About an hour ago, a play handed me my ass. “Here you go,” it said, “have your ass.” In this case, “ass handed” means inspired, galvanized, surprised and moved. It reminded me why I love theater. Here’s the thing–this show, the one I just saw, I shouldn’t have liked it. It’s not for me. It’s about the integration of baseball. Specifically, it’s about a fictitious meeting between Mr. Rickey, the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Paul Robeson, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Joe Louis and Jackie Robinson to discuss moving Jackie Robinson from the minor leagues to the major leagues. I’m not a baseball fan. Nor am I Black. This play shouldn’t have spoken to me. Well told stories are rarely about what they’re about. In this case, a story about a meeting–literally five guys talking in a room–regarding race and baseball became about something much more universal. Everything about the play from the set to the performances–some of the bravest performances I’ve seen in a long time–told this story with specificity, elegance and efficiency. And through that specificity, the story became about so much more.  The cost the compromises we make in the name of our own careers or of the greater good. What happens–the damage we do–when we lose sight of what we’re fighting for in the heat of battle. The swirling emotions and impulses that come with any accomplishment or decision. The lengths we go to to determine our own identities. Theater, to an even greater degree than art, literature or film, has the incredible ability to tell these specific, universal stories and galvanize an audience with them. It’s immediate and ephemeral and when it works, which isn’t that often, it touches the audience in a visceral way that lasts long beyond the duration of the...