Sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports....

"Marge, Bart gets to ride up front today because he's a good guy at sports." 
                                                                      --Homer Simpson

Now, while Homer may have been talking about hockey--hockey still is technically a sport, right?--his point remains:  sports are awesome. 

I've sort of been puttering around the house muttering Homer's sports chant these last few weeks because all sorts of sporty-type events have transpired.  Notre Dame is back playing football with the first defense that I've looked forward to trotting out in, what, 18 years?  The NFL is back and while I am a Bears fan in name only, NFL games this year have been a riot to watch because of those pesky refs that last refereed during the Central Michigan/Southern Alabama game.  Also, not to be forgotten but the Chicago White Sox are--as I type this--still in first place.  However, I'm willing to admit that by the time you read this, my beloved Sox will be in first place no more.  Sigh.

But it's not just that stuff.  Except for the whole refereeing debacle, all this stuff happens most Octobers.  You know what doesn't happen most Octobers?  This:

Isn't it glorious?  Ok, a little background.  I have this wicked-awesome friend named Kalena.  Seriously, she's one of my favorite people ever.  Up there with Abraham Lincoln, Peter North and Carlton Fisk.  She's always super-positive--unless she's talking about James Franco, ovens or (for whatever reason) Tom Hanks--and whenever I have a totally dumb idea like "We should have a night where we play Disney music and drink Mai Tai's and rent a mouse and a duck and make them act out Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck skits" she always says something like "That's an AMAZING idea!"  She's wonderful.  

Kalena, seen here in the shadow of my trophy, being awesome.

But she's also a dirty Michigan fan.  Now, it's not all her fault.  I mean, she went to Ann Arbor intentionally to learn readin' an writin' and 'rithmatic but she's not the total moron that you would expect.  She somehow climbed above the stereotype and became a honest, decent, intelligent person.  

Last year, we were watching the Notre Dame/Michigan tilt and--whilst drinking, of course--came up with the daft idea that we should watch the series together every year and that maybe we could find a trophy to pass back and forth, depending on the winner.  This is where drunken ideas tend to go off the rails but she has this theatre tech boyfriend and when he heard about the idea, he said "Yes.  Yes, we should do that."  So, Marc set about brainstorming some kind of trophy that he could build and, over the course of the year, Kalena and I pestered him enough that he built the damn thing. 

Look at the fine craftsmanship involved.  He took a standard trophy for, weight lifting, probably, and added another trophy to it.  Because, why not?

Then, he found some old "Starting Lineup" football action figures, painted them in the manner of the Irish and Wolverine colors and glued them to the sides and top of the trophy.

Rarrrr!

 Then, he topped the trophy with a few more starting Lineup action figures...

...and, because he knows us, he made the damn thing light up:

It'll orb through green, red, blue, purple, etc all while I giggle and clap my hands.

And that's it.  Just kidding!  Marc took a step back, looked at his creation, and asked, "How can I make this trophy more obnoxious?

So, this past Saturday, I found myself surrounded by a group of friends and dirty Michigan fans at Matilda's, the Michigan bar of choice.  Because Notre Dame lost a sizable fourth quarter lead last year and lost, I had to watch at an "away" bar.  And boy was this game awful.  At one point, Michigan had 5 consecutive passes picked off by the Notre Dame D.  Not sure I've  ever seen that before.  On the ND side, the very first pass of the game was picked off and then our Frosh quarterback through an awful, awful interception into a crowd in the end zone from the 10 yard line.  It was an ugly start.

However, we settled down after inserting our backup QB and the Irish squeaked out a 13-6 victory.  A victory, I might add, that was made all the more sweet by the fact that I could lift an amazing trophy over my head and blast an air horn over and over again to the chagrin of the clientele at Matilda's.  

It was fun.  We walked around that neighborhood blasting the air horn and I was sort of a mini-celebrity.  Folks asked about the trophy and a few wanted to take a picture with it.  Good times.  

Kalena was an amazingly good sport through it all.  But while I tried not to be super obnoxious, did I mention that I had an air horn?  I just hope that I haven't made her hate list.  It'd be awful to someday end up on the same "must be destroyed list" as ovens and Tom Hanks. 

Tupid

I wouldn't call myself a stupid man.  Sure, I like to pretend I'm ignorant of the world swirling around me but the reality is, I know some stuff.  My knowledge is based on books, the interwebs and good old fashion thinking and common sense.  It also helps to have graduated from two accredited scholastic institutions, even if one of them was in Oklahoma.  Finally--and I cannot recommend this enough--I also married the smartest person I know. 

