Despite what the frozen ground might be indicating, spring is just around the corner. One of the things I like most about spring is the musicals that schools put on.

The enjoyable part, of course, is watching young, talented students belt out show tunes that make American Idol wannabes jealous and parents blush with pride.

There are, however, a few exceptions to that rule, and I am one of them. Yes, I wanted to be a high school musical hero back in the day when mullets ruled, Jordache jeans were risqué and George Bush Sr. was only the vice president.

My high school was performing "Grease" since the movie had been released only a few short years before.

Not being one to idly stand by and watch the performance, there was a time when I thought that I could sing, dance and act.

The practices were tough but invigorating as I tried out for several acting parts. The teacher in charge of the musical showed the patience of a saint while I fumbled lines more frequently than Cher changes costumes. My singing sounded like I swallowed gravel and sand, too.

"Mr. Ola," she said in her best, optimistic, voice. "We need dancers. But not just any kind of dancers. We need dancers that can lift girls into the air during the big dance number. Are you the man for the job?"

Let's see: Pretty high school girls who need dance partners to lift them in the air for all to see. A chance to show my strength while emphasizing dance moves that Fred Astaire would be proud to call his own. Yes, I am the man for the job.

Rehearsals continued at a furious pace and I was ready for opening night. My big performance included a number that involved me assisting my dance partner as she did a hands-free cartwheel across the stage. My job was to hold her at the waist and give her a little extra push to help her make it around. It was a piece of cake and a move Lori (my dance partner, or should I say victim) and I had perfected.

The dance contest scene was on and the play was going perfectly. All of the parties involved were dancing, playing and singing. Things were great.

The drums were pounding, the crowd was smiling and the band was smoking. It was time for "the move."

Lori began her run across the stage ala Mary Lou Retton (another 80s icon).

My hands began to sweat, but my body was ready to do what it was trained to do.

She launched herself through the air, hands free, and my hands wrapped around her waist, which was about the size of my pinky finger.

Call it anxiety, call it stress or call it adrenaline. To this day, I still call it the death of my career as I turned Lori too hard and she over-flipped and landed smack dab on her rear end. The crowd laughed. I blushed. Lori did was she did best, which was act.

Without hesitation, she got up, kissed me on the cheek and felt my bicep. Now THAT is acting, and I learned immediately what a good actor was and what a wannabe was. Enjoy the shows, but be careful about breaking legs (or rear ends).