📚 A Boy, a Tape Recorder, and a Game Called Jeopardy

If you want to know how Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters came to be, you can’t start with the trivia nights at the local brewery, or even with the team’s impressive string of first and second-place finishes. You have to go back—way back—to a little boy of about twelve, sitting cross-legged on a shag carpet in front of a boxy Zenith television, clutching a cheap plastic microphone and trying desperately not to breathe too loud.

Because that’s where Captain Geech was really born.

☀️ A Fourth-Grade Summer

It was the summer between fourth and fifth grade, sometime in the early 1970s, and the world was a simpler place. Summers stretched on forever—endless blue skies, bike rides down gravel roads, and days that seemed to begin and end in golden light. The only thing that could rival a game of basketball or a trip to Ray's Trading Post was an episode of Jeopardy.

Now, before anyone pictures Alex Trebek suavely reading clues in that calm Canadian baritone, this was before Alex. Back then, it was Art Fleming who stood at the podium. His voice had a certain authority to it—formal but friendly, the kind of voice that made knowledge feel like an adventure. He didn’t just ask questions; he invited you into the great conversation of the world.

For a twelve-year-old boy living in Winona, Minnesota, that was irresistible.

🎙 The Tape Recorder and the Typewriter

Our family owned a small tape recorder—one of those portable ones with big, clunky buttons and a detachable little round microphone that looked like something a detective might use in an old spy movie. It wasn’t fancy. There was no direct line from the TV, no crystal-clear audio. The best you could hope for was to set the microphone close enough that it picked up the television without also capturing your mom calling from the kitchen, “Turn that down!”

But for me, that was part of the fun. Before each episode, I’d set up my recording station: the tape recorder on the carpet, microphone propped on a stack of Hardy Boys books, finger poised on the record button. When the show started, I’d hold my breath, trying not to make a sound that might interfere with capturing the perfect question.

After the show ended, I’d rewind the tape and play it back, stopping and starting it every few seconds. With an old typewriter I’d copy down each answer and its corresponding question—meticulously organized by category. “Potent Potables,” “World Capitals,” “Presidents,” “Famous Inventions.” My desk became a growing archive of trivia: hundreds of little white cards lined up like soldiers, each holding a nugget of knowledge waiting to be retrieved.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 Family Game Night, Homemade Edition

That night, the living room turned into our own television studio. My brothers would gather around, and I’d read the clues from my freshly minted index cards. I was the host, of course—complete with the dramatic pauses, the buzzer noises made with my mouth, and the all-important phrase: “I’m sorry, that’s incorrect.”

We didn’t have buzzers or money boards. Just a lot of laughter, some sibling rivalry, and parents who looked on with equal parts amusement and pride that their youngest was spending his summer doing something educational instead of shooting bottle rockets out of tin cans.

And that was the thing—this didn’t feel like school. Learning was fun when it came in the shape of a question and answer. Facts became treasures. History wasn’t dry dates and names; it was stories of people who changed the world. Geography wasn’t just maps; it was doorways to far-off lands I hoped to visit one day.

📖 The Encyclopedias

Around that same time, I became obsessed with encyclopedias. Maybe you remember them—those big, thick volumes lined up across a shelf, A-to-Z, each one containing the world between hardcovers. Some kids wanted baseball cards. I wanted the World Book set.

I’d pick a letter, pull down a volume, and just start reading. Dinosaurs, the solar system, World War II, the human heart—it didn’t matter. I read them the way other kids devoured adventure novels. And every page seemed to connect somehow to a Jeopardy question waiting to happen.

Sometimes I’d even make my own book reports, just for fun. No one assigned them. There were no grades or deadlines. I just liked the feeling of understanding something new—and the thrill of being able to recall it later when a question came up during our homemade trivia nights.

🧠 The Spark of Memory

There’s something magical about how a young brain stores information. Back then, it all stuck—every capital, every baseball statistic, every historical date. Even now, decades later, when a question pops up about the Louisiana Purchase or who invented the printing press, I can almost feel that same mental click from childhood—the satisfying aha of connection.

Looking back, it’s clear that those summers trained my brain like a sponge. More importantly, they taught me to love curiosity. It wasn’t about memorizing facts for the sake of knowing them. It was about being fascinated by the world—seeing how everything fit together.

🏫 The Trivia Kid Grows Up

As the years passed, that trivia kid grew older but never outgrew his love for learning. Through high school, college, and a long engineering career at 3M, curiosity remained the common thread. Whether I was figuring out a design problem or leading a project, the same instinct that once made me ask, “Who was the 19th President of the United States?” now made me ask, “How can this process run more efficiently?”

And that’s the beauty of curiosity—it translates. What begins as trivia becomes a mindset: an eagerness to learn, to question, to connect dots others might not see.

🎲 Enter Trivial Pursuit

When Trivial Pursuit hit the scene in the early 1980s, I was hooked instantly. It was like someone had invented a board game just for me. Those little pie pieces were more than plastic—they were validation that all those summers spent recording Jeopardy and reading encyclopedias weren’t just quirks; they were training.

Game nights became a regular event. Friends would groan when I joined their team, knowing I’d rattle off answers like a machine. But for me, it was never about showing off—it was about the joy of recalling something once tucked away in memory and feeling that spark again. Every correct answer was a small reunion with my younger self.

