Hollywood Jock

365 Days, Four Screenplays, Three TV Pitches, Two Kids, and One Wife Who's Ready to Pull the Plug

Rob Ryder

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2024
• Print ISBN: 9780060791506
• eBook ISBN: 9780062003607
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Film & Video

Rob Ryder made that pledge to his wife, and he was determined to stick to it. As technical consultant on blockbuster sports films, he had seen up close how the film business works and what kind of chaos can, and usually does, ensue. And now he was ready to take it on!

Hollywood Jock is the suspenseful, dramatic, outrageous, and honest true story of the year when Rob Ryder, screenwriter, laid it all on the line -- and kicked, scratched, wheeled, dealed, and fought like hell to hit the Tinseltown big time. It is a chronicle of schmoozing producers, shopping screenplays, corralling sports legends, and dodging irate actors -- a fascinating perspective on the highs, the very lows, and the behind-the-scenes madness that makes the world of Hollywood so endlessly compelling . . . and infamously brutal.

1

WELCOME TO L.A.

Pookey’s late. But so am I, striding along Melrose Avenue through the great saucy mix of hipster Los Angelenos—every size, color, and flavor—tattooed and pierced, the young women showing all that skin between their ya-yas and their lowslung jeans. I fall in behind one—a long artistic tat running across the girl’s back right above her ass crack. I slow my pace and stay behind her for a block. Grrrrwl.

I find the entrance to Pookey’s office, 7551 Melrose, pound up the ratty stairs and stick my head into a threadbare office. A beautiful, exotic, tawny-skinned, long-limbed creature sits sorting press releases at a desk. I can just imagine the tat across her lower back.

“Are you Maya?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.” I stare at her. She stares back with big black serious eyes.

“I must be in the wrong place,” I say.

“Again?” she asks.

“Yeah, again,” I say, then add, “My whole life.”

She suddenly smiles wide, revealing a great set of white teeth and a glint of braces. “I’m Rasha,” she says. “She’s Maya.”

I step inside the office and spot a second beautiful exotic woman. A couple years older perhaps. A couple inches shorter. Straight black hair, copper skin. She’s talking into a headset, typing on a laptop. She’s wearing a white shirt with that one extra button undone that can make a man’s day. She’s got a cast on her foot. She looks over and sees my eyes move from her buttons to her cast.

“Wild sex,” she says by way of explanation, and I know I’m in the right place. Look, people have to work for a living—we all know that. But it takes a guy like Pookey to understand let’s at least put some juice in it. Spice it up a bit. Rasha turns out to be Egyptian, Maya, Indonesian. Welcome to L.A.

Pookey’s got it going on. African-American, five foot three, literally, and one of the best ballers to ever come out of SoCal. He played at Ventura Juco with Cedric Ceballos, then went on to Seton Hall before blowing out his knee.

Now he’s back on his home turf, hustling for a living. Travel, real estate, entertainment. He’s been producing an event called “Chocolate Sundaes” at the Laugh Factory on Sunset every Sunday night for a couple of years now. Hosted by his childhood friend Chris Spencer. Yeah, that Chris Spencer of the talk show Vibe who was the best example of how tough it is to host a talk show until Magic Johnson came along and made Chris look like Johnny.

Anyway, years ago in my never-ending search for basketball players for the movies, I’d been given Pookey’s number. I’d call him from Charlotte (Eddie)—he’d give me a couple names. I’d call him from Seattle (The Sixth Man)—he’d give me a couple names. I’d call him from Santa Monica (White Men Can’t Jump)—ditto. Like I said, Pookey’s got it going on.

That’s why I’m sitting in his office. I’m trying to revive my last-gasp screenwriting career. And Pookey’s gonna help me. (Only he doesn’t know it yet.) So are Maya and Rasha. ’Cause they’re sharp, these two. They’re impressive, and so is Pookey for hiring them.

Maya hits Pookey on his two-way. He’s 20 minutes out, finishing up a renegotiation on a TV deal. I’m happy to wait—in the company of these two women; Pookey can take his sweet black-ass time. Rasha and Maya and I hit a nice riffing rhythm between phone calls, fax replies, birthday reminders, and ticket requests.

