Robert Redford felt the grip tighten on his hand. Paul Newman was dying. The morphine drip made him drift in and out. The doctor said he wouldn’t last the night. But suddenly, Newman’s eyes opened, clear, focused. He squeezed Redford’s hand hard. “Bob,” he whispered. Redford leaned in. The room went quiet.

 Newman’s wife, Joanne, was standing at the foot of the bed. Their kids were there. Everyone thought this was the goodbye. Newman pulled Redford closer, his grip surprisingly strong for a man who’d lost 40 lbs in two months. And then he said it, “Seven words.” Redford’s face went white. His entire body went rigid. He looked at Newman.

Newman’s eyes were twinkling. Even now, even here, even at the end, the old bastard was smiling. What Newman whispered wasn’t, “I love you.” It wasn’t, “Take care of everyone.” It was something that proved 47 years of friendship and warfare would never truly end. Because Paul Newman, even on his deathbed, refused to lose.

 To understand what Newman said in that hospital room, you need to understand how their friendship began. 1968, George Roy Hill was casting a film called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Two outlaws, best friends, partners in crime, charming, reckless, inseparable. Hill wanted Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

 Newman was already a legend. Cool hand. Luke the Hustler. Hud. 10 Oscar nominations. Hollywood royalty at 43. Redford was 32. Handsome. Dismissed as just a pretty face. Hungry to prove he was more than his looks. They should have hated each other. The established star. The rising threat. Instead, something unexpected happened during filming.

 They started playing pranks. Small ones at first. Newman hiding Redford’s costume. Redford tampering with Newman’s script pages. But these weren’t ordinary, practical jokes. These were declarations of war. Newman had a director’s chair custom made for Redford with the name Redford embroidered on it.

 Nothing strange about that, except Newman had it made two sizes too small. So small Redford couldn’t actually sit in it. Redford’s response, he had Newman’s chair sawed in half, then perfectly reattached so it would collapse the moment Newman sat down. On set in front of the entire crew, Newman lowered himself into his chair. It split apart.

 He crashed to the ground. The crew froze. This was Paul Newman. You don’t make Paul Newman look like a fool. But Newman was laughing. Actually laughing. He looked at Redford. Oh, it’s like that, is it? It’s like that, Redford said. And for the next 40 years, it never stopped. Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid became one of the biggest films of 1969.

 But what people remember isn’t just the movie. It’s the chemistry. The way Newman and Redford looked at each other on screen. The ease, the trust, the sense that these weren’t actors playing friends. These were friends playing actors. Because by the end of filming, that’s what they’d become. Not Hollywood friends. Real friends.

 The kind who show up when you need them. Who call you out when you’re wrong. Who know all your weaknesses and love you anyway. And who never ever let you win. After Butch Cassidy, the pranks escalated. Newman sent Redford a gift, a beautiful Porsche. Redford was thrilled until he realized Newman had gift wrapped the entire car.

 In Christmas paper, every single inch. It took Redford 3 hours to unwrap it. Redford’s revenge. He found a completely destroyed Porsche in a junkyard. Had it crushed into a three-foot metal cube, delivered it to Newman’s driveway with a giant bow on top and a note. thought you might need spare parts.

 When Newman opened a restaurant in Connecticut, Redford sent flowers. Beautiful arrangement, massive, with a card that read, “Congratulations on your grand opening. Love, Robert Redford.” Sounds sweet, right? Except Redford had arranged for the flowers to be delivered every single day for a year. Same arrangement, same card.

 Every morning, Newman couldn’t cancel them because they were prepaid. He had to accept a massive flower delivery every day for 365 days. Newman’s counter move was brilliant. He donated all the flowers to local hospitals and nursing homes in Redford’s name. Then had the thank you letters forwarded to Redford. Hundreds of thank you letters from sick children and elderly patients, all thanking Mr.

 Redford for his generous daily flower donations. Redford couldn’t even be mad. Newman had turned his prank into charity and made Redford look like a saint in the process. That was the level they operated on, not just jokes. Strategic warfare. Each move carefully calculated, neither willing to surrender. 1973, they reunited for the Sting.

 By now, their friendship was legendary. The cast and crew knew to expect chaos. Newman and Redford had a running bet. Who could pull off the most elaborate prank during filming without getting caught? Newman rigged Redford’s trailer door so that when Redford opened it, a bucket of water would fall. Classic, except Redford had anticipated this.

 He’d hired someone to rig Newman’s trailer the same way, but with ice water. Both of them got drenched on the same morning. They stood there soaking wet, staring at each other. Then they both started laughing. The director, George Roy Hill, was less amused. You’re both children, talented, successful, wealthy children.

 He started it, Newman said, pointing at Redford. I finished it, Redford replied. Hill banned pranks on set, so they took the war off set. Newman filled Redford’s hotel room with popcorn, floor to ceiling. Redford had to wade through popcorn to reach his bed. Redford’s response was nuclear. He had Newman’s car taken apart piece by piece, then reassembled inside Newman’s living room.

