The Athletic Prodigy of Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard’s Secret Adult Son: Brarion Pittard — EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW

proud basketball mama

Like the rest of us, the blue dog was saddened when urgent news of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s impending divorce interrupted his dream-cinema. The blue dog’s dream-films are far grander in scope and vision than any Hollywood trifle, but the cerulean canine is no snob, and developed a liking for certain films starring Mr. Pitt, like Killing Them Softly and Cool World.

We believed it our duty as journalists to hear from a perspective often ignored in such situations — the scandalous love-child of the affair.

Brarion Pittard would like to simply be preparing for his sophomore season at Gonzaga, where he broke through as a vital 3-and-D rotation player, shooting a more than respectable 39.6 percent from beyond the arc and averaging 2.1 steals per game. But, sadly, he must be drawn into this, as one of the only witnesses to a secret union that existed right under the assorted probosces of Hollywood. Pittard spoke to me in an undisclosed location, while Shocker associates Andrew Crowley, Ryland Duncan and Bradley Geiser were supposed to stand guard but pretty much just played Edward Fortyhands the whole fucking time.

So…not the greatest day for your parents.

Shit. You can say that again.

…So…not the greatest day for your parents….

What? Man, I didn’t mean litera — never mind. What do you want to know?

We want this to be more about you than about them. That said…you are a fairly large and grown human — you’re 19, right? [Nod from Pittard] How did absolutely no one find out about this for almost 20 years?

No one was looking. Even when Mom was coming to my games last year and ESPN or FS1 would sometimes tape ’em, the camera crews didn’t seem to notice. Which was weird because she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a quiet fan. [Laughs] We played Tennessee this one night just before Christmas week and one dude, I can’t even remember who, he’s letting his ‘bows fly in a pretty cavalier way and she’s screaming from the stands, “FOUL! FOUL! HOW IS THAT NOT A FUCKING FOUL?!” Lapsing into long streams of French; I’m not fluent but I think she said the ref’s mom fucked a hyena.

That’s quite an accusation, about fucking a hyena. Illegal in…42 states.

[Puzzled expression] I would hope so, I mean…wait…not all 50? [Waves hands] Never mind, I don’t even want to know anything more about that. What I’m saying is, she’s cheering for me, wearing a jersey with my name on it — and it’s not like I’m nobody, I had an ESPN U featurette — cursing at refs and players and stuff, and people are just like, “Wow, Pittard’s mom is intense.” No one either noticed or spoke up about her being, y’know, Oscar-winning actress Marion Cotillard.

What about your dad?

[Rolls eyes, blows incredibly farty-sounding raspberry] My dad. The one time in the past three years he comes to one of my games, it’s during the tournament, against goddamn bitch-ass, thousand-game-winning-but-my-face-looks-like-a-liverspotted-nutsack cheating-ass Jim Boeheim and the[Syracuse] Orange. Close game, as I’m sure you know, doesn’t end up going our way — the whole time, my dad has barely looked at me and they’ve already mentioned on the broadcast — I found that out later — three fuckin times that Brad Pitt is in the bleachers for this game. And made jokes about World War Z. My dad didn’t even look at me but once. He’s so scared about everyone finding out.

the loneliness of a secret basketball son

That’s rough, man. [Crowley extends a 40 oz. in Pittard’s general direction; Pittard declines] It’s like there’s sort of a double standard going on.

[Eye roll the size and width of the Suez Canal] Really insightful of you to say that. [Long pause] The Instagram comments are so fucked up. My mom’s getting all the hate like she magically decided to ruin Brangelina. Mom didn’t even talk to my dad other than to say hi at an awards show or call on the holidays when I’d ask him to. If he cheated on anyone to have me it was Gwyneth, not Ms. I’m-Gonna-Save-All-The-Children.

Wow, that’s when it happened? I mean, yeah…[Gulps malt liquor]…if you’re 19 it’d have to be…

It’s cool how you can do basic math like that.


Never mind. Yeah, they met at a bar in La Plata, Argentina, while he was filming Seven Years in Tibet. Mom was doing a study-abroad thing, I think.

I never saw that movie. Any good?

Ehhh. It’s not bad, not that good either. Pretty Oscar-bait-ish. [Sigh] Can we talk about something else now?

Sure. How do you feel about this season of Mr. Robot?

Uneven, but admirably ambitious, and Rami Malek is incredible. I meant can we talk about, like, basketball?

