I had submitted for a casting online that called for experienced basketball players. It was a small independent movie that would pay about $5,000 for the role. With this amount of money on the line, I mentioned in my submission that I was an excellent basketball player who joined pick up games regularly here in New York City. The following day, I got the call. As the director wanted very realistic action in the film, the audition would be more like a basketball try-out than anything else. "Come ready to play," the casting director advised. Then, in a cautious tone, she prodded, "Are you very good at basketball?" I responded "Very, very good," with more confidence than General George S. Patton. But she needed to be convinced. "We're having NCAA level players come in tomorrow. I just don't want anybody to be injured. It'll be very intense." This, sounding like a threat, caused me to falter for a second. "Ugh... well, yeah," I said, trying to come up with some authentic street cred, "I played Varsity in High School, as well as on several AAU teams." She seemed won over, and told me to come to the West 4th Street Basketball court the next morning to show my stuff. What she didn't know as she hung up the phone, was that sinc the 6th grade, the only instances in which I've touched a basketball have been while rummaging through the sports closet in my parents' basement, which is where I kept my bong.
I called up my buddy Colin, who played lacrosse in college, and actually is athletic. Since I couldn't show up wearing hip, impractical Vans, I needed to borrow basketball shoes. Although I'm 6'1" on a good day, I have tiny feet, and putting on Colin's Tarheel Blue size 13 Jordan's was humbling, uncomfortable, and probably dangerous, like when a child tries to shave a nonexistent beard when daddy is at work. My feet jumbled around his shoes when I tried walking in them, so I decided that I'd wear my superthick wool hiking socks for the occasion. The rest of my costume was finished in a similarly hodgepodge fasion-- a Red Sox t-shirt and my faded high school lacrosse shorts. Far from looking like an athlete, I more closely resembled a guy who was about to paint his garage. That night, thinking of $5,000 and another athletic humiliation, I barely slept. A powerful storm came upon the city.
Early the next morning I found my way to the West 4th Street court through a rain that had lightened up from the previous night. When I arrived, several African-American men, none under six feet five inches, were playing aggressively on the puddled asphalt that seemed to gently and menacingly steam in the summer humidity. The sight of furious elbows, slam dunks and the casual verbal harassment that typically accompanies pick up games on this court terrified me. First, for some context.
According to Wikipedia, this court is called "The Cage." The entry goes on, "Because it is so small, more emphasis is given to 'banging inside,' or tough physical play...West 4th's talent is big, but the court's too small to contain all the flying elbows. To some tourists, this may look like a steel-cage wrestling match. 'If you don't like a physical brand of basketball,' says A-Train, 'stay away from West 4th.'" Thinking of the parent-refereed, "everybody gets to play" contests back in my hometown of suburban Manchester-by-the-sea, I clutched my Riptide Rush Gatorade, and entered, wishing I could just give a monologue from Henry V.
I signed my name, and gave the casting director my height and weight, both exaggerated. When she asked me whether or not I could dunk, however, I decided to stick to the truth. I got a number and stood behind the camera for my group to be called to the slippery court. I sized up the other "actors," and taking note of what they were doing, attempted some perfunctory stretches. One of them, a tall white guy with a bandage on his face, had to excuse himself from the audition due to a broken nose. I looked around at the other guys and smirked at this excuse, yeah, right pal... get into the cage with the rest of us. Of course, he produced a highlight DVD for the casting director which featured his four years playing for NYU, as well as extra footage of his professional career over in Europe, where his nose injury had occurred. Show off.
My number was finally called, and with paralyzing temerity I bumped through the ranks of waiting men to see with whom I would be playing. It was a random lottery, based on when you showed up. I had been especially fearful of a seven footer--either French or African-- whose cryptic exchange with the casting director consisted of phrases such as "me here to play ball," and "can I slamdunk? ha-ha what you think?" But when I got on the court, I was elated. Probably the scrawniest kids of the day were stretching their hamstrings and shaking hands with one another. From that point on, I became invincible in the actor's default defense mechanism, egotism. I am perfect for this part, and nobody can take it from me.
Whistle. From nowhere a behind-the-back pass. All of a sudden, yes, a lay-up. Did I really make that behind-the-back pass? Shit, the ball skipped off that puddle. Another lay up? What the hell am I doing? Box out, first rebound... once more into the breach. Is it illegal if I put my elbow there? Wow, this kid really sucks. Ball so slick. Thank God-- the whistle.
And before I could process it, panting and elated, I had survived. I actually faked it, and did well. As I walked off the court, a few of the other guys waiting to play, once brutes and villains, congratulated us, even wished us luck, probably not without sarcasm. But I couldn't tell. For a minute, I fooled myself into thinking I had the part. Then, as I was chugging my Gatorade, one guy wearing a John's Hopkins practice squad jersey came over and asked me a question that brought me back to the ridiculousness of my situation. "Hey man, what's the deal with those socks?"
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