Newman opened his front door after a long day of shooting and found his car in his living room. engine, seats, wheels, everything perfectly assembled inside his house. Newman stood there for a full minute. Then he called Redford. How? Newman asked. I’m not telling you, Redford said. I respect that, Newman said. But you realize this means war.

It’s always been war, Redford said. But here’s the thing about their friendship. Beneath the pranks was something deeper. 1980, Redford was directing his first film, Ordinary People. He was terrified. He’d never directed before. Hollywood was waiting for him to fail. Newman showed up on set one day, unannounced, just sat in the back and watched.

 After the day shooting ended, he pulled Redford aside. “You know what you’re doing,” Newman said. “Trust yourself.” That’s all he said. Then he left. Redford won the Oscar for best director that year. When he accepted the award, he thanked his mother, who died 25 years earlier and never saw him succeed. He thanked the cast and crew.

 He didn’t thank Newman because Newman would have made a joke about it. Would have sent him something ridiculous to celebrate, but after the ceremony, Redford called him. “You helped me,” Redford said. “I know, Newman said. You owe me one.” That’s how they were. Support disguised as competition, love expressed through warfare. The years passed.

 The pranks continued but evolved. Newman started Newman’s Own, his food company that donated all profits to charity. It became hugely successful. Redford founded the Sundance Film Festival, giving unknown filmmakers the chances Hollywood wouldn’t. They were both using their fame for something beyond themselves, building legacies that mattered.

 But they never stopped competing. Newman’s Own hit $100 million in charitable donations. Newman sent Redford a frame certificate commemorating the achievement. Redford sent back a photo of a Sundance filmmaker who’d gone on to win an Oscar with a note, “Money’s nice. Legacy’s better.” Newman responded by naming a salad dressing flavor after Redford without asking. Redford’s light Italian.

Redford found out when a reporter asked him about it. “Paul named a salad dressing after you. How do you feel?” “Honored that he thinks I’m light,” Redford said. It was absurd. It was competitive. It was loving. Two old men who couldn’t admit they needed each other, so they expressed it through elaborate nonsense. 2006.

 They spoke at a tribute event together, both in their 70s now. Gray, slower, but still sharp. Someone asked them, “After all these years, who’s winning?” Newman and Redford looked at each other. “I am,” they said simultaneously. The audience laughed, but Redford said something else that night.

 Something that revealed the truth beneath the jokes. Paul’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He’s also the most annoying. Those two things are not unrelated. Newman nodded. Same, except he’s more annoying. They were joking, but they weren’t. Because the greatest friendships aren’t smooth. They’re rough. They challenge you. They don’t let you settle.

 They push you to be better, even when you don’t want to be. Newman and Redford had been pushing each other for almost 40 years, and neither had any intention of stopping. September 2008, Paul Newman was diagnosed with lung cancer. He’d smoked for decades, quit years ago, but the damage was done. The cancer was aggressive. Stage 4.

 The doctors were honest months, maybe, not years. Newman handled it the way he handled everything, with dark humor and stubborn defiance. Well, he told Joanne. At least Redford can’t prank me while I’m dying. Don’t give him ideas, Joanne said. Newman called Redford, told him the diagnosis. Redford went quiet on the phone.

 Paul, don’t. Newman said, I don’t want sadness. I want normal. Can we just be normal? We’ve never been normal, Redford said. Then let’s not start now, Newman said. Over the next months, Newman weakened. The treatments weren’t working. He knew this was it. Redford visited when he could, flying from Sundance to Connecticut, sitting with his friend, watching movies, talking about everything except cancer.

 Newman was still joking, even as his body failed. “When I die,” Newman told Redford one visit, “I want you to speak at my funeral.” “Paul, stop. I’m serious. You have to. And you have to tell the truth.” What truth? That I won? Newman said that in 40 years I beat you. Say it at my funeral in front of everyone. Redford smiled.

 You haven’t won. I’m literally dying. You can’t compete with a dead guy. That means I win by default. That’s not how this works, Redford said. Then how does it work? Newman asked. Redford thought about it. It never ends. Even when one of us is gone. It doesn’t end, Newman looked at him. You promise? I promise? Redford said.

 So September 26th, 2008. The call came early morning. Newman had hours, maybe less. Redford drove to the hospital, fast, breaking speed limits. He needed to get there, to say goodbye, to be there at the end. When he arrived, the family was gathered. Newman was barely conscious, and the morphine was keeping the pain at bay, but it also kept him drifting.

Redford sat by the bed, held his friend’s hand. This was it. The end of 47 years. No more pranks, no more bets, no more wars, just goodbye. The room was quiet, respectful, sad. Newman’s breathing was shallow. Redford was trying to be strong for Joanne, for the kids, for Newman. But inside, he was breaking. Then Newman’s eyes opened.

