The Time I Auditioned for Cats on Crutches

In the early 1980s, I had one dream.

Broadway.

Like so many young performers, I believed the only way to get there was to say “yes” to every opportunity that came my way. So when Maurice Hines invited me to join his ambitious Ballet Tap company—a fusion of ballet and tap dance—I jumped at the chance.

The only problem was…

I wasn’t ready.

On the very first day of rehearsal, I launched into a leap, landed badly, and suffered a hairline fracture of my metatarsal.

Today, they’d put you in one of those walking boots.

Back then, they gave you crutches.

Naturally, that’s when I got the call to audition for Cats.

Most people probably would have canceled.

I convinced myself that if I couldn’t dance, maybe I could still sing.

So off I went to the Winter Garden Theatre.

Back then, Broadway auditions actually happened on Broadway stages. We all gathered in the basement before climbing a narrow spiral staircase that led to the stage.

Everyone else climbed the stairs.

I climbed them on crutches.

As I waited my turn in the wings, I was very aware that Cats was a show built for dancers. The performers around me were dancers who also had to sing for the audition.

I was something else: a singer who could dance.

Sitting there on crutches, I felt completely out of place.

Then I began to notice something that would stay with me for the rest of my career.

Performer after performer would finish a strong audition, then somehow diminish the moment before the people sitting in the dark had even responded. A look. A shrug. A subtle retreat in the body.

It was as if they were apologizing for themselves before anyone else had the chance to judge them.

I promised myself I would never do that.

Then came one of the funniest auditions I’ve ever witnessed.

A young man stepped forward to sing Stevie Wonder’s All Is Fair in Love.

The pianist looked at him and asked politely,

“Are you sure that’s your key?”

“Yes.”

The pianist asked again.

“You’re certain?”

“I’m sure.”

Everything went beautifully until the climactic high note.

He reached for it…

Grabbed his throat…

And shouted,

“Oh, God!”

Right in the middle of the song.

Needless to say, that wasn’t in Stevie Wonder’s original arrangement.

Then they called my name.

I made my way to center stage on my crutches, looked into the darkened theatre, smiled, and said,

“I guess you think you’ve seen it all now.”

The room burst into laughter.

Exactly what I had hoped for.

The ice was broken.

I introduced my original song, Welcome to the World, which I had written while performing at the 1982 World’s Fair, and I sang.

I didn’t get Cats.

Life moved on.

Nearly a year later, after what felt like an endless series of auditions for Dreamgirls, I found myself standing in front of casting director Vinnie Liff one more time.

He smiled and said words I’ll never forget.

“Congratulations, Lee. Your long day’s journey into Dreamgirls is now over.”

It wasn’t until years later that I learned something that completely changed the way I looked at auditions.

Vinnie Liff had been one of the three people sitting in the dark at my Cats audition.

Suddenly, that day at the Winter Garden meant something entirely different.

I hadn’t gotten Cats.

But someone had remembered me.

That’s the thing about this business.

You never know who’s watching.

You never know which audition is really an audition for something else.

Sometimes the job you don’t get is simply the first step toward the one that changes your life.

And every now and then, all it takes is a pair of crutches, a little humor, and the courage to walk onstage anyway.