I watched the Bulls stomp all over my beloved Knicks.

Which just made me even more angry.

I couldn't get what Morgan had done out of my mind.

How dare that Artistic-Director-disco-boy think he could upstage me in front my dancers like that. That really pissed me off. I'm worried enough that this piece is a big turd and that I'm wasting my time trying to get it performed and heck, I would've listened to anything he had to say if he'd told me in private. But instead, he took over in the middle of rehearsal and made me look bad-- like he has no faith in me.

If he doesn't, why should the dancers?

I suppose I should be grateful he didn't do it all behind my back. Tell me how great everything is during the day, then at night change it all so that when I watch the piece it looks nothing like what I had in mind.

I've seen Artistic Directors do that. They'd change only a little of the piece, not taking into consideration the rest of the work. So, that when you saw it, one part of it made no sense with the rest. It stood out like a sore thumb and the critics would bomb the choreographer. All the while the AD sits in his office and says, "See, I knew it was crap."

The phone rang.

I didn't want to answer it. What I wanted to do was rip it out of the wall and heave it out the damn window.

I mustered up the energy and answered it. "Hello?"

I couldn't believe it. It was Morgan and he was apologizing. He went on and on about how sorry he was for what he did and that he'd always sworn to himself that he'd never interfere with someone's creative vision. He said he already told the dancers that he was wrong and he'd like to make it up to me by taking me out to a late dinner.

I looked over at the TV dinner sitting there lifeless in the microwave and agreed to meet him.

As I put on my jacket and headed out the door, I smiled.

I'd won.