Buy a Ticket and Clap

Flipping through the channels one evening, I lucked into the Australian Open tennis tournament just as the announcer said, “The effortlessness of Federer’s game belies his mastery of his craft.” The replay showed Federer gliding along the baseline, flicking a lob over a flailing opponent, with gasps and applause from the adoring audience.
I surfed a bit more and ended up with Bruce Springsteen. Far from effortless, the Boss was strutting, sweating, and displaying a burly athleticism that contrasted with Federer’s
cool elegance. And the audience response was more muscular as well; in contrast with the hushed appreciation of the Federer audience, Bruce’s fans were yelling and swaying. Both audiences were adoring and I felt a tinge of jealousy.

Now I should say I have been very blessed to have sustaining support from my wonderful husband and friends and family, and a job that suits me, so it may seem unseemly to ask for more. But momentarily I thought – what a kick to have someone clap for you. Could
I conceive of any circumstance where this could happen? If I really wanted to put this notion out of reach, I could additionally hope that people would have to buy a ticket to see me glide or strut to public acclaim.

When I mentioned this challenge to Nick, he snorted in disbelief.
He could only come up with one scenario. “What if I got a ticket to a Blackhawk hockey game, then if I was selected as one of the fans who could take a mid-ice shot at a tiny target and then if by some miracle I scored, people would probably clap and they will have
bought a ticket. Would that count?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “that would technically count, except that people did not buy the ticket specifically to see you, and the clapping would be too dependent on chance alone.” However, I agreed that this scenario was probably the most likely single event for either of us. Then I thought perhaps I could meet the challenge if I cobbled together separate elements of the challenge into one total experience.

Step 1.
Strangers Gathering

Once when I was visiting my cousins Ned and Susie they asked me if I would assist them with their llamas in the local 4th of July parade in Cabot, Vermont. All I had to do was lead the llama down the street and hold up a sign for Maple Leaf Llamas, the name of their farm. As I stood in the parade readying grounds, I realized that this was a major community event; the place was swarming with jugglers, stilt walkers, ballerinas, Boy Scouts and our llamas. As I walked down Main Street, USA, I flushed and my heart might have skipped a beat as I experienced the strange sensation of thousands of eyes staring at me; a few strangers even pointed and waved at me. Well, okay, maybe they were
staring at the llama that had a large translucent globoid drip precariously hanging from his cavernous nostril. Or maybe they were staring at the sign I was carrying, I could even see some lips move as folks strained to read the scrawled words. But it wasn’t too hard to make myself believe that I was the center of attention. I raised my head and proudly kept pace with the llama, but I resisted the presumptuous temptation to wave back at the crowd.

Step one: √

Step 2.
Strangers Clapping

For my entire ice hockey career, our record was 2-5 and by that I mean 2 for 5 years. I played hockey goalie, primarily because I realized that after a 35 year lay off, I had forgotten how to stop and turn on skates and I could use all the protective padding that I could get. Besides nobody else on our rag-tag team of hockey moms volunteered. Although I showed a few good instincts in the goal, I did have a chronic problem with a
gaping “5 hole,” where even slow moving pucks could dribble between my legs. This was aggravated by an unfortunate habit of reflexively tensing up and raising my stick off the ice
every time I saw an incoming puck. Then one day my teammate dropped off a DVD titled, “The Puck Stops Here,” with all sorts of tips for younger agile goalies. The elaborate splits and body flops made all my joints cringe. But one section described some sort of upward
sweeping movement with the gloved hand to catch a blistering slap shot. At least this move was within my physical capabilities and I dutifully practiced the motion in tandem with the DVD to try and create some muscle memory.

We always played during the day when husbands were at work and kids were at school, so we never had any spectators. But for our season finale we managed to schedule a Friday night game. Thinking that there would be a real crowd, I even arranged to have a
deep baritone come and sing the National Anthem. I also asked him to sing the Canadian anthem, not because we had any Canadians in the house, but because I have always
thought that it is the best anthem, and nothing says hockey like “O Canada!”

Far from the raucous crowds that I had hoped for, there was a smattering of familiar faces but also a few legitimate strangers – loyal supporters of our opponents. The game progressed with the usual scrums in front of the net, occasional wobbly passes, inadvertent goals and a few competent saves that earned appreciative nods from my team mates. And then my moment of glory. At the top of the circle, an opponent sent a screaming slapshot at the gap above my left shoulder. My next move was based on impulse alone; the synapses did not venture above my brainstem. I never saw the puck but only heard a
smacking sound. Play stopped and I looked around for the puck in its usual place in the back of the net. Then the ref skated over and opened my glove, and there it was nestled in its depths. He plucked the puck out and waved it around for everyone to see. Strangers burst into wild applause, and the opposing team was clapping and slapping their sticks against the boards. Apparently, I had done a very heroic sweeping motion right from the DVD. Clearly the pinnacle of both my hockey and entire athletic career.

Step 2: √

3. Step Three:
Strangers Buying Tickets

Ten years ago, my mother and I managed to get a children’s book published.
Ned’s Journal consisted of poetry written from the eyes of a 10 year old boy, and was organized as a journal with a cute poem for each day. The project appealed to my mother, who was always up for some sort of cottage industry, particularly if it involved word
play and doggerel. The original goal did not including publishing, but was just to have fun with my mother in her waning years of “in compos mentis.” But then a work colleague said that her brother had a cottage publishing industry of his own. His only other experience was publishing a guide to men’s clothing – when to wear a cummerbund, that type of thing – but he was excited to expand into children’s poetry. He had a miniscule budget for publicity, but managed to cajole a Barnes and Noble into sponsoring a book signing, so off I went toBrooklyn to read some of my poems.

There I was 3 PM on a Friday afternoon, and as I looked at my audience, I did not see a single 10 year old boy; in fact the audience consisted of au pairs with limited English and their toddler charges. I had planned to read a poem about Ned who was afraid of his soccer coach, so I madly flipped through the book to find something more age appropriate. When I looked up, I had lost my tenuous grip on the audience, and in fact one of the au pairs was changing a diaper right in front of me.

“Well at least someone will buy a book,” I thought, and I left behind several autographed copies. Perhaps I could consider this the last piece of the challenge, since buying a book was like buying a ticket – and an autographed ticket to boot. Later that year, Nick was
buying some books from Amazon and saw that he was close to getting free shipping if he just spent a bit more money. He decided it would be cute to surprise me with a copy of Ned’s Journal arriving in the mail. I was indeed surprised to open up my own book but was even more surprised to see that book had a sticker on it announcing that it was “autographed by the author.” How could that be, had the packer in the Amazon warehouse faked my handwriting? After all, who would ever know? I opened it up and startled at a very familiar signature – there was no mistaking it, it was mine. In a circuitous route around the country, Barnes and Nobles in Brooklyn had foisted off my unsold books to Amazon in Seattle, who then sent it back full circle to me in Chicago. Unwittingly, I had bought a ticket to my own performance.

Step 3. Maybe not.