The mumbling lunatics mingle with the merely indigent on the boardwalk. The big buff boys glisten in the sun on Muscle Beach, clinging the metal, jerking the metal, standing and admiring each other. Tourists tip-toe through the scenery, smelling the signature scent of The Sausage Kingdom as it mingles with the sea breezes, the smell of cheap alcohol and the aroma of whatever you're smoking yourself.
On the black-top court, JT is running the game. B-Ball! You hear JT before you see him.
"Can't touch me baby. Can't touch me. I got my magic shorts. I got my Nikes. Oooooh baby, I got my MJ workin' for me."
As he cuts in from downtown, he bumps off a rival's chest and then launches a dainty, sky-hook shot which arcs through the summer air and drops soundlessly through the hoop. Soundlessly save for the joyous hollering of its executor. This is where Woody Harrelson met Wesley Snipes, or at least this is a replica of where they met. The court used for White Men Can't Jump was built 100 yards further up the beach where director Ron Shelton would have less passers-by wandering into shot.
"Yeah, I was in White Men," says JT, "me and Old Man Ron."
Old Man Ron is Ron Beals, who, in his sixties now, can't jump like he did when he played college ball in the 1950s. He's still the pope of Venice Beach Courts. Not that respect or infallibility are big things here.
"Keep it straight and real JT. Don't snow the man," shouts Vern, putting his hands to his head in horror. "You ain't even seen that movie."
"Just cos you was too ugly for those cameras . . ."
"Where'd you try out? Culver City?"
"Tried out here. You know that."
"No. Culver City."
"No, it was here. Victor picked up the people, the pretty ones anyway."
"Okay. You had a cameo, JT man. Smallest one-blink cameo I ever saw. One frame."
"I just have to go and get my resume."
"Oh, don't make it worse, JT."
JT's resume is quite full actually. Basketball players who will work for union rate are in demand and White Men Can't Jump made him busy. He's done Love and Basket- ball and the forthcoming Bedazzled, with Liz Hurley, and a string of ads including Gatorade, Footlocker, Nike, Pizza Hut.
"Oooh, that Liz Hurley, man," says Vern as JT gives the list, "she's for me."
JT's union, the Screen Actors Guild, has been on strike for two and a half months. They took all the ad work to Canada.
JT doesn't care too much. He came out here 11 years ago, in love with a girl. He'd played a year of pro ball in France and another in Germany and he hit California. Now he comes to the court at 10 a.m. each morning and plays till 5 p.m.. Except on weekends when he comes at 9 a.m. and plays until 7 p.m. This is the sweetest life imaginable. Sun, the sounds of the sea, and the run of the court.
Nobody says your momma's so big the dogs use her for shade, but they keep it simmering. Some pale beanpoles from the pro-league in Germany have joined the play. One of them cuts to the hoop and wakes up on the gravel, bodyslammed to earth by a kid with a bandana. The ball is at the other end of the court when the German stands up gingerly, brushes himself off and spreads his arms imploringly.
"Gotta call it man," says JT. "You think you were fouled, you gotta call it. You don't call it, we don't know you been fouled."
At the heart of basketball are these street courts. Every city has them, but a few in particular are landmarks in the game. Venice Beach in California, West Fourth Street in New York and Jackson Park in southside Chicago are the pre-eminent street schools. Each has their own flavour and personality. West Fourth Street, a caged compound on a corner in New York, pumps like the city around it. Jackson Park is intense and hard. Venice Beach is show-time.
Every west coast player who's ever wanted to prove himself has tried it here. Michael Jordan stopped by when he was shooting Space Jam in Hollywood, Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal and most of the Lakers have played here. The street has so much cred that TV has bought it. After 40 years here, jammed hard against Muscle Beach, the court is moving up a little. Nike and NBC have bought the rights to show the late summer leagues here for the next 10 years.
Meanwhile, it's a court for showboats and JT has the full regalia. He doesn't bother much with defence. His contribution to defending is theoretical and expressed verbally only.
"Who's on D? Hey bad D man! Anybody gonna get some D goin? He can't see that shot, he can't, he can't. Oh he's gone laser man. Where was the D. You dogs! You big, blind, lazy ol' dogs!"
JT spies a tracksuited Rastafarian watching serenely.
"You gonna play."
The dreadlocks shake. No.
"Look Dreadlock baby, what's the matter with you? You afraid? You only like playin' with the wild boys over there. Gotta get some organisation goin' man. Bit of man's b-ball."
The wild boys are the denizens of the two neighbouring courts, both of which are used for games of half court three-on-three basketball, which is at once worse and more physical that anything happening on JT's turf.
The game resumes. The rules are simple. Lose and you go. Winner stays on court. First to 13 wins. One point per score, two points if you score from outside the paint.
A big black guy the size of a house continually roams on to the court just bouncing a ball. Big Sex they call him. Other things, too, each referring to the bigness of his, ahem, sex. It must be a burden. Big Sex glowers constantly.
Suddenly Big Sex rags JT about, of all things, tennis. Big Sex is gonna get in shape and hit the courts. Look out Li'l Miss Kournikova.
JT is dismissive.
"Bad Leg Ken is the only guy roun' here that can play tennis."
And suddenly . . .
Some black-on-black tennis breaks out. Drive-by serving. Big Sex fishes two rackets out of his kitbag and hurls one at JT.
JT retreats to the back of the basketball court. Big Sex serves a boomer the length of the tarmac. JT whacks the return into the five-dollar blouse rack out front of the Miss Fashion USA Bargain Shop.
"You was a mile out, Big Sex."
They adjourn. Take questions.
Who was the best player you ever saw out here? Voices chime.
"Whoa. Best way to start a fight here man."
"Me."
"Reggie Cotton."
"None of you saw ever Ray Lewis."
"John Staggers."
The last two, Staggers and Lewis, are hard-luck stories from different generations, guys who were plucked from the playground here and almost made it big, but indiscipline brought them right back to where their legend was minted.
Lewis sums up the story of the street player, he slipped right back and out of sight on his way down and there are guys now
who swear he was the best ever. Bar none. The playground has sent a few players direct to the pros - Lloyd "Loy" Vaught and Charles "Mo" Outlaw being two of the current batch.
And trouble? One-on-one to the death sort of thing?
"Yeah, they do it some times, but it ain't violent no more. Back 10 years ago, you'd get the guys with the shooters. Too many people around now. I did some one-on-one for some money back in the day I did it. Too old now. The youngsters do it now. Come back with your money and I'll whip your ass and clean your pockets!"
It's dark. You turn to leave. A voice.
"Yo!"
It's Vern.
"You see old Liz Hurley, you tell her Vern is waitin' for her and Vern is lookin' fine."
