I was a freshman in college when I first “got the bug.” I was committed to being a different person than I was in high school, so when I saw an announcement for play try-outs, I stepped forward. To my surprise and both amazement and apprehension, I landed a speaking role in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Being part of the drama group was exciting, and I learned so much more than just my lines in the play. From the talented group of upperclassmen, I learned ballet moves, about dramatic use of my body, and about how diction does more than communicate words. I got the bug.
Another Shakespeare play where I nailed one of the leads, and still another production written by one of the seniors. And my addiction to the stage grew, as did a bit of my ego. Not only that, but people knew me on campus! That invisible me from high school was gone!
When I finished college, I still had the bug, But I had to earn a living and support my family, and so I carried on. First as a teacher, then as a counselor, then as a professor of psychology and then, shockingly, a college and university administrator. But the bug was always there, in the back of my mind.
Civic theaters were everywhere, first in Muncie, then in Bloomington. Later, in Cincinnati. I had leads or roles, or was an extra in seven different productions including A Christmas Carol, Our Town, and an obscure production of the Seven Sins of Sarah. The critics said I was great as Bo Decker in the production of Bus Stop, and my dreams were elevated to a different stage, on the Great White Way.
But then, the blink of an eye. I auditioned for Hello Dolly! and, of course, landed one of the principle male leads. My ego was at capacity! Rehearsals were a breeze. The dress rehearsal went like clockwork. Some of my fellow actors stumbled, forgot their lines, but not yours truly. What is that saying about pride? Oh, yeah, now I remember, “Pride comes before the fall.” Should have taken that to heart.
Opening night. Packed house. My wife, my father and mother and a few friends were in the audience. Curtain up! Play begins. I am in the wings ready for my cue. There it is! My feet rush out carrying me onto center stage, my face, my body and my arms are all doing their part. My mouth is open as if I am speaking loudly, but…no words! None, not even an anguished screech! My mouth is empty. My brain is empty, except for the image of my family sitting out there. I could not come up with my lines.
Got the picture. Me, the Master Thespian, standing center stage, frozen in the image of one making a dramatic proclamation…and no sound. Not from me, nor the audience, nor from the prompter. Finally, in a whispered voice, the actor next to me fed me my lines until I became, once again, animated, and Hello Dolly continued.
A career changing moment, a blink of an eye. No Broadway, no silver screen, just the same old me. Oh, sure, we had three more productions of the play and I was…shall we say, adequate, but the ghost of opening night was always there. The blink of an eye and everything changed, yet nothing changed.
Here’s the crazy part, I still have that bug, but now I have that blink. Sadly, the blink has veto power. Break a leg? That would have been better than the blink.
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