I make no secret of the fact that I have an obsession with television. It has gotten better in recent years, but the story goes that I was born with a remote control in my hand.

My earliest favorite program was the Bozo Show on WGN. It would come on each morning at the ungodly hour of six or so, and I'd get up every day to see shaving cream pie antics, lamely recycled syndicated cartoons, and the pi�ce de r�sistance, the Grand Prize Game.

Crash and I spent many Sunday afternoons collecting the materials necessary to recreate the Grand Prize Game in our own back yard. Inevitably, we would not be able to come up with six buckets because Dumb and Dumber had a monopoly on the good ones over in the sandbox. And I don't think we ever owned six Ping Pong balls at one time. We always had to reuse the same two over and over. Eventually, of course, we would get bored and one of us would pick a fight with the other and the afternoon would be a wash.

The Grand Prize Game isn't the only game I stole from television, although it may have been the one that translated the worst to real life. I mean, it's not like our parents were waiting patiently in the garage for us to successfully complete the six-bucket toss so they could roll out the brand new Schwinns. I think we secretly hoped that, despite the ludicrous odds, our parents would take us on vacation to Chicago and get us into the Bozo audience, at which point one of us would actually be chosen to participate in the real deal, live on national television.

Another more popular event that I pilfered from programming (although I doubt many of the participants are familiar with its origins) is Skidball. Back before Ed sucked all kinds of everything, the show featured an episode about Ed's first Thanksgiving since his divorce. He said he had no traditions left, but then his best friend Mike showed up with a garden hose and a football. Skidball is nothing more than a football game played in the freezing cold of November. According to the show, you're supposed to wet down the field with a garden hose, but even I have a little more sense than that.

I brought Skidball to the good people I made pizza with in November 2001. It was agreed that we would gather after work at the local middle school on Thanksgiving Eve and proceed to battle it out on the football field. The game lasted into the night and resulted in a painful but well-fed recovery period before work resumed on Friday.

We met again on the fourth Wednesday of last November, same time, same place. This time it was a battle between drivers and insiders. It was a controversial, intense competition, with both sides accumulating various bruises and sprains. After many hours in the freezing cold, and despite the year's thoughtful addition of hot chocolate and lights on the field, we called it a game. The score was close enough that the losing side clamored for a rematch, but nothing ever came of it.

I was worried about the tradition this year. Without me there to be lame about television and remember it, I wasn't sure that anyone would take charge of the planning. But I called the store last night to inquire about the necessary paperwork for my Christmas break return to the working world and I learned that we will, in fact, be playing Skidball for the third consecutive year. It's probably good that I wasn't involved in the planning, because someone with more sense than me was smart enough to schedule the game at 11AM, which should do wonders to improve visibility, attendance, and morale.

I'm excited about Skidball. I tend to shy away from all things athletic, but Thanksgiving is one of the few times each year that I come out of my shell and give football everything I've got. No one ever suspects that the gay guy will have any physical prowess (which is for the most part true), so I am usually good for a trick play or two, and failing anything else, I can take a beating pretty well. Skidball is special because it's Thanksgiving, but I also look forward to it because it gives me a chance to go against type and be something I'm not for a day...Halloween, but with more nourishing eats.

When I pick myself up off the ground Wednesday afternoon, I'll do so with the knowledge that a bountiful feast awaits me the next day, the knowledge that I won't have to touch a football for another whole year, and the knowledge that television can and does bring people together. Aww, how sappy! Pass the pigskin, yo.

Someone got here by searching for: sports hurts college learning And: justin hartley shirtless And: pat boy And: What do I mix with Bacardi Razz [Nothing. It's perfect all on its own.] Reading: On Death and Dying, because, as lisarock put it, into every life a little Kubler-Ross must fall. Listening to: Everclear Watching: Still catching up on The OC. How did I ever live without it? Eating: Pizza Hut's chicken pizza, which isn't terrible.