there that’s more like a normal college program—required courses, two or maybe three years long and with a degree at the end of it.
Doesn’t there?
I hear a knock on my door, and Grammy Ann comes in. “Are you all right? Most kids would crack a smile, at least, watching their parents leave town.”
“Yeah, I know.” I turn to her. “Things haven’t exactly been going according to my plan. And this research—I hate to admit it, but Mom might be right about improv. I’m having trouble finding any college-type program that sounds like what I need.”
“Hmm. I don’t know much about any of that,” Grammy Ann says. “But I do know that every time I’ve come over here lately, you’re holed up in your room doing research. Maybe you need a break. Ned’s reading before bed. How about you and I play a board game or watch some TV ?” Her eyes stray to my bulletin board. “Can we watch that improv show you like?”
I grin at her. “Sure. I haven’t watched season three yet. You sure you want to?”
She nods. “I’ve seen a few of your school competitions, but I’ve never seen any professional improv.”
It’s tempting. I should keep reviewing stuff in the improv book, but after yesterday’s practice I do not feel motivated. Maybe there’s no point. I look back at the list of search results on my laptop screen. The cursor flashes slowly at me. It looks as defeated as I feel. I snap the laptop shut.
“Maybe for a little while.”
***
On the screen, two improv players wait to hear their challenge.
“All right,” the host says. “You must make up a rhyming poem about love, with each of you adding every other word.”
I sit up. Maybe I can get some rhyme pointers for Style.
“Wait,” Grammy Ann says. “Does he mean that one person says one word and then the other says the next, back and forth, and they have to make the lines rhyme?”
I nod.
“Is that even possible?”
“We’ll find out, Grammy Ann. Sometimes improv works and sometimes it doesn’t.”
The two performers start their poem slowly, carefully. You can tell each of them is worried about guessing what the other one is thinking.
They manage to finish one verse.
“This is incredible,” Grammy Ann says.
Still taking turns, the players start the next verse, building one line, then another: “…When the moon glows full and white each month.”
“Oh no,” says Grammy Ann. “ Month ? What rhymes with that?”
She’s right. There’s panic in the players’ eyes, and it looks like they won’t be able to finish. Then the tall performer drops to his knees and opens his eyes wide, like a little kid. He starts the next line with “Please,” but he says it with a lisp, which makes it come out as “Pleathe.”
His partner joins him, and word by word, still with the lisp, the rhyming line grows, until they lisp out together, “Jutht wunth,” meaning “just once.”
“Brilliant!” I cry.
Grammy Ann is shaking her head. “I thought they were done for.”
“That’s the beauty of improv,” I say. “One fabulous idea can take you from failure to success. As long as you don’t give up.”
I freeze as my own message sinks in.
Don’t give up.
If I really want to get to nationals, I can’t give up either.
“Thanks, Grammy Ann!” I cry, passing her the popcorn bowl as I leap up from the couch.
“Where are you going?” she says. “Aren’t you watching anymore?
“Not tonight—sorry,” I call, already halfway up the stairs.
I push open my door. Light from the hallway beats me into the room and sets my improv shrine aglow. I flick on my lamp and race to my desk, thinking hard. This is no time to give up—not on my future and not on my team either. I open my laptop. Maybe there’s a way we can do well without extra practice.
If I can’t help my teammates get better, maybe I can do more to be my very best and use those skills every chance I get to help move the team to the next level of competition.
I
Doesn’t there?
I hear a knock on my door, and Grammy Ann comes in. “Are you all right? Most kids would crack a smile, at least, watching their parents leave town.”
“Yeah, I know.” I turn to her. “Things haven’t exactly been going according to my plan. And this research—I hate to admit it, but Mom might be right about improv. I’m having trouble finding any college-type program that sounds like what I need.”
“Hmm. I don’t know much about any of that,” Grammy Ann says. “But I do know that every time I’ve come over here lately, you’re holed up in your room doing research. Maybe you need a break. Ned’s reading before bed. How about you and I play a board game or watch some TV ?” Her eyes stray to my bulletin board. “Can we watch that improv show you like?”
I grin at her. “Sure. I haven’t watched season three yet. You sure you want to?”
She nods. “I’ve seen a few of your school competitions, but I’ve never seen any professional improv.”
It’s tempting. I should keep reviewing stuff in the improv book, but after yesterday’s practice I do not feel motivated. Maybe there’s no point. I look back at the list of search results on my laptop screen. The cursor flashes slowly at me. It looks as defeated as I feel. I snap the laptop shut.
“Maybe for a little while.”
***
On the screen, two improv players wait to hear their challenge.
“All right,” the host says. “You must make up a rhyming poem about love, with each of you adding every other word.”
I sit up. Maybe I can get some rhyme pointers for Style.
“Wait,” Grammy Ann says. “Does he mean that one person says one word and then the other says the next, back and forth, and they have to make the lines rhyme?”
I nod.
“Is that even possible?”
“We’ll find out, Grammy Ann. Sometimes improv works and sometimes it doesn’t.”
The two performers start their poem slowly, carefully. You can tell each of them is worried about guessing what the other one is thinking.
They manage to finish one verse.
“This is incredible,” Grammy Ann says.
Still taking turns, the players start the next verse, building one line, then another: “…When the moon glows full and white each month.”
“Oh no,” says Grammy Ann. “ Month ? What rhymes with that?”
She’s right. There’s panic in the players’ eyes, and it looks like they won’t be able to finish. Then the tall performer drops to his knees and opens his eyes wide, like a little kid. He starts the next line with “Please,” but he says it with a lisp, which makes it come out as “Pleathe.”
His partner joins him, and word by word, still with the lisp, the rhyming line grows, until they lisp out together, “Jutht wunth,” meaning “just once.”
“Brilliant!” I cry.
Grammy Ann is shaking her head. “I thought they were done for.”
“That’s the beauty of improv,” I say. “One fabulous idea can take you from failure to success. As long as you don’t give up.”
I freeze as my own message sinks in.
Don’t give up.
If I really want to get to nationals, I can’t give up either.
“Thanks, Grammy Ann!” I cry, passing her the popcorn bowl as I leap up from the couch.
“Where are you going?” she says. “Aren’t you watching anymore?
“Not tonight—sorry,” I call, already halfway up the stairs.
I push open my door. Light from the hallway beats me into the room and sets my improv shrine aglow. I flick on my lamp and race to my desk, thinking hard. This is no time to give up—not on my future and not on my team either. I open my laptop. Maybe there’s a way we can do well without extra practice.
If I can’t help my teammates get better, maybe I can do more to be my very best and use those skills every chance I get to help move the team to the next level of competition.
I
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