"Lost" on the Radio

At 4 a.m. Friday I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower where I tried, unsuccessfully, to wash away the sleep from my eyes. In another 2 hours 5 minutes I'd be making my radio debut and somehow would have to piece together coherent sentences. At 4 a.m. that seemed like a long-shot, since just opening my mouth to brush my teeth was a struggle.

The evening before I'd spent rehearsing. I'd come up with some canned answers for the softball questions that could be anticipated. But I fretted over the unknowns -- those killer darts that can come out of left field at any time.

At 6 a.m. I called into The Frank Truatt Morning Show in New York. Initially I spoke to a program director who thought I was someone else. This didn't seem to bode well. But when I repeated my name he seemed to understand and transferred me to Frank, who greeted me briefly and told me I'd be on the air in about 4 minutes.

The 4 minutes I was on hold seemed like an eternity as my heart raced at Indy speed and my palms dripped with perspiration. Meanwhile, through the phone earpiece I'm hearing what the weather and traffic are like in New York. 

Suddenly Frank is chatting with his sidekick about the Cubs and I realize that this is the lead-in for my interview. And just like that I find myself on the air.

The first couple questions are ones that I'd prepped for. This is good. I regurgitated my canned responses and managed to speak without tripping over my own words.

But then came that projectile from deep left field. Frank wants to know about my former "career" as a pilot. Huh? 

I gather that he read my online bio and my passing reference to how I began college studying to be a pilot. But as I note in that same bio, this was a career that for good reason was grounded before it ever took off, 25 very long years ago.

Well I think I handled that shot out of left field maybe not like a major-leaguer but a well-traveled semi-pro player and even managed to steer the interview back on the base path. 

All in all, my radio debut seemed to go pretty well. I said most of what I had hoped to say and didn't stumble over my words, a somewhat remarkable feat when you consider that I got into writing because of my shyness and general verbal clumsiness.

The interview essentially came to an end when Frank's sidekick quipped, "I think I already know who the murderer is...Steve Bartman."

In hindsight, I could have responded that I was in attendance at the infamous Bartman game. Instead, I gave a well-rehearsed chuckle. My 10 minutes in the dim early morning limelight of New York were history. I was mostly just relieved that it was over and ready to go back to bed. Unfortunately, I still had a workday ahead of me.