Koufax had gone 26–8 with a 2.04 E.R.A., pitched a perfect game, and swept the Cy Young and World Series MVP awards for the second time in three years. Drysdale was right behind Koufax, having gone 23–12.
Hmmm, I thought, this makes me wonder: What do I get paid relative to these guys? Sitting down with a pencil and a piece of paper, I did some calculations. We had just completed shooting the sixth season of The Andy Griffith Show. I knew that I was earning $1,850 an episode. That season, we shot thirty episodes. Okay, that tallied up to $55,500. Plus, I was already earning residuals from summer and daytime reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, in addition to residuals for other things I’d been in. When I added all these sums together, I discovered that I was—what?—outearning Sandy and Big D.
My first reaction was mortification. It just felt unfair, flat-out wrong, that these grown men, who were the best in the world at what they did, were making less money than me, a kid actor. I cycled through emotions of embarrassment, confusion, and anger. But what I finally landed upon was gratitude. I had to acknowledge that I had been blessed with good fortune and a wealth of advantages. This marked a moment of maturation for me. First, I learned a harsh lesson: the world isn’t always fair. Next, I felt a new sense of responsibility. How do I live up to this good fortune and not squander it?
Now, think about it: I was a twelve-year-old boy. I could have reacted entirely differently. I might have figured out that I was earning six figures and thought, Hell, yeah, I’m rich, baby! Suck it, Sandy! I could have undergone a personality transformation and started strutting around school like a James Spader villain in a 1980s teen movie.
But I didn’t. Because I looked to my parents. I saw how they chose to live and how happy they were. And I redoubled my efforts to keep on working, to stay in show business beyond my boyhood. Not just because the money was good, but because I recognized how much I truly loved acting and learning about directing.