A Strange Night

This blog brought to you by the Big Ten. The Big Ten, for when you need a collective bunch of overrated basketball teams to entertain at your next party.

Saturday night was another quiet night in the Paar household. Madness Eve in our house usually is. Until…

“Dad?”

I looked around the room but no one was stirring (I know, I know, a different story but work with me here). At first, I thought the second brain had figured out how to communicate from the womb but all I heard were the docile tones of snoring coming from that direction. I looked for the dog.

“Chewy?”

“Dad? It’s me, Izzy”

The monitor was talking to me. I looked at my beer. 5.9% alcohol by volume. Too weak for it to be another consumption-induced hallucination.

“Can you come up here for a second?”

Assuming the noise was actually from a human and not an evil machine plot to lure me into a dark room upstairs, I headed for Izzy’s room. Keep in mind it was midnight.

“DAD!”

I opened the door to see my daughter yelling for me at the top of her lungs.

“Shhh…do you want to wake your mother?”

“ Are you kidding, Dad? That snoring is about as good as my noise machine. Mom can’t hear me above all that…but you might want to disconnect the machine in case she wakes up.”

Still stunned that my 18-month old was talking…and giving me work direction, I started to unplug the monitor but I stopped.

“Wait a minute. Your nephews aren’t hiding in the closet are they?

“Dad, enough with the Children of the Corn references. It was just a movie.”

I unplugged the monitor. My daughter was scolding me. And I left my beer downstairs. Did I mention it was midnight?

“Dad, you have to help me. You can’t let Mom make my picks for me this year. “

“That’s what this is about?”

“Mom made my picks for me last year and I finished dead last in the pool last year. LAST! You don’t know what this last year has been like for me. Target has been the worst! Every time Mom wheels me by a cart, the other kids snicker at me.”

“I’ve never seen that before. In fact, your Mom’s never mentioned it. How do you know they are snickering at you?”

“Dad, neither you nor Mom even knew I could talk before now. You’re hardly an authority on things you have or have not seen.”

“Good point. But maybe your Mom just had an off year. She has beaten me three of the last four years.”

“Dad, you have to be kidding. Last week during the Missouri Valley Championship game, the announcer said one of the players was cold and Mom asked you why they didn’t turn the heat up in the building.”

“That still doesn’t answer why you want me to do it, especially since I haven’t exactly been stellar with my picks? Why can’t you just make the picks yourself since you are obviously somewhat self-sufficient?”

“You know how this works, Dad. I’m the baby. I’m not supposed to know how to do any of this yet. The reason I keep throwing my arms up in the air when you say ‘Go Vikes’ or ‘Touchdown’ is because I’ve been trying to send you a secret signal. I’ve been planning this since April of last year. Occasionally, I smack Chewy and get into the pans in the kitchen to keep the ruse up. Besides, you’re only the accomplice--I’m making my own picks. Ok, so here’s the plan—I want Duke to win it all.”

“First of all, if I’m going to do this for you, I refuse to put Duke to the Final Four. Second, there’s the whole problem of the $5 entry fee. If you can talk, you can come up with the dough”

“Are we negotiating now?”

“Always.”

Izzy smiled. “ Ok, I’ll steal $5 out of Grandma’s purse next week when she’s not looking. And I’ll give up Duke. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you write Northern Iowa on any line outside the first round on a bracket with my name on it. And I mean my real name. Not that “Yzzi” garbage you came up with after I was born.”

“Hey, I like the Yzzi shtick”

“Yeah, Dad,--it’s about as funny as calling Mom ‘Raap’. You’re the only one who thinks it’s even the slightest bit humorous.”

“Do you want Mom to make your picks?”

“Ok, Dad--It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in print.”

“That’s better.”

“Now, do not put more than two mid-major teams into the second round. And for God’s sake, do not put any of them to the Sweet 16”

“Why not?”

“When is the last time someone picked a mid-major to the Sweet 16 and won the pool?”

“You have obviously done your homework.”

“This is serious. You and Mom can have your little rivalry—neither of you is going to be a threat. But I want to win. No one has ever gone worst to first in the pool. Not even an 18-month old. I want to make pool history.”

“Anything else?”

“Do not let any Big Ten teams past the first round. And if the Gophers are lucky enough to make it, do not let them past the first round. I can’t believe this state thinks they deserve to be in it. They are going to back in just like all the other Minnesota sports teams.”

“Lay off the Vikings, Izzy.”

“Sorry Dad. I know it has been painful for you. I’ve only been alive for two seasons and I’m about ready to take the gas pipe.”

“A chip off the old block. Ok, Champ, I think I have a good idea of what you want. It’s time for you to go back to bed. “

“Last request—please don’t tell Mom I can talk. I need this to continue at least until I’m 3 or 4.”

“Are we negotiating?”