I'll admit it. I just plain hate sports

I used to be uninterested in sports. During those moments when our editorial staff is all abuzz with breathless talk of playoffs and draft picks, I typically let my eyes glaze over as I go to my imaginary happy place, where tanned, young women deliver an endless stream of margaritas to my spot on the beach and the ocean waves gently lap my toes.

For me, tanned young women and margaritas will always be infinitely more interesting than anything that might have happened during the fourth quarter of last night's Big Game.

So, just sort of uninterested in sports. Until recently. Af a couple weeks ago, I actively hate sports. I hate baseball, I hate football, I hate basketball and I especially hate hockey. I hate all the people who play sports, the people who buy tickets to watch the people who play sports, the people who sell those tickets ... I even hate the company that prints those tickets in the first place!

I hate sports more than the Grinch hates Christmas, more than Tea Baggers hate Obama, more than Kanye West hates remaining in his seat during the Grammys. The equation is simple: Me + Sports = HATE!

Why this sudden vehemence toward something that previously barely registered on my radar? I'll tell ya.

Trivia Crack. 

Trivia Crack is a little video game you play on your smartphone, against other players, either friends or strangers. 

My daughter, Aubreii, introduced me to it.

As soon as I started my first game I realized something: I'm good at trivia. My head, it turns out, is chock-full of useless, random information that is utterly worthless; worthless, that is, unless you're playing Trivia Crack. If you are, all those worthless facts transform you into the Obi Wan Kenobi of smartphone gaming.

Ever wonder what a pregnant goldfish is called? I know that! (A twit.) How long does a dragonfly live? (24 hours). What happens to a female ferret if she goes into heat but cannot find a mate? (She dies.)

My brain, old and margarita-abused though it may be, is the Trivia Crack equivalent of the Library of Congress. Do I know everything? No, I do not. Not quite. But I know enough to be virtually unbeatable when it comes to Trivia Crack.

Until the topic turns to sports.

When a sports question comes up, I instantly devolve from Stephen Hawking into Lenny from "Of Mice and Men."

Sure, some of the sports questions are crazy tough. I mean, is there anybody, anywhere, that knows who played second base for the Tigers in game three of the 1968 World Series? No, there is not. And if there is, you can add that person's name to the above list of sports-related things I hate.

I can't answer questions like that! I don't WANT to answer questions like that!

But it gets worse. I'm also incapable of answering the so-called "easy" sports questions. Like: "Which one of these is not a ball? a) football, b) baseball, c) basketball, d) hockey puck."

Who cares?! What does any of this have to do with young, tanned girls and margaritas? When you can show me that link, THEN I'll try to learn something about sports.

Until then, I'll continue to be a hater.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Being a good grandparent sometimes means breaking records

I spent this past weekend in Detroit visiting my grandkids. 

There are four of them these days; three boys and a girl, ranging in age from six months to 14 years, proving that my daughter is either a sex fiend or a glutton for punishment. Since we're talking about my sweet, innocent baby here, I'm going to assume the latter.

All my grandkids are raging balls of excess personality, from the soft-spoken, rock-music-playing eldest, Edison, all the way down to Ari, who's about a week from learning to crawl. In-between are the reclusive, 12-going-on-52 Rosie, and four-year-old Kaelyn, who seems to have me confused with some sort of unbreakable playground equipment.

I love them all, but a weekend in their collective company is all the reminder I need of why people have children when they are young. Those of us that remember The Beatles' Ed Sullivan Show debut just aren't up to it.

By the time Saturday night rolled around, all I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep until half-past June. I felt ... old, which really isn't all that bad.

But it got me thinking of the summer I spent at my Great Gramma Kelly's house in Indiana. I was 14; she was 40 years older than Yoda and twice as wrinkly, yet somehow, she never seemed to get tired of dealing with my four siblings and me. 

Great Gramma Kelly was Indiana-farm-girl-I-remember-the-Depression-and-both-World-Wars tough, and that is tough indeed, my friend. But she also was patient. Except for once. Once that I remember very well.

I was alone at the house for some reason, just me and Gramma K. A week earlier, I had purchased a new record, a 45 (Google it, junior). The name of the song was "All American Girl" (don't bother Googling that, you'll only get the recent Kelly Clarkson release) and it was — I now realize — terrible. The lead singer sounded like a rabid wolverine tangled up in barbed wire.

At the time, however, I thought it was great. So much so that I played the record over and over while great gramma quietly went about her daily routine of cleaning house, preparing dinner, taking her afternoon nap.

I started playing the record at noon and was still going strong by 4 in the afternoon. It was at this point that double-gramma came into the living room and asked how much the record had cost me.

"Sixty-nine cents," I told her.

Great Gramma Kelly unfolded a dollar from her clutch purse, handed it to me. Without a word, she removed my 45 from the turntable and smashed it to pieces against the side of the record player. She returned to the kitchen where a bowl of sweet peas waited to be snapped.

Being a grandparent, I began to realize then and fully understand now, is not always easy.

Catch Mike Taylor's Reality Check radio show every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, 106.3, Greenville.

Just give me a badge and the number 9. I'm ready to fight discount crime

Apparently, I look like a cop. And not even a real cop.

I look like a Walmart cop.

I didn't know I looked like a Walmart cop until one Saturday this past December,  when I was shopping at a Wally World in Grand Rapids. I was trying to find some art supplies for my granddaughter, Rosie, ones she didn't already own. Not an easy task, since, when it comes to art, she already has supplies to rival the entire city of Florence during the Renaissance. 

