At one point the two men get into a heated disagreement, as Jason grows weary of Mo’s apparent complacency, and Mo grows weary of being nagged and cajoled. Part of this scene involves the exchange that was so crucial to my audition—with Mo crying and expressing confusion and sadness over everyone’s disappointment with his attitude: “Why do they want me to fight? I am tired of fighting. I had to fight for my life in the Congo.” But it also features a heartfelt plea from Jason, who makes it clear to Mo that their lives are intertwined. If Mo does not become a fighter, and subsequently a better basketball player, then he will quickly find himself out of the NBA. If that happens, then Jason will lose his job, as well.
“You’re getting paid millions,” Jason says. “You have to show them you are worth it. You have to work harder. If you get cut, you won’t have a job, and you will have to go back to Africa. I will get cut, too. And I’ll have to move back in with my parents.”
As a result of the argument, Mo and Jason are drawn closer and being to develop not just a working partnership, but a legitimate friendship. This sets the stage for one of the funniest and most emotional scenes in the pilot, which we filmed during halftime of an actual Golden State Warriors game, against the Phoenix Suns, in front of a packed house at Oracle Arena. The pressure in this scenario was daunting. While the NBA gave the series its stamp of approval, and the Warriors let us use their logo and uniforms, they were not about to let us interfere with the rhythm of an actual game. We had perhaps ten minutes in which to film this pivotal scene. If we didn’t get it right, the director could not just yell “Cut!” and ask us to do it again while the Warriors and Suns hung out in the locker room waiting for us to finish. We’d have to come back on a different night and start all over again.
We all knew our lines and our jobs. The delicate choreography of acting within the framework of a basketball game had been carefully laid out. As written, the scene involves the revealing of a pivotal piece of information: the fact that Derek Gates had gotten into an argument with Jason earlier in the day, resulting in the NBA All-Star using duct tape to pin Jason to a basketball backboard. Jason reveals this information to Mo during the game, which so provokes Mo’s anger that for the first time since joining the Warriors, he plays with great passion. He becomes, for the first time, a true fighter.
There is just one problem: the person with whom he chooses to fight is his own teammate, Derek Gates.
“He is my friend!” Mo says to Derek, as the two are running down the court. “And I am from the Congo. And in the Congo, we take care of our friends!”
With that, Mo throws a punch at Derek. The two begin to wrestle as teammates and officials rush in to break it up. The NBA obviously frowns on fighting and typically imposes huge fines on players who engage in such behavior. But it rarely, if ever, happens among teammates, which is what made the scene so funny. I’m sure it was all a bit bewildering to the twenty thousand spectators at Oracle Arena. An announcement was made, informing the crowd that we were filming a pilot for ABC, and asking for both the cooperation and enthusiastic involvement of everyone in attendance. In other words, they were supposed to act like normal fans. To that end, nothing was divulged about the nature of the scene. When I began trading punches with LaMonica Garrett, there was an audible gasp in the arena.
Wait . . . what’s going on? Why is he fighting with his teammate?
It was perfect! The crowd’s shock was exactly what the scene required, and LaMonica and I perfectly executed both the verbal exchange and the physical confrontation, the upshot of which was a winking admonishment from team management. You see, while it wouldn’t be appropriate for a coach, or a general manager, or an owner to tolerate such an egregious display, in this case there was tacit approval. For the first time, Mo Gosego had demonstrated a fighting spirit. Regardless of the circumstances, this was cause for celebration.
For the cast and crew, there was reason to celebrate, as well. The scene at Oracle Arena was the last we filmed for the pilot. It was a bit of a strange sensation, saying goodbye, for no one expected the hiatus to last very long. At the end of a play or movie, everyone exchanges gifts and vows to keep in touch. It is a bittersweet feeling—a mix of melancholy and joy that comes with completing a long journey. This was different; we all felt that the journey had barely begun. We would go our separate ways and reunite in a couple of months, after ABC had picked up the pilot and ordered a dozen or more new episodes.
After we left Oakland, Jami invited me to join her family on a short trip to Aspen, Colorado, where she and Tony had a vacation home. I had never skied, but accepted the invitation anyway. It was a great trip to one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. In all ways, I felt truly blessed.
FOR THE NEXT MONTH, we played the waiting game, while network executives went through the annual ritual of putting together their fall schedules. On each network, the lineup would include a handful of new shows whose pilots had tested well and that for one reason or another appeared to be worthy of a deeper investment. Based on everything I had heard, we would be one of the lucky few. Some of the people around me took a more cautious approach. Jami, for example, had been in the business a long time. She had experienced her share of triumphs and disappointments, and knew all too well the gambler’s axiom (which applies to Hollywood, as well)—that there is no such thing as a sure thing. But even she was confident.
I filled most of my days with physical activity: coaching youth basketball or training like crazy in the gym. When I first was offered the role of Mo Gosego, I weighed 185 pounds. The producers immediately assigned me a trainer and a new diet, designed to add at least thirty pounds of muscle to my angular frame. I had made progress, but there was still plenty of work to be done. I didn’t mind. Whatever they wanted me to do—take acting lessons, lift weights, improve my accent, consume more than five thousand calories a day—I was willing and eager to do it.
