Becoming a player

In an unconscious searching manner, I tried a lot of things in high school, attempting to figure out who I was. Here’s the short list, in no particular order: team sports, new friends, girl friends, music, art, surfing, reading, writing, public speaking. And drama.

In the tenth grade, I was sent to a rather tony prep school in Norfolk Virginia. Compared to the local public schools it was small, but rigorous — especially in its academics and athletics. Many of the students had been together since first grade, so as a newcomer, I found acceptance to be somewhat a challenge socially. Everyone seemed to excel in something, often in more than one thing.

In the spring of eleventh grade, my best friend tried out for the school play, a Moliere comedy. We gave him a lot of grief for joining the drama kids, teasing him mercilessly. Until the show, that is. That play was an absolute riot. They brought the house down. Afterwards, I asked Tom if he had as much fun as it looked like he was having. “Definitely the most fun I’ve ever had in my life,” was his reply. And he wasn’t kidding me. That did it for me. I wanted to know what that was like. I made up my mind to try out for the next play.

So, I come to twelfth grade, and it’s senior year. A play was picked and tryouts announced. I showed up, read some lines, and, to my absolute amazement, even though I had never been on stage or in any sort of play ever, I got a part.

Before my euphoria settled, a controversy erupted. Apparently, the faculty advisor who normally oversaw the drama productions decided he was in need of a sabbatical. The administration said fine, but there’ll be no play this year.

The core drama group who had put on all the plays in previous years were not going to be denied their last opportunity for a performance in their senior year. There was a protest, of course (hey, it was the late sixties, we had to do it). And a compromise was reached. The administration allowed us to mount the show, unsupervised by any faculty. But, instead of the usual run of two nights and a matinee, we were limited to a single night’s performance. A one-night stand was it — take it, or leave it.

That is all the motivation it took. The gauntlet was thrown down. And we were going to give them a show they wouldn’t forget. The play was “The Skin of Our Teeth” by 20^th century American playwright Thornton Wilder. Its three-act structure embraced quite a narrative arc, which we enhanced with special effects worthy of a Grateful Dead concert. In the end we were treated to a standing ovation with multiple curtain calls. It was breathtaking, electrifying, exhilarating… or, at least it was for me. And depressing.

May I explain that last comment?

Here’s what really struck me about being involved in that play. First, while the sets were being built, we rehearsed off-site. We were a month or more into the production, and it was time for the actors to go “off script” — i.e. memorize your lines so the director could begin blocking the play. Everyone else knew their lines. I did not know mine. I was encouraged by the director to knuckle down and learn the lines before the next rehearsal. After showing up clearly having ignored his advice, he asked me to step outside to have a chat. Out on that porch, he got into my grill, and very directly made it clear that he had taken a big risk in casting me, that he had confidence I could do my part. But, if I was thinking this was some kind of joke, be assured that he, and the rest of the cast, were dead serious about putting on the best show they possibly could. If I was unsure about making a contribution, then now was a good time to get the hell out of the way, because nothing was going to stop this show. “Are you in? Or out?”

It was like a well-deserved slap in the face. I had witnessed that same ferocity on a football field and on a wrestling mat. This was focused energy. And it is a wonder to behold. So, yeah, I was in. I learned my part.

And secondly, I began to live into the play. Which was an awesome experience, having a part in bringing an idea that big and abstract into a concrete, living thing. It was magical. The camaraderie between cast and crew was amazing. We laughed, we cried, we joked, we worked, and we sweated. We made something incredible that spring.

When the curtain rose on Act I, I began to have an odd feeling, like side-slipping in time. With each line, each move, each scene change, I saw the pages of the script turning in my mind’s eye. It was as though the alphabet of our dialog was sand pouring through the tiny waist of a gigantic hourglass. Each line was bringing us closer to the end, that edge — final curtain.

And I hated that. I did not want this to stop. I wanted the play to go on and on. But sadly, it had to come to a close.

I was bereft. When everyone went to the cast party, I went home. My parents were surprised to see me come in so early. “Why aren’t you at the cast party?” was Mom’s question to me. “I don’t know how you do it, Mom. How can you stand the end of a show?” My mother was an actress and had lots of experience in the world of theater. “It is hard,” she said, “but there’s always another tryout. And there’s always another show.”

“Not for me,” I said in pain as I went up to bed.

I have not gone back out on stage. But my youngest daughter got into theater. Attempting to be engaged and supportive, I found myself working crew backstage on a few of her shows. And I loved every minute of it.

There are so few opportunities for most of us to make something tangible in this life. So, if you’ve got a chance to participate in a play, here’s what I say. Go for it. Take the chance. At the very least, you will experience a bonding of a different sort, a teamwork that is not about winning a game, but about making something magical. Something meaningful. Even it’s only for a handful of scenes or a few acts.

And maybe you will have the satisfying knowledge that, for however brief the moment was, “Yeah, I was a player.”

Which all of us need to know, at least once, in this lifetime.

Richard Rumble, Class of 1970, Norfolk Academy 

(a.k.a. George Antrobus in “The Skin of Our Teeth”)