Thursday evening, opening night of Yukon High School’s performance of The Wizard of Oz, I was but a spectator in the front row. A commoner, much like yourself — just a proud parent, sitting back, watching and enjoying a play. During Friday evening’s performance, my duties were split; I was able to watch much of the play, but had to help watch Munchkins from the balcony (more on that later). By Saturday, the final performance of the production, I was deemed worthy. My training was complete. Saturday night, I became …

Rob O’Hara: Professional Munchkin Wrangler.

The parents of Munchkins (all elementary school kids) took turns volunteering to help out back stage. Susan helped all three nights, but I didn’t really jump in until Saturday. Showtime was at 7:30PM, which meant all Munchkins had to report in by 5:45PM. This gives each kid enough time to get into costume and have their hair and makeup done. All the hair and makeup is done by Munchkin parents. Fortunately, Susan was there to perform this task. Applying lipstick to my son’s face was something neither of us were particularly comfortable doing.

The Munchkins are herded backstage into the Green Room (no pun intended) where they remain, and that’s where my job as a Professional Munchkin Wrangler came in. My job was to make sure Munchkins stayed in the Green Room until called, to get the Munchkins on stage on cue, to get the Munchkins off stage and back into the Green Room when their part was over, to get the Munchkins up into the balcony where they could watch the second half of the play, and finally, to get the Munchkins out of the balcony and back into the Green Room in time for the closing bow. In other words, it was my job was to keep the Munchkins still when they needed to be still, and get them moving when they needed to be moving. I was like Newton’s Laws of Physics for Munchkins.

About an hour before the play started, one of the other Munchkin parents (who wasn’t going to be backstage Saturday night) explained to me, “All you have to do is this: when the Professor’s wagon rolls offstage, get the Munchkins lined up, stage right. They stand there, not here,” he said, pointing at marks on the ground I could barely see. “When the curtain drops, move them here, not there,” he said, pointing again. “After the tornado leaves and the houses drop, get them into position. When the curtain drops, not this one, but that one,” he said, pointing again, “get them off stage. You’ll have about 30 seconds before the stagehands run them over.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “When the wagon comes on stage …”

“Not on, off. Hey listen, you’ll do fine!” he said, patting me on the shoulder. I did not feel like I would do fine. In fact, I felt like I was about to screw up the entire play by sending the Munchkins out into a tornado, or routing them through the wrong door and ending up with a parking lot full of missing Munchkins, causing the crowd to get angry throw tomatoes at Dorothy.

At 6:45PM, fifteen minutes before the doors open, one last call for “Munchkin Potty Breaks” was made. Once all the Munchkins had drained their little Munchkin bladders, the door to the Green Room was closed. No Munchkins were allowed in or out. A few of the older cast members stuck their heads in to wish the Munchkins good luck, sign one another’s play books, or pose for pictures.

Mason getting Glenda the Good Witch’s autograph.

Munchkins posing with Glenda the Good Witch in the Green Room.

And so from 6:45PM until the Munchkins hit the stage (roughly around 8PM), my job was to keep a room full of Munchkins (located just off stage) quiet. This turned out to be (for the most part) simple because Munchkins love:

… Uno, and …

… iPhones. Seriously, at least half of the Munchkins had iPods or iPhones. There’s no way a tornado could sneak up on this bunch. The most work I had to do was break up an argument regarding Angry Birds. I was born to herd Munchkins.

As the kids played, the rest of the Herders and I watched the video feed of the play being piped into the Green Room. When Professor Marvel’s covered wagon rolled off stage, we opened the door and lined the Munchkins up, stage right. Right on cue, as the houses dropped, we shuffled them out on stage, into position.

By the time the audience sees this:

… the view from behind the houses looks like this:

The Munchkins did their part and I did mine, standing stage right, waiting for the next curtain to drop. When it did, the Munchkins ran toward us and we routed them through the backstage maze of ropes, cords and cables back into the Green Room.

As a Professional Munchkin Wrangler, you are constantly counting Munchkins. There are 28 in all, but only 21 initially come back to the Green Room. Seven have microphones, which get removed. They return to the Green Room one at a time. 22 … 23 … 26 … 27 … 28. Once all 28 show up, they’re split again — six remain behind (double duty; they’re also Flying Monkeys), and a couple others do as well. The rest go with us, the Professional Munchkin Wranglers, up into the balcony to watch the remainder of the show. It’s a tricky operation, as the only route from the Green Room to the balcony that doesn’t march the Munchkins past the audience takes them out through the lobby.

Up in the balcony, the kids are allowed to watch the show in darkness. When the house lights come on for the 15 minute intermission, the Munchkins are forced to lie on the floor to avoid being seen.

As the lights dimmed and the second act begins, it was time to lead the Munchkins downstairs to a much needed bathroom break. They did their thing and I did mine, standing guard outside the restroom. Then it was back up into the balcony where the kids got to stay until the end, where they were whisked once again back to the Green Room to prepare for their final bow.

And that’s where my job ended. As makeup was removed and costumes were checked in, I patted myself on the back. I got 28 Munchkins to Oz and back — all in all, not bad for a night’s work.