I got on 271 North like I had every day for a month. But as I drove to the theater it was different. 120 minutes til our last show and I was feeling loss…already.
The ipod repeated “Morning Of My Life,” and with the BeeGees as background music I stopped one final time for the pre-game roast turkey, handrolled (no rice) sushi, and sugar-free Power Milk. One more time. Then on to the theater a half hour ahead of the cast. Checking props, stretching legs, and… capturing it all…. Again.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt it—-that feeling—that knowing, as something was unfolding, that I was part of something really special. That the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.
That’s how it was on the diamond. Back then we, the Jewish Boys Of Summer perennially ran the table. We had unabashed confidence and epic fundamentals; the good bounces always came our way. Always. Year in/ year out we knew we had it going — that titles would come. And they did. Year after trophied year.
Even when I was invisibly winning a batting title, mired in Alan’s 9 spot of the lineup, even then I had the swagger that comes from being part of something special: Sol’s Boys. Even then I couldn’t wait to get to the field—thrilled to be but a part Wieder’s talented mosaic. I couldn’t carry Racila’s jock strap, couldn’t hit for extra bases with a gun to my head—but I was a part of. Everyone that played JCC then knew us; I wonder if they knew how good it felt to be us. THAT run on THAT team—you can’t take it off the back of my life’s baseball card.
This past month it happened again. Different sport-same feeling, and yes, same swagger. For six glorious weeks I played through the perfect storm. The role I wanted in the show I wanted to do. A cast of true characters sharing (on and off the stage) clean-cut depravity. Good crowds. Good reviews. Good fit. (I was playing Bruce, for G/d’s sake! Do you think I could handle it?)
The final curtain fell at 4PM Sunday, and once the house emptied we struck the set. They handed me a hammer and screwdriver, and as I usually do, I stared at them—just stared. (Why don’t they just give me an erector set?)
I stayed for the strike. Til the very last moment. Useless to the effort but powerless to leave. As the guys and even the gals were hopping and clopping in glee the set was coming down. It didn’t feel right but I watched it all. Then, as the cast scrubbed up, I bid adieu and left. Alone. Sort of like Lou Gehrig in the last scene of “Lucky To Be A Yankee.” You know: that last lonely walk through an otherwise empty dugout.
I have no memory of the last out of the last Sol’s Boys game. It never ended. A few days down the road the letdown of this final show is lifting.
And instead of trophies I hold the crowd’s laughter in my memory.
And I’m feeling a part of. Again.
Only Sol’s Boys can relate to being a sol’s Boy but that’s ok. If your theartre experience was as good, you are very lucky to feel that experience again. I will validate no one ever did give you the proper credit for your batting titles.
Bruce,
Must I be the one to point out to you that powdered milk is still dairy. With a “roast turkey, handrolled (no rice) sushi”…kashrut Bruce! What were you thinking? And that really isn’t a question. Bruce, you don’t think, you don’t think. Oy, Pa would be so disappointed.