‘Winning Time’ Co-creator on Abrupt HBO Cancellation (Guest Column)
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HBO confirmed that it canceled Winning Time: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty after two seasons. The news was a surprise, coming only moments after the network aired its second-season finale on Sept. 17. Hecht is the co-creator of the series with Max Borenstein.
My wife burst into tears.
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I didn’t have that on my “Winning Time Cancellation” bingo card. I mean, I knew, following nearly a decade of doubts and fears and highs and lows, my HBO series was coming to a jarring conclusion. But then my phone lit up with condolence texts. My mom left a teary voice message. My dad’s email included a link to an article announcing the cancellation, “In case you haven’t heard …” What if I hadn’t? And I had to explain to my step-kids what the word “canceled” means in the TV universe (“No, we don’t have to move”).
But reality hit the moment after seeing that epilogue when Courtney buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed — that’s when I fully absorbed the magnitude of the moment.
The show was over.
But here’s the strange thing: Everyone seems sadder about this than me. It’s weird. Confusing. I’ve battled depression. I know how to spiral. I identify with Jerry West more than anyone else in the show because oftentimes that’s what the voice in my head sounds like. Ranting. Screaming. Hurting.
So why not go there now?
Well, let’s take a trip back to spring, 2014, when I was at one of the lowest points in my life. I’d had some success in the aughts, writing on the Ice Age movies. It was a hit. It gave me a career. It got me on Raya. But it wasn’t the kind of material I loved — movies like Boogie Nights or Goodfellas. And the industry looked at me like: “You will write talking animal movies for the rest of your life.” I didn’t fight to get out of that box. I took writing assignments. Great paydays that gave me a grown-up life. But it was material that, for the most part, never actually got made. I declined as an asset to almost zero — shuffling along from gig to gig, facing the possibility that I would never do anything truly great in my life. This wasn’t a career my 12-year-old self would’ve respected. And somehow that rock bottom became a launching pad. Because in that that dark, self-loathing period, two thoughts hit me:
One, “Stop working on stuff you like. Only do stuff you love.” Because when I like something, it’s kind of what Jerry Maguire described as a “soul sucking, pride swallowing siege” and I don’t think I do a great job. But when I love something, it doesn’t feel like work, and I have enough energy to fight through all the bullshit it takes for something to get to the screen.
Two: “Stop making the thing you think other people want to see and do the show you would want to watch.”
As fate would have it, later that afternoon, I heard Jeff Pearlman had a book coming out about the 1980s Los Angeles Lakers. When BookSoup opened the following morning, I was waiting outside for a copy of Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty of the 1980s. And on Easter Sunday, 2014, I showed up at Jeff’s house in New Rochelle, New York — armed with a tomato, a block of baker’s chocolate and a bottle of non-alcoholic wine (Mom taught me to never show up empty handed). Fortunately (for me), Jeff had had some books optioned and — in the wake of repeated disappointment — was even more cynical about Hollywood than the average New York journalist might be. He (unwisely) gave me the book option … for free! I left happy! Giddy! Euphoric. He later told me, as soon as I left his home, he turned to his wife Catherine and said, “Nothing’s ever gonna happen with that.”
But things did happen. Right away. I had been working with Overbrook, a production company formed by Will Smith and his partner James Lassiter that I really loved. They reached out to Magic Johnson. The next thing I knew, I was in a meeting with my childhood idol and he’s saying, “Yes, I wanna do this, this way, with you guys.” So, I dove right in and spent the next six months developing a take. I lived and died with all things 1980s Lakers. And then we set out to pitch the show!
Day one of pitching …
Magic backed out. I never heard from him directly, but I was told it was about money.
Now, in a single call, I lost my favorite athlete and actor (as producers) and I was back to square one. I was … decimated. And I as tried to keep pushing this boulder up the hill, it seemed like every person or company I sent the book to and pitched my heart out to had some Hollywood excuse to pass (“You’ll never be able to cast Magic and Kareem” was my fav).
Until I called Kevin Messick, the veteran producer behind Succession and Big Short. Years earlier, Kevin and I had a very exciting project (the world’s greatest all-animal punk band, think The Commitments with farm animals) blow up in spectacular fashion. And now the reason for our initial meeting became clear — he was working with Adam McKay, who, in my mind, was the perfect filmmaker for this project. A few months later, Jeff and I were standing on Adam’s porch, waiting to meet with arguably Hollywood’s hottest filmmaker. (Jeff had to google “Adam McKay” as we waited. He’d never heard of him.)
Fast forward to Oscar night, 2022: We’re airing against the Oscars. About the time in our episode when a woman smacked Jerry Buss, the internet exploded with Overbrook-related news. And I thought about how different this whole ride would’ve been if I got my way.
That, for me, is the story of Winning Time.
My worst nightmares turned into dreams come true. The show itself is about the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. It’s funny how my life was mirroring those peaks and valleys during this whole experience. The most frustrating years trying to get this show going are precisely when I met and fell in love with my now wife, Courtney. Funny sidebar: McKay led the tech scout in plotting my proposal. Courtney is a huge (and inexplicable) Ross Dress for Less fan. So, our assistant decorated the bedding aisle and now Courtney can forever hold up her ring and say, “I got it at Ross.” After the thrill of filming the pilot and getting a season one pickup from HBO (a monumental life moment for me), the world then got hit with the pandemic and filming would have to wait. But somehow, those struggles were juxtaposed with the joys of my wedding. Courtney and I got married on our roof in a Zoom wedding and, on the monitor, over my bride’s shoulder, was Max Borenstein and the rest of our writing team.
And that brings me to Max …
In 2016, Jason Shuman introduced me to Max over breakfast in Culver City. Max and I are both only children. We were thrown together in a shotgun marriage. And now I can say I truly have a brother. Max and Rodney Barnes (executive producer) jumped me in to the world of prestige drama. I thought, after working in features, I knew what I was doing. I did not. Suddenly, I was in the room with two heavyweights and I was punching above my class. I hated it. But they forced me to become a better writer than I knew I could be. I am filled with appreciation.
We filmed the show in masks with COVID still raging. It was released in a strike. Nothing about it was easy. I initially hated the title, Winning Time. We all did. Yet I came to believe it embodied the show. After all, that’s what our characters are seeking (in Great Gastby fashion). Some time, out there in the future, that’s going to fix us, fill us and make us whole. The truth is, “Winning Time,” if you’re ever lucky enough to find it, is illusive and ephemeral. Gone as soon as it comes. That championship trophy just becomes another thing you have. After about five minutes, it’s over and you need more. Another ring. A dynasty. On and on it goes.
The story of Winning Time, for me, is the journey, not the result. I got to walk onto the Forum floor with Max and Jeff, and it was like walking into my wildest childhood dream. So now, I’m living a life beyond that.
So, on the night of the finale, how sad could I really be? I somehow found a wife who cares more about my disappointments than me! And how can I not believe that somehow, some way, this is going to end up working out even better than I imagined? Whether it’s this show, another era, or a project I would’ve missed if we had another season.
Look, I know there are a lot of people who want me to say, “Fuck HBO.” And there is some of that in my house. But I love the people we worked with. Francesca Orsi is not only one of the most brilliant folks I’ve ever met but the kind of executive every writer dreams of and all artists need. HBO paid big money and gave us a ton of freedom to make our dream show. It just happens to not be the right show for their platform at this time.
But it is exactly the show I would wanna watch.
I giggle when it’s not in the “For Me” section of the Max home screen, because it’s my favorite show. I love all of it. Except maybe the last few minutes.
Because it’s the show that changed my life. It’s the show — that even in its demise — brings me nothing but joy.
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