Of course. [Long pause, belch] You planning to declare for the draft?

[Nods, grins] You better believe it.

Some of the draft projection big boards are already going up, and most of them seem to have you in the middle or toward the end of the first round. Do you feel like that’s an accurate reflection of your talents?

Do you feel like “drunk on the job blogger interviewer” is reflective of yours?

[unintelligible sobbing]

OK, that was harsh, I’m sorry. I just hate questions like that. It’s not easy to quantify yourself. Them putting me in the middle or end of the first round is basically saying, “You’re pretty good but you’ve got either some hole in your game or a body part that’s likely to shatter, so you probably won’t make it that far.” I’m not delusional; I don’t think I’m like young Westbrook or a Harry Giles type. I just can’t move like that. But I pick my shots carefully and I make ’em. I’m fuckin’ superglue on D.

[sniffle] I see what you’re saying.

I’d just rather not cap my ceiling at relative mediocrity. That’s what they’re doing to me.

Well, the numbers don’t lie as far as your shooting goes. Just under 40 percent from 3 is nothing to sneeze at; if there are any question marks for you it seems to be if your defense can hold up on the NBA level —

Hey, are you guys expecting company? That sounds like a lot of cars pulling up in the parking lot…

Oh, shit.


Geiser, peering through the blinds of the motel room where we’re sequestered, suddenly springs back as the glass shatters and a small rectangular object flies right into his hands. “Guys?” We know what’s coming, but it’s too late —

The IED explodes and takes Geiser with it, his meat and blood-juice festooning the room, a decorative scheme slightly less loathsome than the wallpaper’s original pattern. Bullets fly through the remains of the window and the thin door. Ryland flattens himself against the floor, moaning in Sanskrit, his left forearm hanging from the limb’s remainder by strings of flesh and gristle. I scream, “Who knew we were here? WHO THE FUCK DIDN’T TOSS THEIR PREPAID PHONE AFTER ARRANGING THIS MEET? DAMN IT!”

Crowley, puzzled, says, “I got a new iPhone 7 yesterday” —

WE ALL KNOW THAT THE LIGHTPODS ARE SUSCEPTIBLE TO WIRETAPS, but it can’t be helped — the technology is seductive. And now’s not the time to reprimand Andrew. “Forget it,” I reply, tossing a duffel bag in Crowley’s direction, which he unzips to find several shotguns, one World War II-era BAR and an assortment of small arms. “Give us covering fire.”

Crowley takes the shotgun, loading it hesitantly, but eventually he’s posted up in the window, returning buckshot blasts to the Jolie shocktroops that have found us, all the while screaming, “LANCE STEPHENSON INTIMIDATED LEBRON JAMES IN THE 2014 EASTERN CONFERENCES FINALS!” Ryland, having torn his arm-chunk away, decided to soak the severed appendage in gasoline and throw it into the lot like a rudimentary Molotov cocktail. Four Jolie-troops are roasting alive due to his bravery.

I turn to Pittard, who knows the score. He’s been dealing with this heinous shit most of his life. “If you go through the back bathroom window, our Chevy Nova should still be in the lot. Take the keys and get to Portland. They won’t fuck with you there.”

“But you can come with” —

“No,” Crowley shouts. “It’s too late for us. Get free, and if Larry Bird arranges a workout with you, agree tacitly to be drafted by the Pacers.”

“He’s battle-scarred already. Go with the Celtics,” I say. “Get free, Brarion Pittard, and remember that we always thought your shooting form was naturally excellent.”

Pittard is gone without another word.

The siege continues for dozens of minutes, the room filling with lead, blood and debris, air heavy with the stench of scorched cordite, the television still on and playing some rerun of the Jodi Arias biopic from the Lifetime network. We run out of 40s before we fire our last bullets, but the booze doesn’t supply the courage we thought it would. Ryland, after a final prayer to our savior the blue dog, prepares to enter shock borne of blood loss.

our hero

An alarming silence hangs over the proceedings until several brief, efficient roars of gunfire from the parking lot, then silence again —

Then, the bullet-perforated motel room door flies open —

Tarin Towers strides into the room, guns raised and covered in blood that I know isn’t either of theirs, and regard us cowering survivors with concern, alongside a healthy dose of derision. A brief look out the window’s remnants tells me that the contingent of Jolie troops in the parking lot has been summarily massacred.

“You guys don’t know shit about conducting a clandestine interview,” Towers says. “Come with us if you want to live, dorks.”

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