I know I draw some strange parallels sometimes. I don't know what it is about ballet and baseball. Probably the athleticism, and the performance pressures put on young men, some of whom are barely out of high school and may also be dealing with a language barrier. Learning, sometimes the hard way, that it isn't all about you, no matter how good you are. Sometimes you have to deal with being put in a role you feel is not up to your status.
And Ballet Mommy sez:
GROW THE FREAK UP.
You are a professional. Leave the diva fits at the door (or in the clubhouse, where you won't be caught by the cameras) and perform the role you've been assigned to the best of your ability. Therein lies your challenge. Rise to it, even if that means sitting down and keeping your mouth shut. In public, at least.
Ballet Mommy certainly knows that venting at home is a necessity. I do not stifle it, no matter how loud, annoying, and/or inopportune it becomes. In childhood I learned the story of the early American steam locomotive Best Friend of Charleston. As the locomotive sat waiting for the passenger coaches to be boarded, a slave charged with stoking the boiler became annoyed by the sound of escaping steam. He sat on the safety valve, stifling the noise, but also causing the pressure to build beyond the limit of tolerance.
He blew up the locomotive, and himself in the process.
I like to think I know better. So when the dancer comes home ranting that he's been cast as the cat, not the prince, I point out to him that he is pretty much the only dancer in that particular tiny company who can act as well as dance. So he set about studying our cat and getting into character.
Low and behold, one of the princes quit the company. Being the quickest to learn choreography, the dancer is now preparing to cover that role, if needed. But he would rather be the cat, having risen to the challenge of developing the character, and deciding he likes it.
I knew the Mets' World Series was over in Game Five when player after player kept trying to swing for the fences instead of just trying to get on base. When the young pitcher insisted on being allowed to try for a complete game, even though it was obvious he was done. He could have finished that eighth inning to his well deserved standing ovation, and handed it over to a teammate. Instead he had to endure having the ball taken away from him, and taking that walk of shame from the mound to the dugout.
Life lessons are hard, mostly because you only learn them while in the process of flunking the test. I expect to see the world's greatest cat on stage this season. Come spring, I expect to see a more mature group of ball players turn into a team.
And Ballet Mommy sez:
GROW THE FREAK UP.
You are a professional. Leave the diva fits at the door (or in the clubhouse, where you won't be caught by the cameras) and perform the role you've been assigned to the best of your ability. Therein lies your challenge. Rise to it, even if that means sitting down and keeping your mouth shut. In public, at least.
Ballet Mommy certainly knows that venting at home is a necessity. I do not stifle it, no matter how loud, annoying, and/or inopportune it becomes. In childhood I learned the story of the early American steam locomotive Best Friend of Charleston. As the locomotive sat waiting for the passenger coaches to be boarded, a slave charged with stoking the boiler became annoyed by the sound of escaping steam. He sat on the safety valve, stifling the noise, but also causing the pressure to build beyond the limit of tolerance.
He blew up the locomotive, and himself in the process.
I like to think I know better. So when the dancer comes home ranting that he's been cast as the cat, not the prince, I point out to him that he is pretty much the only dancer in that particular tiny company who can act as well as dance. So he set about studying our cat and getting into character.
Low and behold, one of the princes quit the company. Being the quickest to learn choreography, the dancer is now preparing to cover that role, if needed. But he would rather be the cat, having risen to the challenge of developing the character, and deciding he likes it.
I knew the Mets' World Series was over in Game Five when player after player kept trying to swing for the fences instead of just trying to get on base. When the young pitcher insisted on being allowed to try for a complete game, even though it was obvious he was done. He could have finished that eighth inning to his well deserved standing ovation, and handed it over to a teammate. Instead he had to endure having the ball taken away from him, and taking that walk of shame from the mound to the dugout.
Life lessons are hard, mostly because you only learn them while in the process of flunking the test. I expect to see the world's greatest cat on stage this season. Come spring, I expect to see a more mature group of ball players turn into a team.