CHAPTER 2
Although I was about to be in the movies, I would have to be patient.
At least 10 days passed, and I heard nothing from Hollywood. I wondered if I hadn’t measured up after all, and they’d found a more suitably snobbish English Lord.
Finally, I got the email. My instructions were to report to the costume trailer at 7:30 am on shooting day and allow until mid-afternoon for the shoot. The scene would be filmed at the Longwood Cricket Club in Chestnut Hill, and parking would be available there, when I told the attendants who I was.
Hmm, I thought. Already receiving the star treatment.
When I arrived at Longwood, I was surprised. The parking lot was awash in trailers, as if the circus had suddenly come to town, carrying all sorts of movie making paraphernalia from costumes to cameras to food for the crew.
I was equally surprised by the place itself. With probably some forty grass tennis courts all arrayed together, Longwood was a beautiful, vast greensward with not a blade out of place. Perched above this emerald beauty was a gracious tile roofed clubhouse with a long covered porch overlooking the sea of green.
From the porch I looked down a row of probably twenty grass courts, side by side. At the far end was a huge crane with a giant camera mounted on it. There was another such camera on the porch and still smaller cameras on rotating tripods at eye level placed at intervals behind the courts.
Various club members had been willingly recruited to be cast as what is termed “background” in the trade, some as tennis players, others as onlookers having tea and watching the proceedings.
The crew was set to film here for the entire day at a cost that had to be many thousands of dollars. And my scene was the focus for the day. I could only assume that my scene was important.
After my initial look around, I reported as ordered to the costume trailer. There was an assumption in all this that everything in my costume would fit. Fortunately, It did.
Beyond my tennis whites and shoes (without logos of course), “everything” included an item I didn’t expect. As if the plastic cup weren’t enough, they had created a tough corset to go over the cup, and, of course, under the shorts. The combination felt enough to stop a bullet, let alone a Nerf ball. I feared momentarily, that they’d decided the Nerf ball wasn’t realistic enough, and had neglected to let me know that a different ball was in play requiring additional protection.
As I changed into my costume everything was comfortably familiar, with the exception of the corset. It was extremely snug, a bit stiff and uncomfortable and conjured images of balls and guns that were less than pleasant. Could a Hollywood career be worth all this?
With my armor in place and well hidden, I proceeded to the scene of the shot to receive instructions from the director who had directors chairs, a table and a computer screen set up under a tent directly behind the grass court where Danny’s character and I would do battle.
Here I received a few more details on how the shot would proceed. I would serve a realistic, hard serve to Danny’s court and charge the net in my best Pete Sampras impersonation.
Upon arriving at the net (holding my breath here), the Nerf ball (confirmation, relief) would be shot directly into my English Lord groin whereupon I would groan and collapse to the grass on my knees, a victim of Danny’s rapscallion nature. Ball boys would rush to my aid, lift me up and, with their help, I would stagger back to the clubhouse.
“It is a Nerf ball, right?” I queried.
The director laughed, put his hand reassuringly on my shoulder and said, “Yes. It will be a Nerf ball.”
Got it. No problem. It all seemed easy and straightforward.
Of course, it was not straightforward at all.
First, before the main scene was shot, they wanted an hour’s worth of distance shots of club and cast members playing tennis on the grass.
I played on my court in the foreground against Danny’s stunt double, a young man with a great sense of humor and passable groundstrokes, surely much better than Danny’s would have been.
Midway through that hour of what might have been enjoyable rallying, a cast member from the adjoining court stopped for a revealing chat after retrieving one of his balls that had rolled onto my court.
Looking askance at me while he reached for his ball, he asked curtly, “Hey. How’d you get this part?
Wow, I thought. What I’m doing here is actually considered a part.
I explained briefly about Leif, overhearing the need for a tall, grey-haired English Lord type who could play tennis.
To my utter shock he unloaded, “Unfuckingbelievable. I’ve been hanging around this business for years looking for a shot like this, and some asshole like you, who doesn’t even give a shit, who’s not even in the business, winds up with the role.”
With that he picked up his ball, turned his back on me, and, head shaking, stalked back to his court.
As I hit balls with Danny’s double my mind was not on the game while I tried to deal with the notion that this really was an important scene in the movie, and that I, the asshole, was giving new, unintended meaning to the term scene-stealer.
I managed to find solace in some facts. While he may have been frustrated, he just wasn’t right for the part. First, he was not tall. Second, he had no grey hair. Third, he was a lousy tennis player, and, altogether, he never would have qualified as the English Lord they needed.
Still, a bit preoccupied, I went back to rallying with Danny’s double, until it was, finally, time to prepare the set for my scene.