I’m gonna get this part! I’m gonna GET this part! I’m GONNA GET THIS PART!”
As I drove through the Lincoln Tunnel from Guttenberg, New Jersey, into Manhattan, I was shouting at myself in the car. Repeating those four words over and over.
That says how much I wanted the role. When I went after something, it was with single-minded focus. I didn’t know any other way. It was like when I’d been an eight-year-old figuring out how to sink a basketball in the P.S. 67 cafeteria.
The reading was in a conference room at the Hotel St. Moritz on Central Park South. But to my dismay, I wasn’t alone. There was a crowded waiting area outside the main room. The chairs along the wall were filled with about twenty-five people. I felt my heart sink a little. I’d thought I was the only one up for the part.
I took a deep breath, sat down, and waited my turn, giving myself a silent pep talk. This is going to be a competition. Okay. Understood. Just means I’m in my element. I know how to compete.
When someone finally called my name, I entered the main room to find a small group of men and women seated at a table. They smiled politely but were quiet. Then one of the men introduced himself as Lynn Stalmaster.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Stalmaster was one of Hollywood’s foremost casting directors. A warm, pleasant guy with eyes that looked straight into yours when he spoke, Lynn was too humble a person to say he “discovered” actors. But he would accept credit for helping stars like John Travolta, Jon Voight, and Christopher Reeve achieve success.
Not that I would’ve compared myself to them. I was an athlete and had no delusions about being a professional actor. But it was flattering to know that Lynn saw something in me that could work in front of a camera.
He explained that he’d seen a TV interview I gave in college, and that he thought I would be excellent for his movie based on how I came across. I had no memory of the interview, but was glad he liked it. It turned out he wanted me to read for two characters. One was Preacher, and the other was Hustler.
I never knew if Gabe Kaplan had a say in recommending me for the casting call. But, in the movie, he played a New York City physical education teacher who’d been offered a chance to live his dream and coach a college hoops program. The problem was that the fictional school, Cadwallader University, was a falling-down dump of a place on nobody’s map. Gabe’s character, David Greene, didn’t have a recruiting budget, so he pulled together a team of misfits from the playgrounds.
In the story, Preacher, a former streetballer who had become a shifty Harlem minister, was in trouble with a neighborhood cult leader after getting his daughter pregnant. The Hustler character was a streetwise pool shark David hung out with on the West Fourth Street Courts. Since he knew all the best players around, Hustler became his right-hand man and team recruiter.
I remember Lynn asking me to do a cold read at the audition, a few lines of dialogue. I couldn’t tell if the group liked it; they were all deadpan. Then Lynn handed me the screenplay.
“We’d like you to do a second read, Bernard,” he said, dropping it into my hands. “Please look over the whole script. Try to retain all the lines for Preacher and Hustler, and think about what their scenes represent to the story.”
“Okay.” The screenplay was pretty thick. “When should I be ready?”
“Overnight,” he said. “We’d like you to come back tomorrow and give a recital without the script.”
I looked at him. All the lines. Overnight.
“Sure,” I said. “Not a problem.”
I went back to Guttenberg and was up all night memorizing and rehearsing the lines. I obviously wasn’t a trained actor, so I figured the best thing I could do was relax and try to imagine myself in the different scenes and settings. I was a pretty good pool player, giving me an instant connection to Hustler. And Preacher reminded me of a half-dozen guys I knew from the projects. I figured being able to relate to both characters couldn’t hurt.
The next day I was again in the Lincoln Tunnel: “I’m gonna get this part! I’m gonna get this part! I’m GONNA GET THIS PART…”
Back at the St. Moritz, only a handful of people were in the waiting area. Five instead of twenty-five.
I suppose that made me a finalist.
I went into the conference room. This time, Lynn let the others in his group do most of the talking. One of them would be my scene partner and read some dialogue. Then I would respond in character as either Hustler or Preacher.
We were at it a while. I’d memorized all the lines, and I’m sure they noticed. But I didn’t feel I had the part in the bag. Although no one in the room told me, I gleaned from their conversations that they were also having people read in Los Angeles.
At first, it felt odd having unseen competitors thousands of miles away. On the court, you challenged your rivals head-to-head. But I knew I could outplay anybody when I was on my game. The root of it was preparation. In that sense, I told myself, things probably weren’t so different from basketball. I’d prepared and executed to the best of my ability. The competition was irrelevant.
Before I left the room, Lynn told me he’d give me his decision as soon as possible. Then he asked if I was okay with spending a couple of months in Los Angeles.
Certainly, I told him. I really wanted the part, and it wasn’t a big deal. As an NBA player, you were on the road for half the season and got used living out of a suitcase.
The next day, I received a call from his assistant.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You have the part of Hustler.”
