Word: fifteen
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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Life behind the scenes has its merits, I suppose, but deep down under, I think we all crave our fifteen minutes of fame, wherever and in whatever form they may turn up. The key to these few precious moments in the limelight, it would seem, is to grasp their proximity, hastily prepare as best one can, and proceed to flourish, flaunt, razzle and dazzle with all cameras pointed at you. Often, however, this is the most difficult piece of the task...
...fortunate enough to finally achieve my crowning fifteen just a week ago, in the beautiful city by the bay, San Francisco, while working as a verbal administrator (a.k.a. tele-prompter operator) for the X Games on ESPN. For those of you not familiar with the X Games, allow me to elaborate: Five years ago, executives at ESPN identified a genre of athletic competition--one that they and their consultants labeled as "extreme"--that featured a host of colorful athletic characters and a large potential for monetary gain. The brilliance dictated that ESPN would create its own Olympics, and thereby...
Then, just like that, it happened. What? You don't remember? My fifteen minutes. Towards the end of Show 9, as the crew grew restless and the host began to run short on ad libs, all eyes drew to me. But, alas, with my luck, my moment of glory, of course, was bathed in a tub of sarcasm. "And look back there," the host suddenly said, after giving appropriate recognition to his researcher, who sat adjacent to me behind the set. "That's Aaron. He goes to Harvard. At the X Games, we have people from Harvard doing menial, behind...
Just like that, my fifteen minutes had come and went, like those of so many others before me, gone in closer to fifteen seconds than minutes. Parents, friends and groupies who later saw the broadcast of the show claimed I raised my hand sheepishly to acknowledge the lackluster shout-out, but honestly I have no memory of such action. Though I knew to be prepared for my fifteen minutes, I had failed miserably at the task, and let them pass me by with barely a peep...
...what now? With my shot at fame and fortune seemingly behind me, what do I do? Perhaps it's a good time to begin the denial stage. Maybe those really weren't my fifteen minutes after all, and they'll come at another time, in another place, maybe with me in front of the camera, and not working what goes through it. Maybe, maybe...