Oscar season is approximately to begin (Harvey's 2014 screeners atomic number 18 in the mail) (1); pitchers and catchers are in full bloom. As a blackguard who produces movies for a living, the former feels ab surface as interesting as Bey and Hova's current exploits while the latter makes me liter wholey giddy with anticipation.
I've been lucky becoming to work and play with some of the planet's grea demonstrate actors -- Daniel Day Lewis, Nicole Kidman, Sir Anthony Hopkins, Robert DeNiro (just to bring out check a few) -- solely for some occasion, the only fourth dimension I ingest goofy is with athletes. I've considered this odd thing everywhere the years: too much peeking behind the curtain? That iniquity Colin Farrell made me listen to his haiku? Or is it just the unabashed cull out that's been in that location since I was a kid? For me, physical heroism and those indelibly clutch moments are much easier to define than a massive acting performance. I admired Bradley Cooper's performance in Silver Linings Playbook, but Holy Shit, did you see J.R. Smith's sandwards alley-oop? (2).
I ne'er went to film school or lived in LA or dreamed about winning an Oscar; I studied encase scores as a kid, grew up in newborn York and wanted to play short for the Mets. My career path went a different way, but I cursorily learned what it meant to be a closeted sports fan; Hollywood is one of the few industries where it's precooled to be gay than into hockey.
When I first started making movies, I finagled my way into the Cannes Film Festival. Words cannot describe how ludicrously glamourous it is. The Hotel Du Cap (3); $40 Bellinis; escorts from countries you've ne'er hear of. The approximately celebrated actors in the world gathered in one splendid hotel courtyard, smoking, drinking and fabulous-ing their way through the French night. It was mildly interesting, in the main exhausting and almost looseness, and I was already thinking about how to describe this to my crew back home -- the only reason to actually go to these things in the first place (4).
I went to the sewer and found myself standing at the urinal next to Pat Riley. I remember being star struck for the first clip all night and mumbling something about zone defensive structure and my novel way to utilize the 2 guard. He express something involving "inappropriate" and "security" and it went d lethill from there, but the die was drip and a sad pattern quickly emerged.
At the Golden Globes I made googly eyes at Magic Johnson. I shoved Cameron Diaz out of the way at an Oscar party to harass hit Messier. on that point was an un gilded incident at one of my own premieres involving Bernard King (5). The list goes on and on and it ain't pretty (6).
Things got worse when I started going to sports-themed events instead of places I should adjustfully run through been. I dated a lovely actress who had a braggy following among the, um, male demographic (7). She was invited to present at the ESPY's. As embarrassing as it was, she felt the carry to have a talk with me beforehand about behaving myself around my sports heroes. I never got that speech before the People's Choice Awards or the UJA Gala Benefit, but here we were exiting the limo with me properly chastened.
I was immediately put to the test as she gave her first interview on the red carpet. stand at a distance, holding her purse like all the other insignificant schmuck boyfriends, I found myself back to back with none other than Brett Favre (8). The Lord does work in mysterious ways.
I was about to introduce myself, maybe get a cheesy photo. Brett Freaking Favre! Surely that was worth a night in the doghouse. Trying to time it so that my girl didn't see what I was doing, I realized that Favre was conducting his own interview without even a glance at his interviewer; he was staring unashamedly at my girlfriend's breasts. And when I say staring I'm being engaging, he had fundamentally moved in and refurnished the place.
Amazingly, that didn't seem to deter my religious sports eagerness one bit. Movie stars are pigs too! (9). I quickly rationalized five minutes later, when I spotted Marv Albert standing by himself -- practically begging me to ask him about Jordan's 55-point Garden explosion.
When we were fortunate enough to attend last year's Giants victory at the ace Bowl, I was essentially muzzled for three days and put on double secret probation. I did manage to get a great shot of Aaron Rodgers coming out of the Maxim party, a look of sheer terror on his face -- had psyche forewarned him?
Perhaps my greatest coup would come in the Windy city when I filmed a movie there with the frightful Tim Robbins. Naturally a lot of the talk was about baseball -- Bull Durham being one of the all-time great sports movies (10) and Tim being one of the all-time great raconteurs -- and in a unanimous decision that surprised nobody, my sports dream overwhelmed my moral compass. I called the Cubs and told them that Tim was in town and wanted to come molt out the first ball at Wrigley. I past told Tim that the Cubs had heard he was in town and wanted him to come throw out the first ball. I'm ashamed to say that this ploy alone worked and I got to realize one of my childhood fantasies -- we walked on to that magical, fine field before the game. I marched right past the of late traded Cliff Floyd (11) all the PR people with whom I was suppositious to arrange Tim's next few hours, and headed straight for the outfield. I walked up to the ivy, immersed myself in the wall, and began to cry. For reasons I will never fully understand, it the Great Compromiser one of the greatest moments of my life. And I've had some great ones.
I'm due in LA next week to speak on a panel for film producers. Though I've spent months preparing my notes and the topic is right up my alley -- How To Recognize That What You're Doing Is The Single Most substantial Job a Human Being Can Do -- I'm now seriously considering a detour to Port St. Lucie instead. There are a couple of crucial questions I need to ask Jordany Valdespin...
Rick Schwartz is a Movie Producer and Man in Transition. He is currently fourth on the Mets outfield depth chart.
Footnotes:
1. This was stick on just eight hours after Ben Affleck officially accepted the elected nomination, um, Best Film award for Argo:
2. Holy Shit, seriously? And this guy can't even crack the Knicks starting 5?
3. Hotel Du Cap was historied for years for only accepting cash, gene judge a fortune for the French mafia. All kinds of famous people would show up for the fiesta with briefcases filled with tens of thousands of dollars for their stay, no exceptions.
4. I've had the same five friends since I was seven years old. When do you pass the point that it's easier to just impact with your boys rather than meet someone new? Are there any guidebooks for men on this topic?
5. Nowadays you get Alec Baldwin hosting the ESPY's and Bill Clinton presenting at the Golden Globes and it somehow makes sense. Back then it was: What the hell are these people doing here?
6. A eat meeting at Rao's with Spielberg turned into a chance dustup with Joe Namath, nearly resulting in a restraining order. Not allowed to speak to either one of those fine and talented gentlemen.
7. No, this wasn't nearly as fun as it sounds. Imagine virtually everyone you encounter hitting on your girlfriend -- I remember sitting in the apparent movement row at a Lakers game and watching Kobe substitution between paying attention to the game and to the girl I came with.
8. Pre-penis photo still-in-Green-Bay-Brett Favre. Stats that year: 4155 yards, 28 TD/15 INT, passer rating of 95.7. We forget how good he was.
9. Nothing worse than functional with one of your heroes and realizing in the first 10 minutes that he's a total douche. Jack Nicholson comes to mind - he spent most of his time on set chain smoking 5 inches away from Martin Scorsese, a famous asthmatic. Stay classy, Joker.
10. Never preferably understood the argument here, this is literally indisputable -- and no, Bang The nonplus Slowly isn't in the same category. FYI, Forbes magazine has Fever careen at #6 on their all-time Top 10.
11. net year with the Mets: .244/11/44 in 332 AB. He seemed kind of pissed to see my Mets t-shirt and just pissed in general; I saw him years later on ESPN's Broke and immediately felt bad.
Materials taken from The Huffington Post
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