In grade school, the last lesson of every Friday was reserved for organized goofing around. In other words, on Fridays, we had an hour to showcase our creativity, and most of the times, a few kids would tell jokes or maybe perform a sketch or two. Sometimes I was one of those kids with a short play or a sketch of my own.

It was important for me to be funny so whatever we put on, was always a comedy. Not that we always succeeded. Comedy’s hard, a lot of hit and miss.

And then there were the Friday or Saturday nights when my parents had invited some company over and their kids and me would perform a play that we had first made up – “written” – in the other room, away from the grown-ups, which is how they liked it.

Many times, we only had three actors available, and of those three, only one was a girl, so casting was a quick process. We weren’t Shakespearean enough not to have the role of the princess be played by her.

While I – as the head writer and director – got my share of starring roles in the productions, I must admit that I was probably better in my role in the wings than on the stage. I just wasn’t comfortable standing in the limelight, not even when the limelight was just my parents’ seaweed green floor lamp.

In third grade, I got the honor of reading the gospel out loud at a school Christmas event, and I was so nervous I read those 400 words in about 15 seconds, to get off the stage as quickly as possible.

All this to say that while I do like getting praise, I don’t like being the center of attention. That’s why I like the hockey tradition of the scorer always celebrating goals with his teammates, often pointing out the player who passed him the puck.

That’s also why I was perfectly happy sitting at my small desk writing hockey play-by-play page after page, imagining the line changes, hits, and goals – as well as a few one-liners and quips. Of course.

A few years ago, a high school friend of mine asked me if I wanted to write a musical with her and her composing partner. Knowing that she was a drama professor, and a playwright, I immediately said yes, thinking that I could learn a lot by working with her. 

I was right.

A few weeks ago, the musical – a story of a down-and-out hockey team (see why she asked me?) – had its premiere in a Finnish high school, performed by dozens of talented and energetic kids, and supported by at least another dozen kids behind the scenes.

It was a revelation to see something that I had written in a hockey rink cafeteria or in my little home office to come alive on the stage.

During the intermission, my friend said that we’d all go to the stage for the curtain call.

“I’ll wave my hand when it’s time,” she said.

When the last act ended in a triumph, the kids basked in the glow of the standing ovation, unable to contain their excitement, which made everything all the more adorable. I stood up a half a dozen rows up, applauding and even allowing myself a deep breath of satisfaction.

The cast took their bows, and then the support crew came on stage, and the ovations continued. Suddenly, I saw the composer, the voice coach, the choreographer, the composer and my friend get on stage. Not one to grab the spotlight, I kept on clapping my hands, with a big smile on my face when I noticed the composer looking for me.

But by then, the ovations had gone on for a long time, and nobody was going to miss me anyway, I thought. Besides, rushing to the stage that late was only going to be  embarrassing.

I had barely had time to come to that conclusion when I heard someone shout “Risto!” Just as I saw someone else scanning the audience for me, I heard a few people chanting, “Ris-to, Ris-to, Ris-to.”

To put an end to it, I rushed downstairs and joined the others in the final curtain call.

And took a bow.