Before a live audience

"And now ... Donny, in his second year, will perform Busy Beavers for us! Donny?"

The long, long walk from the front row up onto the stage. The awkward bow -- to an audience of perhaps 30, but an audience that seems vast enough to fill Carnegie Hall. The squirming about on the piano bench, trying to ignore the buzzing in one's ears.

You begin playing, making only occasional mistakes -- your sweaty fingers and your brain both on automatic pilot, until, two minutes later -- it's over! You stagger back to your seat to the polite applause of the bored parents of other young pianists.

The joys of being ten years old, at your first piano recital.

And today, the nightmare all comes back. My piano teacher has signed me up for a recital on December 11. This recital is sponsored by the music school through which I take lessons. Each teacher is expected to present two students. I'm one of hers.

She was apologetic. The notice was short. My heart palpitations were real. Her fear that I might quit taking lessons from her was not totally unfounded. She explained that she was required to place two names on the program, but that I -- as a mature and financially self-paying adult -- was not required to go through with it. Many of her students suddenly contract "illnesses" at the last moment, she assured me. It's my decision. Entirely.

I'd be playing the second movement to Beethoven's Pathetique sonata, the five-minute Adagio for which I first sought her guidance nearly two years ago. You'd think I could play it backwards and forwards by now.

She had me play it over again for her. She professed herself charmed. Perhaps a stumble here and there, a few missteps maybe. Perhaps a little excessively soft in the bass line? But, all in all, exhibiting great musicality on my part. My playing leaves her virtually in tears.

I regarded her raptures skeptically. Didn't my second year teacher say something equally soothing about my interpretation of Busy Beavers? Still, I've always been notably susceptible to flattery.

Will I actually show up? I'm going to work on my old friend from the Pathetique this week, and go over it again with her next lesson. I'll decide then.

She assures me that the music critic from the Seattle Times will not be present. Just a bunch of dewy-eyed parents, listeners who have ears only for their own precocious little dumplings.

Don't expect to hear more about this, by the way -- i.e., whether I chickened out, or showed up and shocked the audience with my incompetence. Don't expect me to tell you about it even if I actually show up and feel my performance was a musical triumph. I'm too easily deceived by a sense of my own awesomeness to be a fair judge.

No, unless a talent scout from Julliard happens to be present and offers me a scholarship, I think the outcome of this unfortunate affair will remain my private little secret.