Oct 19, 2018 4 min read

By the time dessert arrived, I was zero for three. If things didn’t pick up, I would be boarding the train home wearing the crown of the biggest loser in the history of the Mid-Atlantic Emmy awards.

The event was last Saturday night in Philadelphia. The gala happens every autumn, when the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences hands out its regional awards. Pittsburgh is in the chapter with the rest of the stations in the state. The trophies are like the ones the Hollywood Emmy winners get, only smaller.

This year I’d been nominated for six – I’d done a lot of writing and producing for WQED the past year. The whole station had done well, with 26 nominations.

These events are nerve-wracking, in a jumpy-stomach way that makes me not want to eat my dinner – in this case filet mignon. Each time I’d set my knife and fork to the task, another of my categories would be called and I’d back off.

“Best reporter,” the announcer called. Not Beth.

“Best human interest feature.” Not Beth.

My history with the Emmy Awards is a bit snakebitten. When I attend, I do not win. When I stay at home, I win. The three statuettes on my shelf were accepted by someone else on my behalf. I have no memory of the drum roll. Should I stay or should I go? It’s a dilemma.

The attendance jinx almost kept me home this year, too. But six nominations casts a wide net.

“Certainly you’ll win a couple,” said coworkers.

“Stop, or you’ll jinx it,” I said.

“Just go and have fun,” said the farmer. “It’s an honor to be nominated.”

We’ve all heard that before. And it’s true, mostly. It’s gratifying to know that professionals in other cities watched my work and judged it worthy of recognition.

But let’s be honest. This was a competition, and all competitors want to walk away with a trophy, or a crown, or the cup. I didn’t have to win six, or even two. I just didn’t want to get shut out.

With the evening winding down, co-workers from our station had won several. The third of my nominations was called. Not Beth.

If I were that far behind on a tennis court, I would up my game. But the winners’ names were already engraved on the trophies. I could either let the nerves get me and sweat through my black velvet jumpsuit, or I could adjust my attitude. The farmer gave me a better way to look at losing.

“If you win, you deny someone else their win,” he said, which while certainly generous, is one of the more goofy things I’ve heard lately.

Turns out number four was the charm. They called my name. I’d tied with a producer from another station. As I walked up to the stage, the big screen showed a clip from the documentary I’d written and produced about how the opioid epidemic is hurting families. The jinx had been broken. Now I could relax. I dug into my dessert, a chocolatey mousse thing. Batting .160 isn’t great, but I had my Emmy.

I didn’t win another one that night. My colleague Zak won four. Four. I was as happy about that as I was about my one.

OK, that’s kind of a lie. I’m so glad I didn’t have to leave empty-handed. A long train ride home is always more fun when you can think about that moment when your name was called.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.