I tried to keep from whooping myself hoarse.
“Okay…”
“We’d like you in LA next week,” she said.
“Okaaaaay,” I said, thinking that was even shorter notice than I’d expected.
“We’ll provide an apartment in the Beverly Hills area.”
Oh shit, I thought. “Really? Beverly Hills?”
“Yes. And a $500 weekly stipend,” she said. “In addition to your salary. If that’s acceptable.”
Acceptable? $500 a week spending money plus salary? To stay in the land of swimming pools and movie stars—rent paid—and make a movie? What a way to spend a summer vacation. I’d made it!
“Yes,” I said. “I think that would be very acceptable.”
REHEARSALS STARTED the day after my arrival. All the main cast members were at the studio. There was Gabe Kaplan, of course. The Preacher role had gone to Michael Warren, a former UCLA hoops player with an impressive acting résumé (he would become best known as a cast member on Hill Street Blues). Harold Sylvester, another great actor—and later a screenwriter—played DC, a high school basketball star gone wrong. Mavis Washington was the only major cast member besides me with no acting experience. A high school and college athlete, she played basketball, volleyball, tennis, softball, and every other sport you can name. Mavis played Swish, a woman posing as a man so she could make our team.
The movie had a tight budget, so everything on our schedule was on the fast track. We prepared every day for two weeks, going from the rehearsal studio to Gabe’s home for extra run-throughs. Then we went right to shooting.
Rushing seemed a habit with these Hollywood folks.
At the time, Gabe was coming off his huge hit television series, Welcome Back, Kotter, a show based on a routine he’d done as a stand-up comedian. He got along fine with everyone, but you could tell he was the star. He was kind of aloof off the set, and didn’t socialize with the rest of us after each day’s filming.
Gabe was different at work. He loved basketball, and we played a lot of pickup games during breaks. Under head coach John Wooden, Mike Warren had won two championships playing with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Lucius Allen on the UCLA Bruins—one of the most famous college basketball teams in history. Harold Sylvester’s varsity hoops career wasn’t as well known, but he’d been the first African American to attend New Orleans’s Tulane University on a hoops scholarship. And Mavis was one of the most skillful and versatile athletes I ever met.
So our games weren’t for scrubs. They were tremendously competitive. Gabe was a very good shooter and held his own.
The filming of Fast Break went smoothly. There was no friction on the set. Everybody got along, and everything was on schedule. You could say we did our own stunts in the basketball scenes, but, because we were all athletes, they weren’t really stunts.
We didn’t have much downtime. I would get to my trailer early in the morning, eat some breakfast, and wait for a knock on the door. Our director, Jack Smight, didn’t like you watching scenes till it was your turn, I think because he wanted you to stay within your character’s frame of reference. When I got the knock, I would go to makeup and wardrobe and then appear on set.
One Friday after we’d wrapped filming for the afternoon, I was in the trailer trying to decide on my weekend plans when one of those knocks interrupted my thoughts. I frowned. I’d thought we were finished for the day. I opened the door.
To my surprise, Gabe was standing outside. He had a big, friendly smile on his face. “B, what are your plans for tonight?”
I looked at him. From that smile, you’d have thought we hung out every night.
“Don’t have any yet,” I said.
He nodded. “Great! Let’s go out.” He gave me a mischievous wink. “Hollywood after dark, y’know. It’ll be fun, guaranteed. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
All right.
I had a bite to eat, showered, and dressed in a sharp blue blazer, cream pants, and an open-neck shirt. A splash of cologne, a glance in the mirror, and I was ready for any ladies I might encounter.
“Not bad for a kid from Brooklyn,” I told my reflection.
My reflection grinned at me.
At eight on the dot I received a call from my building’s concierge. Gabe had arrived.
And how.
When I came downstairs, he was waiting in a shiny black Rolls-Royce. Nice being the star.
I hopped in and complimented him on the Rolls. “So where are we going?”
“Playboy mansion,” he said casually, and pulled onto the road.
I might’ve gasped aloud.
My mind raced as we drove through the gates of the mansion. I was about to enter the Olympus of pleasure. The palace of A-list parties. The place that made Hollywood, Hollywood.
It was everything I’d imagined in my wildest fantasies. I entered to pumping music, gorgeous women in bunny ears and cotton-tailed bikinis, and more gorgeous women in sexy outfits lounging all around the room.
Gabe and I sat at a table and a bunny brought us drinks. One of the other guests made his way over and we introduced ourselves. Then the guy walked off. I guessed he was being sociable.
After a minute, I recognized Berry Gordy, the founder of Motown Records—and the man responsible for the careers of the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, and countless other musical icons.
As he came walking by, Gabe stood up to say hello, shaking his hand.
Gordy was a colossus in the music business. An icon. Normally, I would have jumped at the chance to meet him.
