HOPE AND CROSBY SHOULD HAVE LASTED SO LONG.

Byline: DENNIS McCARTHY

The San Fernando Valley's longest-running Hope and Crosby road show was shooting pool over at the Reseda Multipurpose Senior Center on Friday morning, cutting up the room and one another pretty good with one-liners that go back to grammar school, where they first met.

``Seventy years as best friends - that's a long time to be putting up with one another,'' Crosby says, trying to rattle Hope, who's lining up a tough shot.

``Yeah, we're like brothers,'' Hope says, brushing him off and deftly banking the seven ball off the cushion into the side pocket.

``There's nothing we would do for each other,'' he says, smiling.

A drumroll, please, maestro. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce you to Sammy Weiner (Crosby) and Ross Oakley (Hope).

They've been on the road together longer than the real Bob Hope and Bing Crosby were in pictures, and they're still best buddies.

Not telephone buddies. Not exchange Christmas or Hanukkah card buddies. Not reunion buddies, or ``let's try to get together for a trip to Vegas'' once a year buddies.

Everyday, every week buddies - for 70 years.

Since the late 1920s, when they hooked up at the old Sawtelle Boulevard grammar school in West Los Angeles, through graduation from University High School.

Through the ``carousing around, getting in trouble together'' years, and the World War II years - through jobs, careers and marriage - right into retirement.

Sammy and Ross. Where you see one, you see the other.

The longest they've ever been separated was that time back in '44 when Sammy spent eight months in a German POW camp after the B-24 he was radio operator on was shot down.

Other than that, they've been tighter than Hope and Crosby and almost as funny.

The year is 1946, and the guys are back stateside, picking up where they left off before Uncle Sam asked them to give him a few years.

Ross is barbering with his dad at their 26-seat barber shop in Westwood Village. Sammy is driving a hack for a living.

``Tell 'em what else you were doing, Sammy,'' Ross says Friday, 1997, with a wink, enjoying watching his buddy twist in the wind a little.

``Ah, I believe I was supplementing my measly income at the time by making a little book,'' Sammy says reluctantly, referring to one of the world's oldest illegal professions - bookmaking.

``Tell 'em about the little old lady who broke you,'' Ross says, egging his best friend on.

Sammy shoots him a look, but he's in so deep now, he might as well come clean.

``She wanted a two-horse parlay for a buck, so I took it,'' Sammy says, as the other 20 seniors in the pool hall put their cues down and fondly remember the good old days.

``So, I'm driving my cab, listening for the results on the radio, and sure enough, her first horse comes in and pays $26.

``Well, now I'm thinking that I've got to protect myself, so I head over to this newsstand in North Hollywood to lay off the bet with the bookie who runs the stand. But before I can get there, I get a $3 fare downtown.

``On the way back, I'm listening to the radio and damn if her second horse doesn't come in and pays $30. The max I can get hit for is 50-1 odds, but that's still enough to wipe me out of the bookie business.''

Ross leans on his cue stick and smiles. Some stories you never get tired of hearing, the contented look on his face says.

From driving a hack and being a busted bookie, Sammy moved on to another honorable profession - used car salesman at his brother-in-law's lot.

``After he went bankrupt, I went into real estate with Terri, and we did pretty good,'' Sammy says, referring to his wife of 50 years in March.

Both men's wives, Terri and Anita, Ross' wife, are saints, the men say.

``They'd have to be to put up with you two,'' comes a voice from another pool table.

When he sold his barbershop in 1972, Ross tried his hand at retirement, but it wasn't for him, so he spent the next 13 years as a deli man at the Ralphs supermarket at Hazeltine Avenue and Ventura Boulevard.

``You know, Ross, in 70 years, we've never had a beef,'' Sammy says, sinking the eight ball for another win over his buddy. ``We go out to lunch and just have so much fun.''

``Yeah, especially when you pay,'' Ross says, racking up the balls for another game Friday.

Sammy and Ross, closer than brothers. There's nothing they'd do for each other.

CAPTION(S):

2 Photos

Photo: (1) Sammy Weiner, left, and Ross Oakley play pool once a week in Reseda.

(2) Ross Oakley, left, and Sammy Weiner pal around in November 1941.

Shaun Dyer/Special to the Daily News