Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

April 14, 2000

So there I was, checking my Hotmail account, wondering how so many people have time to send e-mail about interest-free loans, weight-loss plans and porn, when I noticed a few familiar names I hadn’t seen for a while.

Excited about the idea that old friends were checking in with me, I quickly read each of the messages and found one common theme: lodging.

Twice a year — Homecoming and Veishea — our house becomes the most popular and affordable motel in town. Ashley and Jessica migrate south from Minneapolis, Brooke and Katie head north from Kansas City, and Hank, Stan and Dirty Steve make the trip from Chicago.

Oh yeah, Carl and Pablo trek over from south Ames.

When all is said and done, nearly a dozen wayward vagabonds crash at our pad on these two big weekends, and keeping everyone occupied often becomes a challenge.

As a group, we’re celebrating our ninth Veishea this weekend, and in an attempt to keep things fun and fresh with a dash of competition, we try a new sporting event every year. Well, we try to try a new sporting event every year.

Eight years ago, when we were still young and limber, we played full-contact football for four hours. Things turned sour in the end, though, when Carl started pouting about Ashley breaking his arm. Granted, it was just a sprain, but Ashley was proud nonetheless.

The following years brought basketball tournaments, mud volleyball games and ultimate Frisbee showdowns. But when we had to start calling a time-out for water, air and beer after every play, we realized that like Danny Glover, we were getting too old for these shenanigans.

That’s when we made a full-scale move to non-contact, low-impact forms of recreation.

We thought golfing would be the best way to celebrate a sunny April day, but by the seventh hole, Walt and I had lost 12 balls, and Eddie and Pablo were passed out in the cart while the girls were beating us by a combined 37 strokes. There’s just something psychological about those ladies’ tees.

Bowling was the next logical step. Less walking, more sitting, and it’s a lot easier to keep track of where your ball goes.

Once again, the ladies whipped us as Brooke broke 200 each of her first three games, and Stan never threatened to cross into triple digits.

Two years ago, we were all set to play lawn darts as part of our Veishea challenge, but Dirty Steve freaked out every time a dart came within 20 feet of him. It had something to do with junior high, church camp, duct tape and a live rooster. I guess some memories just stick with you for life.

So the rest of us settled for Trivial Pursuit while Dirty Steve sat in the corner mumbling something about the combination of mashed potatoes and electricity.

We were impressed last year when Hank introduced us to the joys of Italian lawn bowling — or bocce, as it’s commonly known. The playing field was in our front yard, the rules were easy to learn and modify, and the physical exertion was kept to a minimum. Splendid.

The bocce tournament began Friday and ended six and a half months later. At least that’s what we told Hank, so he wouldn’t take his bocce balls with him when he left.

We like to think that we won this event, but the ladies contend that continuing a game for more than three days is unethical when they have jobs to return to in distant cities. We simply shrug and say, “Hey, you don’t have to do anything.”

Then we call them losers.

Regardless of the official bocce score, we’re ready to move on to another event this year.

We have an all-day croquet festival planned for Saturday, and weather permitting, we should be able to get in a dozen games or so. Depending on the outcome of the first 12 rounds, we may play again Sunday, or we may just crown the champions that night.

I’d like to think the boys can win the tourney this year, but if things aren’t looking good, we’ll just keep on rolling.

After all, my daddy always told me never to give up. But more recently, he assures me that thanks to home-court advantage, the competition has to pack up and head home sometime.

And in our book, that’s a forfeit.