But I was twenty-one years old. Some of the stunning goddesses in the party mix were topless. I wouldn’t have tried keeping my eyes off the scenery.
Then I noticed a woman in a form-fitting miniskirt. Cocoa-brown skin, hair pulled back to accentuate her high-cheekboned beauty. She was alone.
As Gabe stood talking to Gordy, I went over and struck up a conversation. She told me her name was J’Lani, and said she’d recently signed with a modeling agency in town.
I remember that her perfume was intoxicating.
We hit it off, and pretty soon were laughing it up.
It’ll be fun. Oh, yes.
I was grooving to the music and pondering my next move with J’Lani when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
It was Gabe. He leaned in toward my ear.
“Let’s go,” he said.
My thoughts about the night ahead came to a screeching halt. “What?” I said. “Why?”
Gabe looked upset. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “C’mon. We’re outta here.”
I reluctantly tore myself away from J’Lani. Before I left, she took my hand and said she was disappointed. I felt like weeping. But Gabe was my ride, and I had to work with him. Besides, I figured whatever was bothering him had to be serious. Why else would anyone in his right mind bail on the mansion?
On the drive back, Gabe explained why we’d left.
“You remember that first guy who came over to us?”
“Yeah…”
“Berry Gordy sent him to ask my name.”
I looked at him. “So?”
“So? Give me a break! I’m Gabe Kaplan! Christ, how can he not know who the hell I am?”
I stared at him from the passenger seat. We’d left because Gabe was angry someone didn’t recognize him.
As we descended from the hills, I think I might have contemplated hitting him upside the head.
I climbed into bed alone that night, thinking about J’Lani and what might have been. But I eventually did find out.
When J’Lani and I clasped hands, she’d slipped me a piece of paper with her phone number written on it. We got together several times during my stay in Los Angeles, and it was incredible.
I didn’t tell Gabe. I wasn’t sure he would have been thrilled for me.
AFTER THE PRINCIPAL PHOTOGRAPHY WRAPPED in late August, we flew to New York for two-and-half weeks of location filming. In one scene, I’m going into a Harlem billiard hall. That was a real place. When you see me shooting pool in the movie, I’m taking all my own shots. In Brooklyn, we played Eight-Ball calling pockets. So you had to be skilled.
We did a scene in an abandoned apartment building uptown. It was a shooting gallery, a place where numbers runners and drug dealers squatted. We had far too many neglected tenements to choose from.
Finally, there’s a scene with Gabe and me playing basketball in the West Fourth Street park. It’s early in the film; we shot out of sequence. If you pay close attention to the street kids, you’ll see Laurence Fishburne as a seventeen-year-old extra. Robert Townsend, the illustrious director and actor, is also an uncredited extra in the scene. I believe it was his first movie appearance. I guess you could say we had a cast of pre-stardom all-stars.
There’s a scene when one of the characters says something to me, and I reply with, “Okay, solid.” That word wasn’t in the script. It just came out of me. In my old neighborhood, solid meant “cool” or “all right.”
As the word left my mouth, I thought I’d flubbed the line. But the director signaled me to keep going.
“Use it!” he said. “Use it!”
That happened a few times afterward, and the slang always stayed in.
Blueberry Hill, the kid with the big head and mama-cut hair, was keeping it real in the movies.
Fast Break wrapped filming in the fall of 1978. It would open about six months later, in March 1979 to decent reviews and a solid box-office take. The soundtrack even produced a top-ten song, “With You I’m Born Again” by Billy Preston and Syreeta.
The movie’s advance screening would be in a few months. Lynn Stalmaster had told me everyone was delighted with my performance.
Meanwhile, the 1978–1979 NBA season was underway. The ten weeks of filming in Los Angeles and New York pulled me out of my conditioning routine, and I felt it took longer than usual to get into peak shape. But I was my own toughest critic. As we entered December, I was averaging 23 points a game, putting me among the league’s top scorers.
It was a good time for the Nets. We were 17–13, four games above .500, and had an upbeat vibe among us. Over a third of the way through my sophomore season, Kevin Loughery’s promise that things would get better seemed to be bearing out.
One addition to the team who’d made a positive difference was our new player-coach—a former player with the Knicks, Phil Jackson.
Early in the offseason, the Nets had acquired Phil in exchange for two high draft picks and a settlement of their financial debt to the Knicks. After eleven years and two championships in New York, he was at the end of his playing career. But Loughery had convinced him that a dual role with the Nets would prepare him for a head coaching job down the road.
I liked Phil and felt his experience was a benefit. Unlike the year before, our different ingredients were coming together. Some of us were even starting to think realistically about the playoffs.
I had no idea it would be my final season with the team, and the beginning of the darkest period of my life.