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15 January 2012 @ 05:57 pm
Theatre vs. Sports: A Mother’s Diatribe  
I love the arts. It’s no secret that for most of my life I have focused on avoiding competitive sports at all costs. It’s a personal thing. My first instinct, when someone throws a spherical object at me, is to get the hell out of the way. Or shield my face. Or bat it away. Or shriek. Or maybe all of those at once.

And of course, there’s my aforementioned complete lack of drive to win at things like that, as well. We don’t watch football, or basketball, or even baseball on television at our house. Going to live games is fun, but our Sundays aren’t spent watching sports, thank God.

All that said, my sons really want to play sports. *deep sigh* Fine. Waste your natural God-given acting talent, and play basketball. You’re a boy. I get it. It’s somehow cooler to run around with a bunch of your friends chasing an orange ball than it is to wear costumes and sing and dance. Whatever.

(Though in a few years, when you’re one of four straight guys in the theatre department, you may change your tune. Think about it.)

But it isn’t the idea of competitive sports that I don’t like. It’s the complete lack of organization and decorum.


1. There is no rehearsal schedule handed out at the first meeting. What?
2. The dates and times of the performances change from week to week.
3. You’re expected to perform after only two times to practice your part? Idiocy.
4. Costumes are delivered on THE DAY of the first performance.
5. The audience members SHOUT AT YOU from the sidelines.
6. There’s sweat involved. (Alright, fine. To be fair, that happens in theatre, too.)
7. The director SHOUTS AT YOU during the performance. (As opposed to before.)
8. Upstaging by fellow cast mates happens frequently, and is evidently encouraged.
9. There is a very real chance you can get hurt. Especially in contact sports.
10. The costumes aren’t that cute.

At the game, I was a nervous wreck. It was worse than any stage fright I’ve ever had, or even when I’ve directed and had to hand over the reins to the actors opening night. And at one point, when my sweet, blond-haired, 75 pound eleven year-old went face first into the mat on the wall, because he WAS PUSHED BY SOMEONE A FOOT TALLER, I nearly lost it.

Pushing doesn’t happen in the theatre. Not unless it’s blocked or choreographed beforehand and fully sanctioned by the director. There is no improvised pushing.

Anyhow, it looks as if this is something I’ll have to deal with. The boys love theatre, but they also love sports, and I’m going to be a good mother and let them, I suppose.

But I’m just letting you know #8, if you push my boy again, I’m putting you on my list.

And THAT, #8, is a place you simply do not want to be.
 
 
I feel:: annoyedannoyed
I hear:: The Cowboys
 
 
 
O Demanding One: Winter: Warm & Cozy Socksheyurs on January 16th, 2012 12:31 am (UTC)

Aw! Poor Mom. *pats you* I remember my chicken fat funk being slammed into the wall, too, and actually getting up and going to see about things. I was told that I embarrassed the heck out of him and to please never do that again. O.o What, was I supposed to sit there and let him be clobbered all over? *sigh* He actually survived all of that shouting and sweat. Goodness. The only thing that kind of surprises me, though, is your #'s 1 & 2. Our boys always got a rehearsal and game schedule the first meeting that we had. How the heck are you supposed to plan?

Hang in there, Dearie. GO, Ethan! :)


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