Add all of the above together and you don't get a guy that any reasonable person would refer to as "flighty".  Why do I bring this up, you may ask? 

Well, as many of you know, I am a tremendous fan of Fightin' Irish football. 

Pictured here, fumbling as usual.

Many of you would see this alone as a reason to question my intelligence.  But love 'em I do.  I'm always on the lookout for new folks to add to my ticketing harem...that is to say, new people with connections to Notre Dame tickets.  Until this past year, it had somehow escaped my attention that my good friend Mary Kate had a father who is a season ticket holder.  Touch down Jesus Hopping Christ!  How on earth did I not know this? 

Lucky for me, I was able to get my hands on 4 tickets for the upcoming Michigan State vs. Notre Dame game.  Score!  All I had to do was send her Father a check for $320 for the face value of the tickets.  This is simple transaction that has been done thousands upon thousands of times featuring passage of Irish tickets between interested parties.  How could I mess this up?

Well, her Dad's name is "Michael".  And when I wrote the check, apparently I was on autopilot because in the "Pay to the order of" slot, I successfully wrote "Michael" but for whatever reason continued on with "Jacklich".  I then wrote a humorous thank you note on a post-it, sealed the envelope and mailed it to the correct Michael in Hinsdale, IL.

To recap:  I wrote a check to myself for Notre Dame tickets and sent it to the ticket seller.

Now, Mary Kate's Father isn't the biggest fan of Mike Jacklich to begin with.  One of his daughters once threw up on my shoes on the mean streets of Chicago while she was very underage.  And please understand, this was not by a long shot the worst transgression that involved me and one of his daughters.  I was, after all, partially responsible for Mary Kate's arrest at Goonfest.

This also might have not been the worst transgression involving one of his daughters.

Apparently, he didn't notice the mistake until he had taken time from his day to go to the bank and attempt to deposit the check.  Sigh. 

As my Godmother would say, "Tupid, Tupid, Tupid!"

With the possible exception of her racist, soul-crushing harpy of an older sister, Mary Kate's family is super nice, full of Irish levity and warmth.  I don't want these people to think I'm stupid.  They already look at me with an arched-eyebrow due to my younger transgressions. 

So I did the best I could, under the circumstances, and sent her parents a note along with a new, correctly written check:

Mr. and Mrs. Collins,

Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Mike Jacklich.  Friend of Mary Kate, proud graduate of Benet Academy, eternally suffering Notre Dame fan and a dumbass. 

I have no earthly idea why I would write a check to myself for the Notre Dame tickets and send it to you.  Confusion?  Excitement?  A gushing head wound?  I’ve got nothing.

Please accept my apologies for the confusion and subsequent hilarity that must have ensued around your dinner table upon your return from the bank.  Perhaps I should have taken my Mother’s advice and continued my higher education at the Taco Bell University of Book Learnin’ from which I received my bachelor’s degree.

Sincerely,

Michael Jacklich

He he he!

Krishni can tell you this:  I giggle a lot.  Maybe it's my obsession with Disney World but I try to keep a little whimsy in my life.  Krishni and I had a good guffaw when I watched Enchanted for the 1st time; I pointed out to her that that she was clearly the Patrick Dempsey character in the movie and I was clearly the Amy Adams character.

That's me on the left

To be fair:  of the two of us, I am far, far more likely to tell a cancer joke; but I do have a much more whimsical view of the world than she does.  And if that means that I get so excited about certain activities that I showcase a mile-wide smile and giggle uncontrollably, so be it. 

There are 5 scheduled days in each calendar year that require giggling:

1)  Opening Day
2)  Thanksgiving
3)  My fantasy baseball draft (I'm cool)
4)  My Brithday
5)  The NBA Draft

Opening day needs no explanation:  Brad and I start drinking beer at dawn, we eat fatty foods and watch baseball in the cold.  Te-hee!

Thanksgiving is hands-down the best-est of all holidays.  Thanksgiving is all about stuffing a turkey, stuffing me and hanging with the family by the fire.  What could be better?

My fantasy baseball draft involves pizza, wine and poor decisions around the 23rd round.  Krishni enjoys this day on a much different level than I do...she still thinks it's cute.  However, this day, sometime far in the future, will also be known as "The day Mike's wife finally realizes what a loser Mike is and packs a bag and slips out forever without her husband noticing because he's staring at his computer screen and deciding whether its a good idea to draft a closer in the 12th round or wait until the 18th.  While giggling."

