Dear Joel McHale, by Paul Shirley

Dear Joel McHale,

This is a note of apology.

Several years ago, I went to Hollywood to make a TV show based on journals I’d written while employed as the twelfth man for the Phoenix Suns.

It was going to be a great show, or so said my agent at the powerful William Morris Agency. We would build a sitcom that would be impervious to cancellation. It would be funny and smart and the envy of every television man in the city.

But first, I had to be packaged.

So the good people at William Morris built a triumvirate.

There was me, the idea guy, who would be credited as Producer:

There was the executive producer and writer.  Before working with us, he’d written this:

And would go on to write this:

And there was the director, who had worked on episodes of this:

And who had directed this:

Despite my hunch that the tone of their previous projects was far different from the tone I hoped to strike for our sitcom, I kept quiet, dazzled by the prospect of creating a show based on an idea I had come up with.

Together, we pitched to Fox the concept of a 30-minute, single-camera situation comedy called The 12^th Man.  In the course of our pitch meeting, I bonded with the president of the network, Peter Ligouri, who liked my sense of humor and my outsider’s approach. A week later, he was responsible for green-lighting the writing of a pilot.  I dumped my ideas on our writer and he crafted what was hailed as the best script in town.

After incorporating a few notes from our new bosses at the studio, we were given approval to film a pilot.

As you know, Joel, such approval is a very big deal.  Studios don’t go and spend the money to film a pilot unless they think it has at least some chance to get on the air.

And boy, did we spend money.  Lots of money.  Almost four million dollars worth of money.

We got Barry Bostwick to play the general manager of the team.  You may remember Barry Bostwick:

And we got Wallace Shawn to play the main character’s agent.  You might not recognize Wallace Shawn’s name.  But you will recognize his face:

We were on our way.

OK, you’re thinking. What does this have to do with me?

Well, stay with me, Joel. We’re almost to the part that involves you.

We knew it would be difficult to find someone to play the main character in our television show. The actor needed to be tall enough to pull off “basketball player,” but also funny enough to pull off “star of a hilarious television comedy.” We sifted through hundreds of possible actors, including a son of Mike Dunleavy not named Mike Dunleavy and Simon Rex of MTV fame. We filled all the other roles, but no one fit as the main character. As the shoot approached, the heads of comedy at Fox began to think that I would have to play the part.

But then you came along, Joel.

You’re a star now. You’ve got that semi-hit called Community. So you might not remember, but back in the days when you were only known as the host of that one show on E!, you auditioned for the part of Adam, the main character in The 12^th Man.

And let me tell you, Joel, you were fantastic. You nailed the sensibility I had tried to achieve in writing about life in the NBA – bemused, dry, and clever, but with a touch of thoughtfulness.

I was overjoyed. We’d found our man, I thought.

My cohorts – the other two-thirds of the triumvirate – did not agree. They thought you were too old and that you didn’t look enough like a basketball player. They said you weren’t right for the part.

“But he’s so funny!” I said.

“Shut up,” they said. “You don’t know anything about television.”

“But his sarcastic tone is perfect for what we’re going for. He’d be great!”

“Seriously, shut up,” they said. “Go date an actress or something.”

I did as instructed and got to make out, on several occasions, with a girl who was in this show:

(But I’m not going to tell you which one, in case you’ve made out with her, too. I want to apologize to you, Joel, but I don’t want to be your Eskimo brother.)

If I had known anything about TV, I would write that the moment my colleagues rejected you was the moment I knew our show was doomed. But I didn’t know anything about TV, so I just kept making out with the actress until she went crazy. Which, according to my sources, is what actresses always do.

The 12^th Man never made it to air. We (the triumvirate) lost our way and the show got friendly when it was supposed to be cutting, fun when it was supposed to be funny, and sappy when it was supposed to be anything but. When we learned that the pilot wouldn’t be picked up, I went home to Kansas, finished my book, and left to play more basketball.

I sometimes lament the fact that the show failed; it could have been great, and it would have been a lot of fun to make every week. More often, though, I rejoice that the right people thought our pilot was wrong. Television culture, and the constant volleys of “I see what you’re saying, but I wonder if we could do [insert asinine idea here],” would have caused me to strangle at least two Fox employees before the scramble to buy out my contract was complete.

But in general, I don’t think about The 12^th Man all that often.

That changed on a recent Saturday during a college football game I was watching only to placate a friend, when a particular commercial came on. The commercial featured the man who was finally tabbed to play Adam. His name is Brian Thomas Smith.

This is that commercial:

Joel, I don’t want you to think that I bear any ill will toward Brian Thomas Smith. He is a very funny actor, and a better human being.

But he wasn’t right for the part of Adam. He was a Zach Braff knock-off. We didn’t need a Zach Braff knock-off. (Nor did we need someone who would one day look like he was working Zach Braff through his GI tract.)

Joel, we needed you.

As it turned out, you didn’t need the 12^th Man any more than I needed another kneecap. You’ve succeeded in spite of my lack of backbone.

Still, I wish I had convinced my colleagues that I was right – not because I regret that the 12^th Man didn’t make it – but because I regret the lack of self-assuredness I had back then.

So, my apology to you is an apology for me. If I can forgive myself for being a coward, maybe I’ll be able to turn on the television without wincing, whether because I’m afraid of Brian Thomas Smith’s distended belly or because I’m afraid of seeing your jaunty, expressive and – might I add – youthful face on Community.

I’m sorry, Joel, for I failed you.

Please forgive me, so I can forgive myself.

And so I can watch TV.

Sincerely,

Paul Shirley

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