Such Great Heights

I am terrified of heights. I forget fear until the last foot from the top of Dorr's CAT or half way up the spiral staircase to the University Theater grid. The staircase was a dizzying climb to ninety feet over the black blank stage. Hand over hand, I tried to focus on the railing but terrible curiosity led eyes to look down at the drop. Everything natural screamed, "Too high" and "Is this really necessary?" Hanging out over nothing, trying to hide all hesitancy to walk across the beams, I wondered if flying or fly crew really might not be my idea of a good time. Bobby pointed out that if the curtains caught fire the grid would become a grill. Army Andre (was in the Marines and sometimes wears fatigues) devised an escape through the roof, using coiled cabling to climb down. Circling down to the ground, I wondered how hawks do it, if they're ever shaken by a gust of terror. Refusing to be blown away by a little instinct, I signed up for lighting and hours up there.

Three wins up. The Yankees looked down at the Red Sox from the heights of historical precedent. Three nights they could have squashed Sox hopes. Why do we always have to do the crazy thing? Now it's level, they're eye to eye. My eyes are wide. Each team will watch each inning. Someone's last day of the season. Like Sophocles, counting on the momentum of a curse, fate or the force that shapes ends rough hew them how chopping bats will. I like Ionesco and Albee, but I hope this play won't have an absurd ending.