Suddenly, clear. He looked right at Redford, his grip tightened on Redford’s hand. “Bob,” he whispered. Redford leaned in. “I’m here, Paul.” Newman pulled him closer, his grip surprisingly strong for a dying man. Everyone in the room leaned in. This was the goodbye. The final words. Newman’s lips moved, speaking directly into Redford’s ear.

Seven words. And Redford’s face went completely white. His entire body went rigid. He pulled back, stared at Newman. Newman’s eyes were twinkling. That old mischief, even now, even here. The bastard was smiling. Joanne looked at Redford. What did he say? Redford couldn’t speak. He just shook his head. Newman’s smile widened slightly.

 Then his eyes closed. He died 6 hours later. At the funeral, Redford spoke. He talked about Newman’s generosity, his talent, his charity work, his love for his family. He didn’t mention the pranks. He didn’t tell the joke because what Newman had whispered wasn’t meant for everyone. It was meant for Redford. Only Redford.

And Redford honored that. But after the service, someone asked him, “What did Paul say to you in the hospital?” Redford smiled, a sad smile, but genuine. “He told me he won,” Redford said. “And did he?” they asked. Redford thought about it about 47 years of friendship, of pranks and bets and competition, about the fact that Newman had gotten the last word.

 Literally, the last word of their 47-year conversation. “Yeah,” Redford said finally. “He won.” But here’s what Redford didn’t tell them. What Newman actually whispered wasn’t I won. It was seven words. Seven specific words that proved Paul Newman understood their friendship better than anyone. Your turn. Don’t let this end.

Not I won. Your turn. Because Newman knew that if he declared victory, the game would be over. But if he passed the turn to Redford, the game would continue. Even after death, Newman wasn’t ending their friendship. He was ensuring it never ended. He was giving Redford permission to keep pranking him, to keep competing, to keep the war alive in memory. And in a way, Redford has.

Every time he tells a Newman story, he keeps Paul alive. Every time he laughs at one of their old pranks, Newman wins again. Because that’s what your turn meant. It meant keep me alive. Keep us alive. Don’t let our friendship die just because I did. 2009. One year after Newman’s death, Redford was at Sundance. A package arrived.

 No return address. Inside was a bottle of Newman’s own salad dressing. A new flavor, limited edition. The label read in memory of Paul Newman. And attached was a note. In Paul’s handwriting, dated before he died. Bob, by the time you read this, I’ll be gone. But I wanted you to know something. I’m still winning. Love, Paul.

 Redford stood there holding the bottle, laughing and crying at the same time. The old bastard had planned ahead, had arranged for one final prank to be delivered after his death. Newman had won again. But he’d also done something else. He’d proven his own point. That their friendship didn’t end. That your turn was real. Redford keeps that bottle in his office at Sundance. Never opened it.

 Never will. Because opening it would be admitting the game is over. And the game is never over. 2015, Robert Redford was interviewed about Paul Newman. The interviewer asked, “Do you miss him?” Every day, Redford said, “What do you miss most?” Redford thought about it. “The competition, the jokes, the fact that I could never let my guard down because Paul was always planning something.

” “And now, now I still can’t let my guard down,” Redford said. “Because even dead, Paul Newman is still planning something.” The interviewer laughed, thinking it was a joke. But Redford wasn’t joking because that’s what your turn meant. It meant Paul was trusting Redford to keep their friendship alive, to keep telling the stories, to keep the pranks in memory.

Every time Redford talks about Newman, Newman wins again. Every time Redford laughs at their old wars, Newman gets the last laugh. And Redford is okay with that because the alternative is silence. And silence means forgetting. and Redford will never forget. September 26th, 2018, 10 years after Newman’s death, Redford was at home in Sundance alone, thinking about Paul.

 He opened a bottle of Newman’s own lemonade, sat on his porch, looked at the mountains. “You won, you bastard,” he said out loud to nobody. To Paul, and somewhere, somehow Paul Newman was smiling because he had won. Not the pranks, not the competition. He’d won something bigger. He’d created a friendship so strong that not even death could end it.

 That’s what the seven words meant. Your turn. Don’t let this end. And Redford never did. In 2020, Redford announced his retirement from acting. He was 84. He’d had enough. But he didn’t retire from Sundance. Didn’t retire from activism. Didn’t retire from telling Newman stories because telling those stories is how he keeps Paul alive.

 Every interview where someone asks about Newman, Redford lights up, tells the pranks, the wars, the love beneath it all, he’s keeping his promise. He’s not letting it end. And in doing so, he’s proven what Paul knew all along, that the greatest friendships don’t end with death. They transform. From active warfare to eternal memory, from competition to legacy, from your turn to our story.

Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Two legends who spent 47 years trying to oneup each other. And in the end, they both won because they created something Hollywood rarely sees. Real friendship. The kind that lasts forever. The kind that survives ego and fame and even death. The kind where dying words aren’t goodbye.

They’re your turn. If this story reminded you that the best friendships are the ones that challenge you, that push you, that never let you settle. Share it with your friend who won’t let you quit. Have you ever had a friendship where competition and love were the same thing? That’s the rarest kind. Hold on to it.