“That’s very nice of you, Blondy. Thank you. You’ve really done your homework.”
The table read was fun, but uneventful. I was eager to get to the actual production, but that would be a week or more down the road. A few days later, bored from spending too much time in my hotel room and eager to bond with my castmates before we began shooting, I sent an email to Jami, asking if she might want to get together for coffee or dinner.
“Sounds great,” she wrote back. “How about dinner first, and then we can go to a Lakers game? I have seats.”
We met at a restaurant near the Staples Center and spent nearly two hours talking about work and family and personal history. Jami, I learned, was not just a successful actor and producer, but the mother of three boys, two of whom were out on their own; the third was a junior in high school. She talked and acted like a Supermom—with tons of energy and insight. She was one half of a seriously accomplished marital partnership: her husband, Tony Ressler, was a businessman whose many eclectic interests included an ownership stake in the Atlanta Hawks. This might partially explain Jami’s interest in the Untitled NBA Project for ABC. She was a huge basketball fan and her husband, as an NBA owner, was basically part of the Disney/ABC empire.
The conversation was comfortable; Jami wanted to hear all about my life. She is a good listener, and also asks great questions. She wanted to know all about my plans for trying to build a future in the entertainment industry. My answers were enthusiastic, but somewhat vague, as you might expect, for I really had no clue. My hope was that our pilot would lead to a series, which would then lead to several years of consistent and lucrative work, followed by movies and more series. You know—the career arc of a superstar. I’m sure it sounded both innocent and arrogant, but in reality, I was just eager to show what I could do. Jami, playing the role of both mom and Hollywood veteran, gave me some gentle advice and encouragement. I was struck mainly by what an incredibly nice person she was.
The game was great, and it was fun to be at Staples Center, even though the Lakers weren’t exactly tearing up the league in those days. Jami is a knowledgeable basketball fan, and she got a kick out of the fact that Jordan Clarkson had been one of my best friends in college. When the game ended, we walked out, still talking about hoops and Hollywood. Once we got to the parking lot, Jami asked me if I had any plans.
“Just going back to the hotel,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you follow me back to my house. You don’t have to stay in a hotel.”
The offer took me completely by surprise. Despite being familiar with the enormous generosity of many Americans (the Blitzes, for example), I had seen nothing that led me to believe such behavior was common in the entertainment world. Jami and I hardly knew each other. We were merely coworkers thrown together by circumstance; despite our shared involvement in this project, we were from different worlds. And it wasn’t like I was out in the street, as I had been on previous sojourns to Los Angeles. I had a comfortable bed in a perfectly nice hotel room. I had an expense account! Jami’s offer was so kind, and so unnecessary, that I found myself tongue-tied.
“Huh?” I said. “What do you mean?”
Jami laughed. “Get in your car and follow me.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
I knew only that Jami lived somewhere in Beverly Hills, so I tucked in behind her big Mercedes sedan and followed her closely as we began winding through the hills, climbing past ever more opulent and glorious neighborhoods, with spectacular views of the lights of L.A. Eventually we came to a neighborhood known as Beverly Park, a gated community where the homes all have the size and muscle of a shopping mall (although most are much more attractive). I would later find out that Jami’s neighbors included Eddie Murphy, Sylvester Stallone, and Mark Wahlberg. When I got out of the car and looked around, I could barely speak, so impressive was the home and the landscaping, and the view to the city below.
“Oh, my gosh,” I said. “This is so beautiful.”
Jami said thanks and invited me into the house, where I was introduced to her youngest son, Theo. Jami had assured me that Theo knew all about me, as she had told him some of my life story after we met at the table read. Although just sixteen years old, Theo was poised and confident and charming. Sometimes I wondered if all American teenagers are this way, but of course they are not. It is a matter of luck and genetics and fine parenting. I liked Theo right away. There was just one problem: I could not pronounce his name properly. For some reason, whenever I tried to say “Theo,” the “Th” became “Ph,” resulting in something that sounded like “Phil.”
The most amazing thing about that night was the fact that Jami did not even tell her husband that she was bringing home a guest; and not merely a guest for dinner, but one who might be staying for a while. She simply made a decision that came from her heart, knowing that her equally generous husband would support the invitation. At first, I did not know what to make of this, and I worried that Tony might be offended. Once I got to know him, that assumption was almost embarrassingly inaccurate. And once I got to spend time with both Jami and Tony, and as I watched them together, they struck me as the best kind of couple. Partners in the truest sense of the word, they had been married for more than twenty-five years. They had raised three sons together and built successful careers. Owners of professional sports franchises have the reputation for having massive egos and a tendency to want to control everything, as they often do in their other business interests. I don’t know what Tony is like in a boardroom, but I do know that around the house in Beverly Hills, he is an extremely interesting and laid-back guy.