One evening in early May—on the day that the networks were going to announce the names of pilots that had survived the selection process—I was sitting with Jami, waiting to hear our fate. I couldn’t stop checking my phone or looking online.
“Relax,” Jami kept saying. “It will be okay.”
I couldn’t relax. I was too nervous. Finally, an email appeared in my inbox. Immediately I recognized the sender’s address; it was from one of the producers of our pilot. I hesitated for a moment. Was this good news or bad news? If it were good news, wouldn’t he call? Actually, wouldn’t he call even if it were bad news? What would he possibly share in an email? With my finger twitching in anticipation, I opened the message. As I started to read, the words blended together. A few jumped out at me at once, like a collage:
Sorry . . . network . . . pass . . . pilot.
The note was brief and to the point, which somehow crashed through the fog enveloping my brain. Holding my laptop, with the screen propped open, I stood up. Jami could tell by the look on my face that something was wrong.
“What is it, Blondy?”
I handed her the laptop.
“We’re not getting picked up.”
Jami’s eyes widened. “What! How? That’s not possible.”
“I guess it is. Read the message.”
Jami stared at the screen for a moment, until her eyes started to well with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Blondy,” she said. “I feel terrible for you.”
This was a significant disappointment for Jami, as well, but it was typical of her to be more concerned with how the news might affect someone else. I was almost too numb to cry at that moment, for I could not believe what was happening. The pilot was so strong, and everyone was so confident. I was not foolish enough to begin writing checks I could not cash, but I was certain that this time my luck had changed.
And now it was all gone? Just like that? Instead of being the star of a network sitcom, I was, well . . . nobody.
The realization hit me hard. I felt exactly the way I had felt when my eligibility was stripped
away in high school. Or when I fractured my ankle in college. But this was even worse. It is one thing to be tested by God; it is quite another to be teased and taunted. And that is the way I felt. Suddenly the emotion began pouring out of me. I cried so hard that I could barely breathe—great, heaving sobs, with tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Why?” I muttered. “Why, Jami?”
“Hang on a second,” Jami said, wiping away her own tears and reaching for her cell phone. As she walked out of the room, I could hear her talking to Tony, who was in his car.
A little while later, Tony arrived home from work. Tony is a compassionate man, but less emotional than me, which was a good thing at that moment. I needed a sturdy shoulder to lean on, and he was there for me.
“Blondy, I know this is really disappointing,” Tony said, his voice calm and reassuring. “I know what’s going through your head. But I want to you to look around right now. Look where you are. Look at what you have. You have a lot of people who care about you. You have us, and we’re not going anywhere.” There was a pause. “Do you understand what I’m saying.”
“Yes . . .”
“Good. This is not the end of anything, Blondy. Don’t give up.”
CHAPTER 27
* * *
For the better part of two weeks, I barely came out of my room. I would sleep late, and the moment my eyes opened to greet a new day, I was engulfed by sadness. I would stare at the ceiling for hours, thinking about what might have been—what should have been!—fantasizing about the life I was going to lead. I would have my own home, perhaps a mansion with room for all my relatives—African and American. There would be cars and money; there would be security, something I had never really known.
Sometimes I’d log on to my computer and peruse the myriad websites devoted to the television industry. I’d shake my head in frustration and jealousy at the descriptions of shows that had secured a place on the fall schedule. This was an exercise in self-flagellation—at once pointless and painful. It accomplished precisely nothing. Hollywood is a maddening town, and its chief export—entertainment—is an almost indecipherable commodity. I was hardly the first person to have his dreams crushed after they were seemingly within reach, and I wouldn’t be the last.
But what to do now?
As I had so many times in the past, I turned to God for help. He had been there for me in the jungle; he had been there for me when I needed help getting out of the Congo and going to America; he had been there for me when I was on the verge of being deported; he had been there for me when I suffered a career-ending injury in college; and he had been there for me when I was living in my car in Los Angeles. Each time I was at an impasse, and in desperation had sought help from God. And each time he had taken me by the hand and guided me out of the darkness. I wondered sometimes if I had exhausted my quota of divine intervention, but I prayed nonetheless.
“What now, Father? What do I do?”
Finally, the answer came to me one morning:
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get your butt out of bed. And get back to work.”
That morning I went to the gym and pushed myself so hard that I nearly passed out. It felt great to sweat out all the anger and frustration, and to do something productive. I made a vow to myself to stay in shape, because, let’s face it, when you are a 6-foot-8 African man, and a former Division I athlete, you are primarily going to be considered for roles that have a highly physical component. This is another way of saying that I do not look like a typical Hollywood leading man—in either drama or comedy. I had to play to my strengths, and my greatest strength was also my biggest weakness: I looked different. But I couldn’t change that. All I could do was be the best possible version of myself.