Carefully examining the various boxes of chalk, poster paints and sculpting materials, I didn't even notice the woman perusing the shelves just to my left. It wasn't until I realized she was staring at me that I really became aware of her. 

Now, as you may already know, Wally World has a reputation for attracting customers who sometimes make questionable fashion choices. The woman beside me was doing nothing to diminish this stereotype. I won't go into a full description here; let's just say there are folks who  should avoid hot pink yoga pants.

There was a lot of perilously stretched fabric there and it contrasted badly with her snake tattoo and neon blue hairdo.

But I'm not exactly a willowy fashionista myself. Who am I to judge?

I smiled, raised my eyebrows and nodded in what I felt to be a friendly, one-Wally-World–customer-to-another manner. She glared at me briefly, and then stalked off past the Play-Doh and around the end of the aisle.

I sometimes have that effect on women, so I didn't take it personally.

I went back to checking out the art supplies. A few minutes later, my search took me around the end of the aisle where Ms. Pink Yoga Pants waited. She glared at me again; I pretended not to notice.

She started to walk away, then stopped. She turned to face me.

(At this point in the narrative, I will substitute the number "9" for any profanity that may have occurred, in deference to my more delicate and refined readers.)

Yoga Pants ran a hand through her blue frizz and sighed dramatically. "Listen, 999999, whyn't you just stop 9999999 following me all over this 9999999 store!"

"What?" I said.

"I know you're a 9999999 cop!" she shouted. Other customers were starting to stare. "Just 9999 off! I ain't shoplifting 9999! 9999999 cop!"

I was taken by surprise and it showed. "Um, no," I said. "I'm not. I'm just shopping for my granddaughter, and—"

"9999 you are!" she said. "You're a 9999999 store cop!"

"I'm really not," I said. "I'm just—"

"9999 you!" she yelled. "Get out of my 9999999 face!"

Other shoppers were no longer even pretending not to gawk. This was the discount version of cage fighting and they weren't going to miss it.

I'm not a patient man under the best of circumstances (ask anyone) and my already minuscule reserves were drying up.

"Look lady," I said. She started to cut me off again. I took two fast steps in her direction and raised my voice to match her own. "Listen! If I were with store security, would I call you a 9999999 9999 for brains? Or a 9999 of a 9999999 with a 99999 for a 9999999 who could do the world a major favor by taking a flying 999999 off a 9999 in 99999999 you 999999999 99999999999999 999999999999999999 999 99 99999999999!!!?" I added a few gestures that translate, roughly, to the number 9.

It was not my proudest moment. But I won't deny it felt sooooooooo good!

Her face morphed into a round "O" of shock. Then she stomped off, yelling over her shoulder that she intended to report me to store security.

There's never a cop around when you need one, I guess.

mtaylor325@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If the universe loves me, why do I choke?

Usually, the universe seems to love me. Despite my being lazy, unambitious, inattentive to small details and foggy on the big picture, most things in my life have worked out for the best. 

I have no idea why. Maybe I was a really nice guy in a former life and this is Karma. Maybe it's blind chance. The only thing I know for sure is, I haven't earned any good fortune in this life.

Good fortune keeps coming my way regardless. Oh, I'm not rich or successful, not famous, not wildly popular with the ladies, not notably athletic. All I am is happy. 

I have a sweet lady friend, I have a roof over my head. I have (as anyone with eyes can plainly see) more than enough to eat. I have a job I love, a weekend hobby I love, a couple bucks in the bank ... life is pretty good. Maybe not Donald Trump good, but my haircut is WAY better than his, so I've got that going for me, too.

But I started this column with the word "usually" for a reason. 

This past Sunday evening, the universe turned on me. I'd spent the day getting ready for what was to be the meal of my life. OK, maybe not of my life, but it was going to be pretty darn good. 

I broke the bank and bought a couple very good, very expensive steaks. I could have used the money for a car payment, but didn't. These babies were, to any rational carnivore, works of art. Michelangelo couldn't have marbled these steaks more perfectly with a magical, golden brush. Sitting there behind the butcher's glass, they hummed and glowed with gastronomical wonderfulness.

I brought them home and lowered them lovingly into Lori's all-but-enchanted secret marinade, where they waited patiently for several hours. And finally, onto the grill, ambrosial with the sultry smoke of applewood.

Lori put together a Caesar salad and we sat down to dinner. 

A tear gathered in the corner of my eye as I cut a thin strip from this Socratic ideal of meat. I chewed slowly, lovingly, cherishing each nuanced flavor contained within that first exquisite bite. Nirvana, heaven ... I felt thankful to live in an age where such foods exist.

And then the thing got stuck halfway down my gullet. Not just a little stuck, but a lot. 

This is the result of my having a constricted esophagus, a condition that has plagued me, on very rare occasions, for the past 30 years. What it amounts to is this: the tube that carries food from my mouth to my belly is too narrow and when something gets stuck in there, that's it. Game over. 

As Lori drove me to the emergency room, I couldn't help thinking of that majestic steak, cooling in the refrigerator. Still edible once reheated, sure, but never again to be the carnivore's dream it once was.

Maybe the universe is a vegetarian.

Tune in to Mike Taylor's Reality Check Radio Show every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM 106.3.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273