It was the 1968-69 school year. Tryouts for the Junior Class play were approaching quickly. I hoped to earn some kind of part. The play was "Teahouse Of The August Moon." I knew very little about the play other than it was a light comedy. That was enough for me. It was my chance to make people laugh. Mr. Gibson was the drama coach. I didn't really know him, but at the time he seemed like a really "cool guy." After going through tryouts, I finally landed the part of "Captain Fisby." Not a lead part, but nonetheless the character had some funny lines. That was good enough for me. Besides, the payoff was I got to kiss the leading lady, a.k.a. Andrea DeVleigher. For a hormonal teenage boy with a sense of humor, it was perfect!

As we began our read-through and were getting general instructions from Mr. Gibson, it became more evident that he was, in fact, a "pretty cool guy." His wit and humor gave me a feeling of kinship, a camaraderie if you will. After all, I had a funny side too. Wow! I had something in common with a teacher. Cool.

As days and weeks of rehearsal passed, I quickly learned my lines. I did so well that I was able to ad-lib from time to time. As words of encouragement and an occasional stifled laugh came from him, I felt Mr. Gibson was impressed not only with the speed at which I seemed to memorize my lines but also with my ability to add more. Indeed, I was getting my lines down faster than others. As others struggled with a line, I would spout some type of adolescent gibe, usually drawing giggles and snorts from other members of the cast. And always, I was looking to Mr. Gibson for his smile of approval. The first time or two, he did smile. Then, it became more of a look of discontent. Finally those looks turned to disgust. What? How could this be? Someone who has a sense of humor just like me is not finding this funny? Hey, it's not my fault they didn't know their lines! I'm a 16-year-old boy, for cryin' out loud! It's never the fault of a 16-year-old boy!

The next day that attitude was to be changed. The inevitable (to everyone but me) was about to happen. We were in the middle of rehearsal. Up to this point I had been ad-libbing here and there, getting small laughs. I'm not sure who my victim was that day, but the opportunity to "have a little fun" was suddenly before me. Full of cleverness -- and I'm pretty sure full of myself -- I lashed out with some type of retort. Instead of the anticipated howls of laughter, the next thing I heard sucked the wind right out of me. A very angry Mr. Gibson announced, "Let's take a break. Keith, I want to see you offstage. NOW!" Okay, maybe he wanted to tell me how hilarious I was without the others hearing and becoming jealous. After all, I knew my part forwards and backwards. This play wasn't going to go on without me. (I told you I was full of myself!) I wasn't prepared for what Mr. Gibson said next. While the exact words elude me, he proceeded to tell me how great I wasn't and that, in reality, I needed to work on my lines a little more. And, if I didn't think I could do that, he would replace me.

What? Replace ME? Well I'll show him. I'll be the best person who has ever played this character. (Eat your heart out, Robert Cummings!) I went back on that stage, and from that point until the first performance I made sure I did the lines exactly as they were written. I made my entrances and exits just where I was supposed to. And…I did the kissing scene just like I was told. (I never did convince Andrea that we needed extra rehearsal for that!)

The audience received the play warmly; I was the envy of a lot of my buddies. "You really kissed Andrea? On the lips?" If only "high-five-ing" had been around then! As the cast and I mingled around the cafeteria following the last performance, Mr. Gibson took me aside. Admittedly, I was "shaking in my boots." I was about to learn a lesson that I would remember forever. He said, "Keith, you did a great job. I knew you could. The reason I had to put you in your place was because you weren't trying as hard as I knew you could. By doing what I did, I made you prove to yourself what you can do. I knew you would get angry, and I knew you would tell yourself that you were gonna' show me! And you did."

As many of you have learned by now, I went on to do stand-up comedy for a good number of years. As any comedian will admit, I've also had many other jobs. But I've always remembered the lesson Mr. Gibson taught me. I've challenged myself over the years, when I think I'm already doing pretty well, to "push a little harder." And through the years I have worked with young comedians whom I watch and think, "Reminds me of myself when I was young." And, if I was to be working with them for a week or two, I challenged them. Who knows, maybe one of those cocky, snot-nosed young comics may learn a little lesson -- just like me.

God bless you, Mr. Gibson!

Keith Hoffman,
webmaster, mishawaka-alumni.com web site
Class of 1970 site