Andrew Rannells: The first time I watched the Tony Awards

It was the day of my younger sister’s dance recital. I had just sat for two hours watching girls do dramatic lyrical dances to Richard Marx ballads, which left me thinking, “Hey, why can’t that be me?” That’s precisely when my mom, Charlotte, invited me to watch the Tonys with her.

I had shown an interest in acting, I liked movie musicals (“Grease 2” was my favorite), but I didn’t know much about Broadway. I sat with my mom on our couch, in the middle of Omaha, and was completely mesmerized by the medley from this show called “Falsettos.”

I had never heard or seen a story told that way before. It seemed so contemporary. I didn’t know musicals could be like that.

I was also drawn to a particular number in that medley, “The Baseball Game,” because there was a boy about my age in the show. I wanted to be him. I didn’t feel jealous; I felt driven. I wanted to be one of those people on the Tonys.

From that year on, I recorded the Tonys every season on our trusty VHS player so I could see the musical numbers again and again. Damned was the person in my family who ever tried to record over the Tonys with a football game or an episode of “Thirtysomething.” Those tapes were precious to me.

The next year, the show and dream roles changed: “The Who’s Tommy,” “Blood Brothers,” “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” “The Goodbye Girl.” (I could be either Martin Short or Bernadette Peters in that one — it didn’t matter to me.)

This was pre-internet, kids, so access to Broadway via the Tony Awards was a once-a-year Brigadoon of an event. That only added to the magic.

Years later, 13 to be exact, I found myself on Broadway in “Hairspray.” The show had been running for three years, and I was very proud to be its third Link Larkin. There was a posting up at the theater for tickets to the awards show. It never occurred to me that one could just buy tickets to the Tonys. I figured you had to be invited.

The tickets were in the upper, upper, upper balcony of Radio City Music Hall, but I was thrilled at the chance to go. I went with some fellow “Hairspray” cast members, and before the awards started, I suggested we get a drink. I noticed a lot of people filing into a venue in Rockefeller Center. Everyone was dressed elegantly, women in fancy gowns, men in tuxedos. It had to be a Tony party.

I convinced my companions that we should crash it. I mean, we were also dressed up, we were working on Broadway, we were technically a part of the community — that had to be worth a couple of drinks. We waltzed in with brazen confidence, and it paid off because we were immediately handed glasses of Champagne.

My first official Tony party, I thought. Just as I imagined.

And then a young woman in a very large, very elaborate wedding gown entered the room. It was not a Tony party at all.

With my dream slightly bruised, we quickly exited and made our way to our seats inside Radio City, which were practically on the roof. It was still an exciting night. But being in the audience was not the same as being onstage. Close, but not close enough. It was a version of the dream I had dreamed (thank you, Fantine) but not quite what I had pictured.

I wasn’t onstage, but at least I was in the room. I was getting closer. In 2011, I earned a Tony nomination for my role in “The Book of Mormon.” Not only would I be attending the awards, I would be performing my second act solo, “I Believe.”

I stood backstage that night waiting to be introduced. It was a song I had sung countless times, but on that night, it all felt different. I was about to make my Tony Awards debut. I was about to represent our cast, our crew, on the very telecast that had given me purpose.

There I was — one of those people on the Tonys. One of those people who would be seen on TV sets all over the world. Surely there would be at least one kid, maybe in Omaha, maybe somewhere else, maybe even farther away, who would see me and think, “Hey, I want to be like that guy.”

I was too nervous and too focused on the task at hand to be emotional. (The tears came hours later in the back of a Town Car on my way home.) In that moment I just thought: You did it. You actually did it.

I don’t know if my mom knew what she was setting in motion that long ago Sunday in June. But I’m very happy she did.

And if you happen to be reading this, and you got married at Rockefeller Plaza on Tonys Sunday in 2005, please accept my apologies for crashing your reception. Your dress was lovely.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.