And these things I learn; Pookey’s got an LLC (limited liability company). He’s got a lawyer, but does a lot of his own negotiating. He’s just finished talent-producing two TV variety shows. He’s working on something new with the William Morris Agency. He’s a true showbiz entrepreneur with great connections to black entertainers. He’s also into real estate—owning houses in South Central and New Jersey and points in between. He’s working on an elite, all-inclusive L.A. travel package. He’s looking to launch his own comedy club. And he’s still the same old Pookey.

Then we hear him on the stairs, shouting up, “Honey, I’m home!” He appears in the doorway. I rise to greet him. He truly is five foot three—wearing a sleeveless denim shirt, baggy jeans, a big smile. He’s rough, Pookey. He’s not some smooth-polished dude. But I’ve had enough of them the last few years, black and white. I’m looking for an ally who gets things done.

We shake hands and share the obligatory one-shoulder hug. Then he pulls back and looks me up and down.

“Rob, my man, what’ve you got?”

“Two things,” I say. “Let’s sit down.”

2

RED AUERBACH STRIKES AGAIN

Pookey leans back, face neutral, as I start my spiel. “First, a screenplay. It’s a sex comedy, ensemble—four black actors, three white—a young black woman gets dragged along by her friends on a river rafting trip. Paramount optioned it, but then passed and I got it back and it deserves to get made.”

“What do you want me to do?” asks Pookey.

“Look, here’s a list of potential actors.”

I hand him a couple dozen names—Jamie Foxx, Gabrielle Union, LL Cool J, Jada Pinkett Smith, Marlon Wayans, Beyoncé—like that.

Pookey peruses.

“I personally know more than half the people on this list.”

“Cool,” I say. “Help me put together a cast and you’ll get a producer credit.”

Rasha—Pookey’s exotic Egyptian-American assistant—sits listening to my pitch, taking notes. Maya, Pookey’s exotic Indonesian-American assistant, keeps working the phones in a hushed voice.

“Anyway, here’s the script. First you’ve got to read it and like it. Then if you’re interested, we’ll do a handshake agreement—you attract some meaningful actors, you’re in as a producer.”

“I’ll read it this weekend,” says Pookey, and a little bell in my head goes off—how many times have I heard that?

Rasha speaks up, “You said you have something else?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And this one’s more immediate. Think the Harlem Globetrotters married to the street feel of the And 1 Mix Tape Tour, throw in Drumline and Bring It On and it’s gold, man. Plus I’ve got a mystery element that’s gonna blow everyone’s minds.”

Pookey looks puzzled.

“I don’t get it. What is it?”

“It’s a basketball, music variety show. I’m callin’ it Hoop de Ville. It’s a live show. You stage it in arenas or bring it right into a theater. Plus we might create some reality TV out of it.”

Pookey considers.

“Yeah, but, the Globetrotters…Rob, man, that’s like one of the strongest brand names in the world. And And 1? They created that street cred—it didn’t just happen. They worked it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So what makes you think anyone’s gonna give a shit about another basketball show?”

“Because I’m introducing new elements. Stuff the Globetrotters and And 1 don’t have. Look, I started working this idea way back on Blue Chips. You saw that, right? Shaq, Nick Nolte, Penny—college hoops.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

I feel myself suddenly sliding off balance—Blue Chips, Blue Chips. Bad memories come swirling back like giant nasty locusts. What a nightmare job. First off the director, Billy Friedkin, was the guy who directed The Exorcist, and it was like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system. Plus my buddy Ron Shelton (who directed White Men Can’t Jump) wrote the Blue Chips screenplay and was producing, and he and Friedkin didn’t see eye to eye and I knew I’d get caught in the middle. (Ron was letting Friedkin direct it because it was the only way to get it made—seeing as how Friedkin was married to Paramount president Sherry Lansing.)

Blue Chips—the job from hell.

Example—in the middle of the movie Nolte suspects that one of his players may have shaved points; so he goes back to the videotape to review the game. Which means it’s a game we’ve got to shoot. Piece of cake, right? I do a couple of casting calls at the Hollywood Y, hire 20 players, a great mix—most of them are black, most of them played college ball, even some D1 in there. Nice size, they’re in great shape, they look like college guys, and I figure they’re just what’s required for the ten seconds of videotape we need for the scene.