There was no shortage of people eager to offer condolences and support in those days—friends and family members, business associates, all of whom expressed some mix of shock, sadness, and anger over the network’s decision to pass on our pilot. For a while I was obsessed with getting more information—a specific reason for our failure. Were the characters not believable? Was the writing not as sharp as it seemed? Was it me? Was it simply too much of a gamble to put a complete unknown at the center of a network sitcom?
No answers were forthcoming. At one point, I heard that a particular executive, who was a native of Great Britain, could not get his head around the idea of a show set in the world of American professional basketball. European soccer, perhaps, but not basketball. This was merely innuendo, but it seemed as reasonable as any other rationale. Eventually I stopped seeking answers, for it was no more productive, and perhaps just as painful, as banging my head against a wall.
Complicating matters further was the fact that ours was an unusually proprietary project. It’s fairly common for a pilot to be written, produced, and shopped to multiple networks. If one passes, there is always another potential suitor down the block. Alas, this was not the case with Untitled NBA Project, as the name so clearly indicates. From the moment of conception, we were an ABC/Disney project, with the full cooperation and support of the NBA. What we were going to do now that ABC had passed? Take the pilot to CBS or NBC? Or Fox? Solicit interest from a network that does not have broadcast rights to NBA games?
Unfortunately, there were no other options. The moment ABC decided to pass, our project ceased to exist.
But that did not mean I had to disappear, as well. The truth was, I had gotten the break of a lifetime on my very first audition. As Jami said to me, “A lot of actors work their entire careers and never get a chance to star in a network series. You almost made it on your first try.” This was Jami’s way of saying that I should be both grateful and realistic. As usual, she was right. I’ve never known anyone who is as good as Jami at being both mother and mentor. She was capable of hugging me one moment, and giving me a good kick in the behind a few minutes later. She and Tony raised their family in a world of privilege and luxury. But you would never know it by meeting their children. They are humble and hardworking. As long as I was part of their extended family, I was held to the same standard, and for that I am forever appreciative.
I even became close with Jami’s father, Walter Gertz. Jami’s family called him “Zayda,” which means grandfather, but I preferred to call him “Big Z,” because he was a little bit overweight. I love Big Z. He would introduce me by saying, “This is my grandchild,” and people would look at me quizzically, as if thinking, How can a tall black man be related to a white Jewish person? We all thought it was funny.
Still, it is an indisputable fact that relationships rule the business world, and this is as true in Hollywood as it is in any other industry. ABC’s decision to pass on our pilot was not universally applauded, and one of the people who expressed dismay was Disney CEO Bob Iger, one of the most powerful men in the entertainment business. Mr. Iger’s son, Max, happened to be a close friend of Theo Ressler. (The world is sometimes a very small place indeed.)
A few weeks after the pilot was spiked, Theo and Max were texting. According to Max, Mr. Iger was surprised and saddened to hear of what happened, since he had been a fan of the project. He was not about to ride in like a white knight and rescue the pilot; it would have been inappropriate to usurp the creative control of those beneath him. But he did have some thoughts on the matter, according to Max.
“My dad wants to meet Blondy,” Max said. “You should come over to the house.”
“What do you say?” Theo said, showing me the text.
I smiled. “Let’s go!”
And just like that, I found myself at the Brentwood home of Bob Iger. This, again, was a completely surreal moment for me. Less than a year earlier I had been sleeping in my car; I couldn’t get a job as a retail clerk, let alone as a professional actor. I was homeless and penniless. And now, here I was, having dinner with one of the smartest and most influential men in all of Hollywood. A person who, like Tony and Jami, believed wholeheartedly in the power of philanthropy—both large and small.
It was a brief and casual meeting, more of an introduction than anything else. But I have come to understand the importance of such meetings, and of making the most of every opportunity. Mr. Iger had seen the pilot and thought it had great potential. Sometimes though, he said, things just don’t work out. He urged me to keep working hard and to maintain a positive attitude.
“I’m going to keep an eye on you, Blondy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A week later I got a call from my manager, Adena. ABC wanted to sign me to an exclusive talent holding deal. This meant I could only work for ABC, but it also meant the network was serious about making a creative and financial investment in my career. It was, at the time, a much needed show of support. Was it a coincidence that the offer came shortly after I visited Bob Iger? Of course not. This is a universal truth: who you know sometimes means more than what you know. ABC would not have offered this deal if it did not think I had potential, but sometimes a little prodding from above helps the process along.
The truth is, we are all part of a larger community. The more you give, the more you get back. I truly believe that. I was blessed to have a family in the Congo, another family in Arizona, and a third family in Beverly Hills. I called Terry and Laurie regularly to give them updates about my Hollywood adventure, and while they were disappointed to hear of the pilot’s demise, they were relieved to know that I still had a place to live and a growing network of support within the industry.
A few weeks later, Jami initiated a conversation about my future.
“I want you to know that you are welcome to stay here as long you’d like,” she said. “You’re part of our family now.”
“Thank you, Jami.”
“But I’ve raised three boys and I know sometimes you need space. Tony and I have talked, and we have a proposition.”
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 28