It will be a very sad day. 

My birthday kicks ass because I've never had a problem planning my own birthday party.  Why not plan a day celebrating me where my friends buy me drinks?  The better question is:  why don't all of you do this?

Which brings me to the NBA Draft. 

For those not in the know, every year most of the best college basketball players leave school and enter into the NBA draft.  Each June, these players are selected by each NBA franchise in an order roughly determined by the previous years record; typically, the worst teams get the higher picks (meaning 1, 2, 3, etc) and best teams get the lower picks (28, 29, 30, etc).  There are two rounds worth of players picked over the span of about 5 hours. 

The draft is tonight. 

Honestly, I'm not sure what draws me to the NBA Draft.  On the "Mike Jacklich Personal Sports Hierarchy", the Bulls come in 4th behind the Sox (1), Notre Dame Football (2) and The Benet Academy Boys Varsity Basketball Team (3). 

While I love baseball and college football more than I love NBA basketball, I've always, always love the NBA offseason more than any other league's offseason.  Last years was epic:  the free-agent frenzy that centered around LeBron that directly and indirectly affected about half the league when it came to off-season moves and contender statuses will never, ever be topped.  It was so much fun to follow.

This year, we have equal drama:  a potential lock-out and the cancellation of a chunk of the regular season.  Truth be told, I love lock-outs.  I think they are absurd.  Millionaires arguing with billionares over a bigger slice of the pie...it's fun on the oddest of levels.

Back in college, there was a lockout that I followed closely.  It was pretty funny.  The owners quickly learned that most players actually lived paycheck-to-paycheck just like many of us do.  The only difference, of course, is that while I'm trying to decide how to best payoff my two credit card balances that don't total more than $2,000, NBA players were dealing with an entourage, house payments on 3 different properties, 6 car payments, servants, chefs, wives, girlfriends, 1 to 10 kids, family members begging for money, gambling debts, lawsuits, VIP rooms, strip clubs and hookers.  It was a lifestyle that was killing the players.

At some point in the middle of the lockout, the players floated the idea of having a "charity" game for some of the guys that needed cash or for players that were "only" making the league minimum which, at the time, was about $270,000...Patrick Ewing, the Hall of Fame center for the Knicks, was famously quoted as saying--in a tremendously poor attempt to gain public sympathy--"Sure NBA players make a lot of money, but we spend a lot too."  Boo-freakin'-hoo, Pat. 

The Draft tonight is just the 1st part of what I like to call the NBA's silly season.  Why do I love the draft?  Well, it's a bit different this year:  we have a pretty weak draft as far as the quality of the players being drafted.  Because of that and since there is no real consensus on who is going to go where, there should be a ton a trades and GMs across the NBA are going to be trying to unload salary before the lockout.  Chaos is always fun. 

Also, back in college we played what was, in retrospect, a horribly racist drinking game during the broadcast.  Rules included "Drink for players with cornrows" and "Drink 5 if the player hugs a Mom but there is no Dad present" and "Drink 5 when a white guy gets drafted in the top 20, finish your beer if he's picked 1st overall."  It got worse than that, too.  But hey, Bonzer T's Homeskillet is PG-13, remember?

So, tonight I'm going to sit down with some booze, my home-made NBA Draft t-shirt, some fatty foods and a ridiculous smile on my face while I watch the NBA landscape change.

There will be giggling.

I always knew Sam Adams was the right beer for me...

My wife is wildly entertained by the random grudges I hold.  Sometimes--even with the tiniest of slights--I have trouble letting go of the grudge I manage to create.  I am also willing to admit that sometimes I hold onto the silly grudges just because they are fun.

For instance, I haven't eaten at a Jimmy Johns since a stoner "sandwich artist" yelled "WE DON'T HAVE MEATBALLS AT JIMMY JOHNS!" at me a little too loudly for my liking.  Granted, this occurred sometime after 2 am after the bars had closed in Milwaukee, we were drunk as sin and--in retrospect--he may not have yelled at all.  He may have just loudly exclaimed his anti-meatball manifesto when I slurred a request for a meatball sandwich after closing out a bar with 2 of my buddies.

Whatever.  Jimmy Johns will never get my business again.

