November 19, 1999

So there I was, cheering my butt off, riding an emotional roller coaster with every hard-fought gain and ill-timed loss when I was rudely interrupted and had to turn my attention away from the game.

I’m not talking about the times during recent ISU football showdowns when the drunk guy next to me would scream in my ear about poking the opponent’s eye out. No, I’m referring to something even more compelling: Teen Jeopardy.

For a week and a half, Eddie, Chet and I sat around rooting for our newfound hero of adolescent intelligence, Chacko George, in hopes that he would open up a can of whoop-ass and take home a new car.

At the same time, we heckled his archrival Jack Challis, one of those contestants who sits there and shakes his buzzer, blaming his low scores on a piece of technology instead of admitting his own ignorance and slow reaction times.

I was the only one home last Thursday night, and Chacko was winning the first of two days of final-round competition. Just when he selected the second Daily Double, the phone rang across the room. I tried to ignore it, knowing that I was watching my game-show idol in action, but something deep inside me lifted me off the couch and led me to the receiver.

I chose wisely.

“You’re in for next weekend?”

Those were the first words spoken by my father when I picked up the phone. I was confused. Next weekend, which is now this weekend, was supposed to be reserved for Dazy Head Mazy and Martin Zellar at People’s. I was going to hear two of my favorite bands in one weekend, and my dad was on the line, telling me my plans had changed.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

That’s when he uttered a phrase I’ve only dreamt of hearing since I was a wee lad.

“You’re going out in Iowa City with your uncle and me,” he said calmly.

“Well, let’s see,” I said with a slight pause. “I’ve got a deck of cards, a cooler and an ATM card, and I don’t have anywhere I need to be until the women’s Final Four. I guess you’re right. I’m in.”

Chet and Eddie gave me a hard time when they found out I’m going to the Iowa-Minnesota game instead of Dazy Heads and Zellar, but they changed their minds when they found out who I’ll be hanging with.

Ever since my dad and crazy Uncle Joe got stuck for three hours in an elevator with nothing but a case of beer, a bucket of ice cream and a Transformers coloring book, they’ve had some sort of special bond that none of the relatives can explain. All I know is that my fifth birthday will always be remembered by those two as the day they invented beer malts while I’ll never forget the fact that they colored in every damn page of my present.

They only get to see each other on major holidays and fishing trips, so the stories have pretty much mellowed out since that fateful day two decades ago. For some reason, Grandma never lets them sit at the same table during special meals and afterward, when we play cards, we’re always sent to the garage.

On the surface, they’re both respectful, law-abiding citizens, and aside from the time Uncle Joe got stuck in the revolving door with his snorkel and flippers on, they never attract too much unwanted attention.

Somehow, I’ve got a feeling that’s all going to change this weekend.

They’re both Hawk fans. I’m not so much.

Luckily, they promised not to care if I abstain from cheering and they know that my thoughts are going to be in Lawrence with my Cyclones. But every now and then, I may just have to honor the Jack Trice faithful and yell at someone on the field to poke an eye out.

I just won’t care which of the two teams I’m watching gets the short end of the deal