I also have come to know Tony and Jami as a couple who are devoted to the concept of philanthropy, on both a global level, and in their personal lives. With the 2014 initial public offering of his company, Ares Management, Tony had been transformed from a wealthy man into a billionaire. He continued to work in the wealth management field, while also exercising his passion for sports and philanthropy. The Ressler/Gertz Foundation addresses many of the issues that are of personal interest to Jami and Tony, most notably education, with a particular focus on the Los Angeles area. Tony was a founding board member and cochair of the Alliance for College-Ready Public Schools, a group of L.A. charter schools. The foundation also has supported Homeboy Industries, which provides education, employment training, and other programming for former gang-involved and incarcerated men and women—something I did not know when I first saw Jami’s film, A Better Life, but that makes perfect sense in retrospect. The foundation also supports the arts and various youth sports activities.
But Jami and Tony are not just quiet and distant philanthropists, far removed from the beneficiaries of their largesse. Some people don’t like to get their hands dirty with this sort of work. Jami and Tony did not fall into that category. At the same time, it’s worth noting that Jami later made it clear to me that she was not in the habit of bringing home strays to the family mansion in Beverly Hills. When we went out for dinner that night, and to the Lakers game, she had no intention of inviting me into their family.
It just sort of happened.
But once Jami makes up her mind to do something, she is not easily dissuaded. When she finally called her husband later that night, after I had already accepted the invitation, and said, in effect, “Hey, just so you know, we have a new kid in the house,” it was no surprise that Tony responded with little more than a shrug.
“Okay, looking forward to meeting him.”
Needless to say, there was plenty of room in the house—even a 6-foot-8 basketball player from the Congo would barely be noticeable. Jami gave me two options: I could stay in the bedroom formerly occupied by her oldest son, Oliver, who had since relocated to New York City. It was a huge, sprawling room, bigger than the house in which I had grown up, and I would have been perfectly comfortable there. Even more appealing, though, was the second option, presented as we walked outside and toured the grounds. A short distance awa
y, tucked into the backyard and near the pool, was a guest cottage.
“You can stay here if you’d be more comfortable,” Jami said. “But I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay in the house, as well. Whatever you’d like.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond. I did not want to be rude in the face of such a grand display of hospitality, and I was concerned that by declining an invitation to stay in the main house, I would risk offending Jami. But I had to be honest. We barely knew each other and I did not want to impose or do anything that might put a strain on either our working relationship or our new friendship. Sometimes, I had learned, a little space is necessary for a healthy living arrangement.
“I understand, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness,” I said. “If it’s okay with you, I will stay in the guesthouse.”
Jami smiled. “Of course.”
The next day I retrieved my belongings from the Sheraton and became a temporary resident of Beverly Hills. With a separate kitchen and bathroom suite, and a family whose kindness seemed to rival that of the Blitzes just a short walk away, the guesthouse felt like a gift from heaven.
And it was just one of many that I received from Jami and her family.
When Jami found out about my still-outstanding traffic tickets not long after I moved into the guesthouse, she was at first aghast that I’d been foolish enough to drive around the busiest freeways in America with a suspended license. But then she went into mother mode by hiring an attorney who was able to help me clean up the whole mess. I’m sure it cost a lot of money—more money than I could imagine. I knew only that I was overwhelmed by her generosity, and so grateful to have stumbled into her life.
CHAPTER 26
* * *
Hollywood tends to be fueled by momentum. When there is significant buzz surrounding a project, it quickly gains speed and support. Similarly, a young and inexperienced performer can become a hot commodity based on little more than physical appearance or potential. To some extent, both of these scenarios applied to me when we began filming the pilot for our series. There was a lot of talk around town regarding the series, and how it seemed destined to not only make it on the ABC prime-time schedule, but to become a hit. Yes, it was basically a fish-out-of-water story (not a unique concept), but there were so many things that it made it interesting and unusual, not least of which was the casting of a complete novice in a costarring role. My backstory became the engine of publicity for the series, which was at once flattering and disorienting. While I was not lacking in confidence, I understood the reality of the situation: I had been given the opportunity of a lifetime. Most people don’t realize that for every pilot that gets the green light and is developed into a series, there are dozens that fail miserably. Many pilots are never viewed beyond the privacy of an executive suite. That is simply the truth of the matter: the odds against getting picked up are long, and the obstacles plentiful. Most actors who appear in a pilot know better than to get their hopes up. They keep their options open and continue to audition for other parts.
Not me. I was one hundred percent invested in the pilot. It was my big break, and I knew it. With such a great cast and writers, and the obviously enthusiastic backing of the network and the NBA, we were poised for success in a way that evades all but the most fortunate of newly hatched series. This fact was not lost on those of us who were involved, both in front of the camera and behind it. We all knew we were in an unusual position, no one more so than me. Throughout the process I kept hearing about how lucky I was to be part of such a great project, and I did not dispute this observation. Rather, I held it close to my heart and used it as a daily reminder of where I had been, and how beautiful the future appeared to be.
“We are a lock to get picked up,” they would say. “And you are going to be a star.” I would smile and nod, and think to myself, “If God is willing.”
