Back in the late-80s to mid-90s, summer wasn’t about highlight reels or player rankings.
It was about double-rimmed hoops with chain nets, games to eleven, and who had next.
Outdoor 3-on-3 tournaments ruled everything. And for a generation of kids raised on concrete and asphalt, White Men Can’t Jump wasn’t just a movie—it was part of our basketball curriculum.
Billy Hoyle and Sidney Deane weren’t real, but they might as well have been. They showed us how to play with confidence, how to compete with swagger, how to let our game do the talking—and how to respect the game even when the game didn’t respect you back.
They were bigger than the film. They became part of how we saw the game—and ourselves.
Of all the movies from my childhood, none influenced me more. It shaped how we played, how we saw the court, and how we carried ourselves when the ball was in our hands. It also taught us the value of chemistry—of knowing your partner’s rhythm, timing, and trust—because Billy and Sidney didn’t win by being the same; they won by figuring each other out.
So, when I finally made it out west to Los Angeles, I had to visit two of the film’s most iconic courts. This wasn’t about checking a box. It was about coming full-circle.
The first stop - the parking lot off Dudley Avenue and the Ocean Front Walk in Venice Beach. That’s where the movie’s opening scenes were filmed. Many fans shoot hoops at the iconic Venice Beach basketball courts near Muscle Beach assuming they’re standing where Billy and Sidney first met. But real fans know better. That legendary opening—Billy in the tie-dye hat, hustling his way into Sidney’s world—was shot a mile north, in a parking lot in front of the four-story Cadillac Hotel with its pink sandstone walls and pistachio green trim.
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The court they built there didn’t last—but the story it told did. For a few weeks, that lot became one of the most iconic streetball sets ever captured on film. And even though it returned to being a parking lot, for those who remember, that court still lives on.
Then came Lafayette Park near downtown Los Angeles—the site of the Two-on-Two for Brotherhood Basketball Tournament where Billy and Sidney beat “Flight” and “Willie” but instead of it bringing them closer, it highlights their flaws. It’s where they learn they’re both living with their own personal pressures. They don’t trust each other yet, but they both start to sense that any success they have will be temporary if that doesn’t change.
For years, I said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, this court would be a must. A bucket-list stop.
Even though the characters were fictional, there’s nothing like walking onto the same blacktop where Billy finally dunked. That moment—where he rises up and shocks everyone, including himself—was filmed on a new court built by the production crew. Most sets get torn down. This one was left behind, gifted to the city. And it’s still there. Same spot. Same view. Palm trees, mid-rises, and that feeling that if you laced up your shoes, someone would call next.
But that court tells a bigger story—the one where Billy and Sidney finally trusted each other, finally played for something real. They stopped hustling and started hooping. They won the game, but not without losing something too. That’s the thing about streetball: the score never tells the whole story.
Standing there, it hit me:
It was never about where you played. It was how you played.
Because we had our own versions of those courts growing up.
We played Gus Macker tournaments in Quincy (IL) and Peoria (IL), where you either fought through fouls or went home early. Gus Busters didn’t bail you out. You learned to be tough—or you learned to lose. That’s where trash talk was born, even if subtle. Where you learned how to take it. When to give it back. Even when you were outmatched.
We played at the Strawberry Festival in Farmington (IA)—facing kids from all over southeast Iowa. A few hard fouls. A few handshakes. And sometimes, friendships that lasted long after the final whistle.
And nothing beat Keokuk (IA).
After school or on weekends, we’d head to Tumelty Park or Kilbourne Park. We didn’t know who we’d play—and they didn’t know us. That was the beauty of it. Just sets of friends showing up with a ball and something to prove. Playing to stay on the court. Playing for respect—win or lose.
And respect wasn’t handed out easily.
You earned it by taking a hard foul that everyone knew wasn’t getting called. You earned it by standing in and taking a charge. By giving it right back—even when the guy guarding you had six inches of height and twenty pounds of muscle on you. Every possession felt like a statement. Hard screens were worth a few points each run. But with that kind of intensity came consequences.
Out there, it wasn’t about who you were or where you were from—it was about how you played when it mattered.
But sometimes, the court that mattered most was the one closest to home. Because while the parks taught us how to earn respect from strangers, the "Barndomium" taught us how to earn it from the people who knew us best.
Some of the fiercest competition we ever faced didn’t happen in a tournament or a city park—it happened inside a Quonset barn on our family’s dairy farm south of Kahoka (MO). We called it the “Barndomium”—part barn, part dome, part gymnasium. You could count on it: our older brother’s teammates would roll through the cattle lot gate and park right beside the barn’s wide-open front. Friends would show up, and before long, we’d have hours-long games of 2-on-2 or 3-on-3. The best part? With one pull of a heavy steel handle, two massive overhead lights would flicker on, casting a golden glow across the court and turning that old barn into something that felt like a small-town arena. On weekends, the games stretched deep into the night. And if social media had been around back then, I think word would’ve gotten out—there was always a game waiting in the "Barndomium".
That’s what those White Men Can’t Jump courts reminded me of.
It wasn’t about Hollywood. It wasn’t about perfect conditions.
It was about the game—the raw, unfiltered version we grew up on.
Quick decisions. Toughness. Inside-out basketball. Backdoor cuts. Moving without the ball. Executing the pick and roll. Making the right pass. Connectivity. Handling adversity when nobody was going to save you.
It was sharpening your basketball IQ.
Those courts near Dudley Avenue and at Lafayette Park weren’t just movie locations.
They were reflections of where the real game lived.
Outside. In the heat. On asphalt. Where every possession mattered, and everything you earned came the hard way.
It shaped how we played.
It shaped how we saw the game.
And if you grew up on courts like those, you didn’t just watch White Men Can’t Jump—
You lived it.
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