In late February, 1980, I was sparring in a karate class at Yale’s Paine Whitney Gym with a guy named Chris Angerman, who was in the elite director’s program at the Yale School of Drama and was reviewing plays for New Haven’s weekly “alternative” paper, The Advocate. When Chris was done not beating me up (he was a brown belt; me, near-perennial white), I asked him how he got that gig. And he said, “Oh, just go see George DeStefano, he’s the Arts editor, he’ll set you up.”