Another example:  to this day I hate a former White Sox player named Jermaine Dye.  Why?  Because he once dropped a fly ball in Oakland during the eighth inning of this game that contributed to an early season loss.  Seriously.  Never mind that the loss only "dropped" the Sox to a 16-5 record during a season where they didn't play a single game out of 1st place and eventually won the World Series.  My hatred also ignores the fact that Jermaine Dye was named MVP of that very same World Series, driving in the only run of the deciding game 4. 

None of this matters.  Jermaine Dye sucks.

Which brings me to Boston.  These friggin' guys...

Where do I begin?  Do I hate Boston because of the Red Sox?  Because of Kevin Garnett?  Because of Rajon Rondo?  Mitt Romney?  Because Fenway Park is over-priced, has terrible sightlines and was 1st runner up in the category of "Most Urine Smelling Stadium", 2nd only to Wrigley?  Is it because of a palpable  east coast arrogance that I hate?  Because I think clam chowder is gross?  Is it because ESPN sucks at the teat of the Red Sox and Yankees?  Is it because Boston College has caused my Fightin' Irish so much pain over the years?  Could it be Bill Belicheck?  Tom Brady?

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Can't it be all of the above?

Whatever the reason, hating on Boston is super-fun.  I feel that everyone needs a villain and sometimes it's important to have a better villain than Jimmy Johns.

It's time for a new poll!

One of the continually entertaining aspects of my gorgeous wife is her insistence on "exactification".  For instance, she might claim that I totally made that word up.  Of course I did, but that is besides the point.

She would have made an excellent lawyer.  She has a near-photographic memory when pinot grigio is not involved, had a wonderful grasp on language only occasionally punctuated with a sentence ending in a preposition and she remembers every damn word I say.  It's a really, really good thing that I am not a liar.

She also has trouble detecting my levity when I attempt to pass off a 100% ridiculous statement as fact.  "Really?  Benjamin Franklin played the theromin?" she once said in a story I just totally made up.  Because of this, I call her "Literal Sally".  It's one of the more endearing nicknames I've given her, and, likely the only nickname that won't result in my murder if published on Bonzer T's Home Skillet.

The other night, we were laying on our bed watching something on the DVR and the playoffs were about to begin.  I told her as much, she sighed and said, "Ok, you can watch your sports".

Now, Krishni considers herself a bit of a sports widow.  It's no secret that I have some silly passions:  pie, cartoons on Fox, Christmas, Disney World, The Gilmore Girls, porn, etc.  And yes, sports is one of those passions.  For her benefit, I do have a schedule worked out:

April-October:  White Sox Baseball
October to December:  Notre Dame football
January:  The good college football teams
January to June:  The Bulls
One day in the middle of February (TBD):  Krishni

Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration.  For instance, in the 183 calender days between April and September, the White Sox only have 162 games.  Plus the playoffs.  Sometimes. 

Back to the other night.  As I was leaving our bedroom, she said "Enjoy your boys playing with balls".  Before you think this was a sophomoric, "Mike Jacklich-style" joke, I assure you it was not.  This one was pure Literal Sally.  She was genuinely referring--not to nut-sacks--but to the physical act of grown gentlemen on the worlds stage, locked in athletic battle, in HD, taking a spherical object and thrusting it through a circular object. 

It is only fair that she called my television program "Boys Playing with Balls" as I have nicknamed her favorite shows that are on constantly:  "Bones", I like to call "Pretty People Solve Crimes" and "Grey's Anatomy" I like to refer to as "Pretty People Perform Surgery."  Lately she's been watching "Ally McBeal", or, as I like to call it, "Freakishly Skinny People Having Sex With Each Other And Occasionally Take Some Time To Argue In Court.  And Dancing.  They Like to Dance."

It was really only a matter of time before she named one of my shows.  When she told me to go watch my boys playing with balls, I paused and had a "Literal Sally" moment of my own:  "They only play with one ball.  Wouldn't 'Boys playing with ball' be the more appropriate name?"  "No", she countered, "there are many balls on the court for warm-ups."  This makes sense; if a ball deflates, the whole crowd doesn't just go home...they just get another ball from a rack.  "But wait a minute," I said, "there is only one ball in play at any given time.  As the clock ticks, there is only one ball that matters."  "You're stupid" she said.*

We argued about this probably longer than we should have before I went off to watch the Bulls hang on for a game 5 victory.

So, I put it to you, dear readers of the Home Skillet: which is it?  "Boys with Balls" or "Boys with Ball"?  Take the poll in the upper-right hand corner at let us know your thoughts on the worlds dumbest argument.   

*No she didn't