I tell Friedkin we’re good to go, but no, he wants to see them. Not only that, he wants Red Auerbach and Pete Newell to check them out as well. It turns out that Friedkin’s brought on the two octogenarian basketball Hall-of-Famers to guarantee the verisimilitude of the basketball. So we rent a gym, we bring in the players, plus Red and Pete (Red as crusty as Pete is gentlemanly). And I run a 10-minute scrimmage. After which Friedkin turns to Red Auerbach. “So Red, whaddaya think?”

“These guys can’t fucking play,” says Red. “They stink, the whole bunch of ’em.”

Oh, man. From behind, I see Friedkin’s neck flush with anger. His head swivels, his eyes lock on me, and I’m thinking here comes the projectile vomit.

“Can you handle this job?” he asks in a steady voice.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Then get the fuck out of here and bring me some real ballplayers.”

I stagger out of the bleachers thinking, Thanks a lot, Auerbach. This ain’t the NBA, man. We’re re-creating one mediocre college basketball team here for God’s sake. Ten seconds of videotape.

Two weeks later we get the word—Red Auerbach has suffered a heart attack and won’t be able to stay with us for the duration of the movie. Was I relieved? Yes. Did I feel guilty about that? No. Because Red, who tormented many a soul during his lifetime, wasn’t done yet. He recovered nicely, but thank God slowly. A couple weeks later we shot the scene using the exact same players (Friedkin never knew the difference) and it all played great.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, pitching Pookey Hoop de Ville.

I jabber on, “So anyway, in Blue Chips we created several college games—pep bands, mascots, cheerleaders; Shaq, Penny, plus 14 first-round draft picks—and I realized, this isn’t just sports, this is theater, this is an incredible show.”

“Yeah, college basketball,” says a skeptical Pookey.

“But this is showball. And we’re bringing it to the next level,” I say.

“Look, the financials are very promising. It’s cheap to produce. You can travel it, you can find a permanent home. Like Branson, Missouri—you know, the mecca of country music, it’s where…”

I see Pookey’s eyes begin to glaze over.

“I’m thinking of calling Yakov Smirnoff,” I plow on. “You know, the Russian comedian—he’s got his own theater in Branson. It’s the Midwest, man, they love their hoops out there and—”

Pookey’s two-way buzzes and he checks it and I’m thinking, TMI (too much information)…Keep it simple, man, and get out the door. Or better yet, lie.

“Look, I’m raising some money,” I say (immediately reclaiming Pookey’s attention without actually lying). “I want to workshop it here in L.A. I’m gonna need a choreographer, a musical director, an M.C.”

“That I can get you.”

“That’s all I’m asking. So, here’s a three-page description of the show. And here’s my screenplay.”

“I’ll read it this weekend,” says Pookey.

We say our good-byes and I flush back out onto the Melrose Avenue sidewalk, where the hipster parade marches on—all sorts of sweet young things, showing skin and thong bait—but all I’m thinking is, Man, I gotta refine that pitch. Look, Hoop de Ville has great promise. I believe in it as much as in anything I’m doing. I remind myself that sometimes the best ideas are the hardest to convey. Can you imagine the blank stares the creators of Avenue Q got the first time they tried to pitch it—“See, there are these kind of Muppet puppets, but they’re all real horny, and they like sing and stuff and the actors are onstage with them and…”

Monday morning I call Pookey. He doesn’t return. I send him an email. No response.

Same thing Tuesday. And Wednesday.

I ...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Contents
• Introduction
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
• 7
• 8
• 9
• 10
• 11
• 12
• 13
• 14
• 15
• 16
• 17
• 18
• 19
• 20
• 21
• 22
• 23
• 24
• 25
• 26
• 27
• 28
• 29
• 30
• 31
• 32
• 33
• 34
• 35
• 36
• 37
• 38
• 39
• 40
• 41
• 42
• 43
• 44
• 45
• 46
• 47
• 48
• 49
• 50
• 51
• 52
• 53
• About the Author
• Praise
• Copyright
• About the Publisher