The First Bit

Talking to an audience is often a person's greatest fear. Add having to make them laugh into the mix, and you've got yourself a stomach-churning cocktail.

On a sunny afternoon about a decade ago, both of those fears coalesced for me when I walked on stage for the first time as part of my Second City stand-up class in Toronto. Ten of us hid out in the dimly lit green room before the show, all of us set to perform, but none of us willing to go first and take the bullet spot. Without a volunteer, our emcee had to improvise. So, we drew straws — and lucky me, I won. That was it. For better or for worse, I felt like a prisoner now shackled, surrounded by looks of concern all masking a collective sentiment — better him than me.

As a class, we spent weeks writing and refining five to seven minutes of material. Holding a plastic microphone, we would perform in front of one another standing on a piece of plywood in a basement classroom at Second City. We laughed together and helped each other with our material, all the while growing close over a common objective. But stand-up is, in the end, just you and the audience.

The club was full that afternoon, filled almost entirely with invited family and friends of those performing. The emcee had told us that with such a supportive and relatively sober crowd, this would likely be our best show for months, if not years, so we should enjoy the moment and try not to sweat it. Yeah, right.

Waiting in the shadows at the back of the room for the emcee to finish his monologue and introduce me, I realized there was still time for me to back out and go home. Could I pretend I was sick? Or fall down the steps on the way to the stage? Both seemed like entirely plausible excuses. I could forget all of this insanity and go home. Home, to the safety of my couch and the leftovers in the fridge — but I had come this far.