Although development took several months—casting, writing, acquiring licensing agreements—the actual shooting of the pilot required only a few weeks of work. While movies are usually developed and shot at a glacial pace, scripted television series are often produced with great speed and efficiency. This is not surprising, I suppose. After all, a movie is a single, self-contained story, perhaps two hours long, while a television series might stretch out over ten or twenty episodes in a single season. There is no room for dawdling or self-indulgence.
The approach is intensely professional and workmanlike. This is not to say that a series lacks artistic integrity. But it is true that everything is ruled by the clock and the calendar. We were shooting a pilot; if the pilot was picked up, we would immediately begin production on a full season. Every week would bring a new script, a new show, a new challenge. If making a movie is like running a marathon, then making a television series is like running a series of sprints, one right after the other, with very little rest in between. It is both exhausting and exciting. I wanted that challenge in the worst way.
On the first day of shooting at the studio in Burbank, I was so pumped up that I was worried I might forget my lines. But I wasn’t scared. Quite the contrary. I couldn’t wait to get started. It was similar to the way I used to feel in the locker room before a big basketball game, when the adrenaline was pumping furiously through my body. You need that adrenaline to prepare for an intense and challenging situation, but too much of it can ruin a performance—on the basketball court or in front of a camera.
To be honest, I think other people were more nervous than I was about how I would handle the pressure. Until the first day of shooting, I did not realize what a busy and crowded place a television set could be. There must have been fifty or sixty people hanging around—cast, crew, technicians, studio executives—all of them watching the production. I had acted onstage in front of more than a thousand people, but this was different. This was not an audience in the traditional sense of the word. Some of these people were my coworkers; some were my employers. All of them were deeply invested in the proceedings, and more than a little curious about the unknown actor from the Congo.
“How are you feeling, Blondy?” the director, John Fortenberry, said to me, just moments after I arrived. “Are you okay?”
A legitimately nice and thoughtful man, as well as a talented director, he probably (and not unreasonably) presumed that I would be nervous on the first day of shooting and wanted to help ease any anxiety by letting me know that we were all in this together.
“Don’t be shy,” he urged. “If you have any questions, just come to me and ask. You’re going to do a great job.”
“Thank you,” I said, but I couldn’t help wondering which of us he was trying to convince. There was a lot of money riding on this pilot. I had done well in the audition, but this was different. This was the real thing. What if I screwed up? What if it turned out that I wasn’t ready to star in a network sitcom? That would be a problem not just for me, but for everyone on the set.
An image crossed my brain—that of a freakishly tall former basketball player standing in front of a camera (several cameras, actually), his face blank, eyes wide, the victim of a sudden and crippling case of stage fright.
“Line, please,” I imagined myself asking in a desperate plea for help.
And I could see everyone shaking their heads in disappointment; or, worse, pity.
No, I would not let that happen. A new image came to mind—that of a ten-year-old boy walking barefoot through the jungles of the Congo, picking at festering insect bites and holding his nose to avoid the ever-present stench of death. What here could possibly compare to that horror? This was not a punishment; this was a gift, a chance to do something I loved. I had survived a genocidal massacre; I had survived being homeless.
This was a walk in the park.
“Do not worry,” I said to John. “I am good.”
I made some mistakes that day, but I did not embarrass myself. We worked for close to twelve hours, rehearsing and filming one scene after another. And so it went for the next s
everal days. I found it to be utterly exhilarating. I was proud of the work I was doing, and everyone seemed to have a positive feeling. Not only was it funny and emotional, but we were developing a camaraderie that reflected the characters on screen.
The star of this fictional version of the Golden State Warriors was Derek Gates, a brilliant but aging superstar (think LeBron James or Kobe Bryant) played by LaMonica Garrett. LaMonica, who would go on to star in the hit drama Designated Survivor, was actually almost forty years old when we shot the pilot, but he is a beast of an athlete, as well as a terrific actor, so he was more than believable in the role. From the moment that Mo Gosego shows up in a Warriors uniform, Derek Gates is frustrated and angry. Gates wants to win a title before he retires, and he wonders why the team has used the No. 2 overall pick in the NBA draft on an unproven player. Mo’s laid-back demeanor only makes matters worse.
“I’m getting old,” Derek says to Mo. “I need your help. This team needs your help. You’re a first-round draft pick, and you need to bring it every day. You need to work harder and you need to be tougher.”
Derek’s frustration, shared by coaches and management, leads the team to hire a translator, in the hope of getting their motivational message across more clearly. Enter Skylar Astin’s character, Jason, the translator who knows nothing about basketball. He is also reeling after being dumped by his girlfriend while they were working together for the Peace Corps in the Congo. The job of translator pays six figures and is a big break for Jason, who wants to prove to his parents—especially his father—that he is capable of doing something worthwhile with his life. But as Mo stubbornly refuses to embrace a stronger work ethic, and to “fight” the way his teammates and coaches want him to fight, Jason begins to lose faith in both himself and his client.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 27