A McGuire Family Tradition is Born

One of the most magical memories from the mists of my early childhood was when my parents would take us to Manhattan the week before Christmas to see choreographer George Balanchine’s epic production of Tchaikovsky’s ballet “The Nutcracker.”

This is such a fantastic, quintessential NYC event, amidst the intimidating, yet thrillingly sophisticated backdrop of Lincoln Center on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

That time of year in Gotham is quite special, with the crisp winter chill in the air, mysterious steam belching from manholes and the streets and scenes swathed in reds and greens and twinkling lights of the holiday season. With me dressed in my dorky little 1970s-style pants suit, and sister Sue in her cute pigtails and pink dress, we were especially thrilled to be out so late on a school night.

My earliest memory of attending that production was when I was seven years old. The music was hypnotizing, the lavish production mesmerizing. I remember my parents bought us both small Nutcracker dolls, and for some time it was my most cherished possession.

I always dreamed someday that I would share my love for this ballet with my children.

Yet as an adult, my adulation for the Nutcracker slipped farther and farther from view, coming to rest as a remote blip at the edge of my bustling holiday schedule, barely noticed each year.

I gave up on enticing Anna, my love. Her casual ridicule gave way to outright abuse when she learned the price of tickets (several hundred dollars per).

I was resigned to the regret of never to share my love for this cherished memory. (I briefly approached Frankie, who not only laughed me out of his room, but repeatedly called me “Ballet Boy” and would have banned me from his football games, had he not needed a ride.)

A Final Attempt

In the early winter of 2011, I was seized by a pang of regret, when I came across an advertisement in New York magazine. The old warm memories came rushing back.

Every night, I placed that magazine, opened to the page of the ad, on the ledge in the bathroom Anna prefers.

I thought to myself, “What will be, will be.”

Low and behold, Anna, my love, surprised me with tickets to my beloved Nutcracker…well, sort of.

It was not exactly Lincoln Center, but the American Ballet Company’s version at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

It was not before Christmas, but five anti-climatic days afterwards.

It was not an evening production, but a matinee.

And it was only two tickets, for Fiona and myself, not five.

This would not be a tradition or the entire McGuire family.

I admit, I was a bit of a douche. I thanked Anna in that backhanded, “Thanks, but you know…” way. I whined. I moaned. I stamped my feet.

But Anna was right. The tickets were nearly half the cost of the $600 seats at Lincoln Center. They were great seats (third row, center aisle), much better than we would have been able to get in Manhattan. And a matinee was much more reasonable for a seven-year-old girl.

And Anna promised that if Fiona enjoyed it (she was convinced she would not) then we could discuss the more expensive Lincoln Center production for the following year.

A Magical Afternoon

I had my trepidations. What if Fiona did not embrace my passion for the Nutcracker?

The day of the show finally arrived. I dressed my best and Fiona wore a little red dress with cute little black boots and a long grey coat that was simply adorable. We arrived early for the show, so we went for a walk through Downtown Brooklyn.

Fiona wanted a snack, so we stopped for a hotdog. The street vendor said he thought Fiona was so delightful and reminded him of his daughter back home overseas, that her hotdog was free. (He charged me $5 for my dirty water dog, so I don’t know how “Free” Fiona’s hotdog really was.)

As 2pm drew close, we hustled inside and took our seats. Fiona was quite impressed to be able to peer down into the orchestra pit.

As the lights dimmed and the delicate music rose, I was instantly overcome by that old magic. But it was much different than I recalled.

It was better. It was no more than reliving the emotions and awe of my childhood. I looked over and I saw that same excitement in Fiona’s eyes, as a warm memory that would last a lifetime was born. Someday, when I was long gone and Fiona a grown woman, she would share this warm memory with her children.

I was content to settle in and enjoy the show as the magic washed over us both. Yet halfway through the first act, my heart stopped.

“Daddy, what time is it?” Fiona whispered in my ear. “How much longer until it’s over?”

I was crushed, my dream shattered.

“Honey, this is only Act I,” I told Fiona. “There’s still an intermission and an entire other act. Would you rather I take you home now? It’s OK if you want to leave.”

“Oh no, no Daddy, I love it,” Fiona said, grasping my arm tightly in her little hands. “I just wanted to know how much more is left, because I never want it to end.”

Hallelujah… Hallelujah.

And when Fiona nestled her pretty little head under my arm and said, “I love you so much Daddy,” I nearly melted out of my seat.

We both didn’t want it to end, but after another hour and half, it did. We both applauded vigorously and Fiona hugged me. When we left the theater and walked back to the car through Downtown Brooklyn, beneath the serpentine skeletal shadow of the sprawling Atlantic Rail Years Arena that was being built, we whistled together the songs we liked most and talked about the show.

“Daddy, promise me that you will take me every year, forever,” Fiona said.

You bet. And next year, it will be the week before Christmas. Lincoln Center, here we come.

“This will be our own McGuire family tradition,” Fiona decided. “Oh, Daddy, you know what would make this day more perfect than it already is?”

“What’s that little sister,” I asked. (I always called Fiona little sister.)

“A fish,” Fiona said, with a twinkle in her eye. “Can you take me to buy a fish?”

I knew she was playing me, but I didn’t care. So I took my beautiful little angel to get a new fish.

But little sister actually outfoxed herself. I was so happy with Fiona that magical late winter afternoon, I would have bought her anything she asked.

She should have asked for a pony.

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