When I saw that my category Best Performance by a Lead Actor in a Continuing Dramatic Series was listed at the end of the Gemini Awards, I panicked. If the Oscars were any indication, its placement suggested an importance to the category that I certainly hadn’t anticipated.

Then there was the problem of having to sit through two hours of presentations without passing out from sheer anxiety or having my bladder collapse. My ‘date’ Mike kept telling me take deep breaths and think of something else. ‘What?’ I wondered. ‘The Hindenburg! The Titanic?’

So I tried to concentrate on the parade of Canada’s tv luminaries as they alternately presented and received awards, paying particular attention to the acceptance speeches. I was disappointed at how mundane many of them were, appalled to see that many were read, and somewhat embarrassed when the winner got sentimental or maudlin.

‘Faster and funnier!’ became my mantra.

My own little speech was at least memorized. It had gone through several transformations as I read it to different friends, each of whom had responded with, ‘You’re not going to say that are you?’ Then another revision would arise. The problem was that, sitting there in my agitated state, I couldn’t remember which version I might have to give.

At this point the bladder did give out and I had to beat it out of the auditorium. I must have looked like a madman, smiling and grabbing my crotch all the way to the exit. As I stood at the urinal, a young man next to me introduced himself as another nominee in the same category. I suggested that we run our speeches to each other while we peed, but he declined.

Back in the auditorium, past people wishing me good luck. ‘I can make it,’ I whispered, thinking that they were concerned that I wouldn’t get back to my seat. Once in place Mike told me that it would not be long. ‘Take deep breaths,’ he persisted, patting my arm like a kindly nurse in a mental ward.

‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘I am going to have a heart attack!’

Addressing the ceiling fixture, I prayed, ‘Please let it be over.’

The nomination itself had been just wonderful, I rationalized. To be selected by one’s peers was a great honor. That was enough. Why go through all this terror for a brass statue? Our lead, David Cubbitt had won the year before. I couldn’t possibly repeat. Also we had a slew of other nominees from our show. And Patrick McKenna had already won Best Supporting Actor the previous night. No, the nomination was enough.

I began to notice a pattern amongst the hand-held camera operators. They would position themselves in front of the prospective winners just prior to the announcement to catch their reaction. I suspected, and it was later confirmed, that they were told beforehand who the winners were.

And then I heard ‘And the nominees for best performance by a lead actor… ‘ and we all turned to the video screen as snippets of scenes from each of the nominated episodes were played.

The first was of a young kid, who although adorable, was seen merely reading a speech. The next an intense young man, followed by my urinal companion, and then Tom Jackson, an icon of Native Canadianhood, so famous, he would be hosting another award ceremony with fellow icon Graham (Dances With Wolves) Greene later that month.

Tom’s performance on the video screen was exquisite, a model of simplicity and truth, all of the qualities I felt lacking in my work. And even though the local tv reporter had picked me as the winner in the absence of David and Paul (Due South) Gross, I certainly figured this guy to be the one.

Then came my clip. For reasons known only to the editors of the show, it began well into the scene and ended early, and seemed to indicate nothing much at all about the qualities of the actor under consideration.

When that mercifully came to an end, I noticed that the tv cameramen had positioned themselves elsewhere. In front of Tom Jackson, I was sure.

‘Ah well, the nomination was enough,’ I thought. ‘My friends will still be my friends.’ And besides, at the moment I wasn’t remotely prepared to accept; I couldn’t remember a single word from my wretched speech. To make matters worse, the presenters began to engage in a mock battle of ‘You open the envelope. No. You open it.’

Just as I was about to shout ‘Open the fucking envelope, for Chrissake!’ I heard, ‘And the winner is Bruce Gray.’

I sat there dumbfounded, like a horse who had been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. Mike hissed at me, ‘Get up.’ And we two rose as one. I looked at him. Yes, I thought, he had been the perfect date. He had called to ask if he could accompany me, and I had replied, what did his wife think of that. He said that it was her idea! Plus he was the director of photography on our first season of Traders, and a friend for 21 years. I had first met him as a 19-year-old gaffer on a soap opera I had shot in Toronto called High Hopes.

Mike gave me a hug and guided me forward. I was passed down the row like a plate of biscuits at a tea party.

I hit the stage, grabbed the award, kissed the female presenter, shook her companion’s hand, and turned and faced 1,000 or so applauding people. To say it was a rush is an understatement.

When the applause died down sufficiently, I did a series of actor’s tricks to relax myself. A quick little joke: ‘I do this speech very well in the shower.’ A titter. Then I acknowledged my present state of mind. ‘I hope I don’t pass out or throw up or anything.’ Another titter. The technique began to work. Bits of the speech started to kick in. ‘I share this award with the writer of the episode ‘Trudy Kelly’ Ray Storey, the director Kari Skogland and my sweet costar Linda Gorenson.’

From now on I figured everything was gravy. I mentioned our other leads and the writers and our crew. I forgot a joke I was supposed to insert at this point. Then went on: ‘Gotta thank our head writer Hart Hanson who created the series, and our resident goddess Alyson Feltes who writes and edits and produces.’

Now on to the personal remarks: ‘A nod to my agent Larry Goldhar, my coach David Brown, my sister Judy,’ and fearing that I might be losing them, went for my last joke, ‘and my masseuse Babette! Lovely hands, darling.’ Well that brought the house down! And the award ceremony’s director, realizing that I had hit the high point, wisely brought in the orchestra, and any other thank you’s (wherein your name was mentioned) were drowned out. I was grabbed by the presenters and whisked off-stage.

Then it was back to my seat to witness my show Traders getting the best series award. Then off to the ‘Media Room’ were I was interviewed by tv reporters who asked inane questions like ‘How do you feel?’ Well, I’m a guy. I have no idea how I feel until three days after the event in question. Then I was asked to comment on the fashions. The fashions?! What do I know about fashion? Then a dozen radio stations wanted a comment, then the press, then a lot of photos and I was done.

Out to the banquet an hour later and congratulations from all sorts of people, some of whom I knew, some I should have known and many total strangers who insisted that we knew each other very well. I ate. I drank. I danced. I shook hands. I talked. I posed for more photos.

At 1 a.m. the winner of the Best Performance by a Lead Actor went to bed.

For more testimonials from past Gemini winners, see pp. G8-9.