🎶 From Jeopardy to Captain Geech

Fast-forward a few decades. Life had taken me through careers, family, triumphs, challenges, and all the beautiful chaos in between. But one constant remained: that love for trivia.

Now, instead of sitting cross-legged in front of a black-and-white TV, I found myself sitting with friends in a local brewery ready to battle other trivia enthusiasts. Our team name: Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters.

For those not in the know, the name comes from a band within a movie within a movie—Tom Hanks’ That Thing You Do! It’s quirky, playful, and perfectly suits a trivia team whose members take their knowledge seriously but not themselves. Every Thursday night, we gather around a table filled with laughter, snacks, and that same quiet intensity I had at age twelve when waiting for Art Fleming to ask the next question.

We each have our strengths. Mine are presidents, history, sports, and science. Geography’s a bit rusty these days, but I hold my own. And every so often, a question comes up that feels like it was pulled straight from one of my old index cards. I’ll smile, jot down the answer, and think, “Twelve-year-old me would’ve nailed that too.”

⏳ The Bridge Between Then and Now

When I look around the table at our trivia team, I sometimes see echoes of my childhood family game nights. Instead of my siblings, it’s friends from different walks of life, each bringing their unique expertise. Instead of an old tape recorder, there’s a trivia host with a microphone. But the spirit is the same.

Curiosity brings people together. It builds community out of questions.

And isn’t that a beautiful metaphor for life? We’re all answering questions, some trivial, some profound. We don’t always get them right, but we keep showing up, ready to play, ready to learn.

💡 Why It Stuck

People often ask why I remember so many facts—how I can pull a random year, name, or detail seemingly out of thin air. The truth is, it’s not about memory; it’s about connection. When you truly care about something—when you’re interested in it—it sticks.

That’s why those encyclopedia pages meant so much to me. They weren’t just data; they were doorways. Every page made the world feel a little bigger, a little more wonderful, and a little more knowable. That feeling never left.

Even now, when I play trivia or read an article about something new, it’s like opening that dusty encyclopedia again, tracing a finger down a column of text, and feeling that same childlike excitement.

🧩 The Joy of the Unnecessary

One of my favorite things about trivia is its delightful uselessness. Knowing the capital of Burkina Faso or the inventor of the ballpoint pen might not make you a fortune, but it gives you something far better: wonder.

There’s a special kind of beauty in knowledge that exists purely for its own sake. It’s not transactional—it’s joyful. It’s the kind of thing that makes you pause a conversation and say, “Hey, did you know…?” And then watch someone smile, even if they didn’t know and even if it doesn’t matter.

That’s what trivia gave me as a kid—a sense that the world was full of interesting things worth knowing just because they were interesting.

🎧 Art Fleming, the Original Maestro

I can still hear his voice sometimes. “The answer is…” followed by that gentle pause before revealing it. Art Fleming made knowledge feel dignified, and he gave kids like me permission to be curious. In a time when many thought knowing “a little about a lot” was scatterbrained, Jeopardy celebrated it.

He passed away years ago, long before Jeopardy reached the pop-culture height it did under Trebek. But to me, he’ll always be the voice that started it all—the one who unknowingly launched a lifelong pursuit of trivia, curiosity, and connection.

🪞 Reflections on Why It Matters

When I think back on that twelve-year-old boy surrounded by index cards and cassette tapes, I see the early outlines of who I’d become. That curiosity carried me through a career in engineering, where asking the right questions was often more important than knowing the right answers. It carried me through parenting, teaching my kids that “why?” is one of the most powerful words they can ever use. And now, in retirement, it still drives me—writing, reading, learning, and sharing knowledge with others through my West Egg Living community.

Trivia, for me, isn’t just a hobby. It’s a philosophy. It’s about never losing your sense of wonder, no matter how old you get. We don't get all the questions answered correctly, even as a team. But that's OK. It's the learning and the fun surrounding it that is important. Another file drawer opens and another index card is placed inside.

🏆 The Captain Geech Legacy

Today, when I sit with my trivia team and we brainstorm answers, I sometimes catch myself glancing around the table and smiling. There’s a joy that comes from being surrounded by people who love learning, laughing, and thinking together.

And I’ll admit, I get a kick out of being “the history guy.” Every team needs one—the person who remembers obscure facts about presidents, wars, and world leaders. It’s my small way of keeping that twelve-year-old boy alive.

Sometimes when I dream I still have a few of those old index cards. The ink has faded, and the handwriting is crooked, but they’re reminders of where it all began. They’re relics from a time when the only technology I had was a tape recorder, a typewriter, and an insatiable curiosity. And a time of family fun.

🌅 The Enduring Power of Questions

If there’s one thing Jeopardy taught me, it’s that life is best lived in questions. Answers are satisfying, but questions are where growth begins. They make us pause, think, explore. They keep us humble, knowing that there’s always more to learn.

In that sense, we’re all contestants in the grand game of life, buzzing in when we think we’ve got it, sometimes right, sometimes wrong, but always learning in the process.

And maybe that’s why I still play. Because trivia reminds me that knowledge isn’t about certainty—it’s about curiosity. It’s about staying awake to the world.

🎤 The Rest of the Story

So, when people ask how Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters got its start, I tell them it didn’t begin at a brewery table. It began with a kid who loved to listen, record, and learn. A kid who thought it was fun to type out questions on index cards just so his family could play along. A kid who saw the world as one big trivia board waiting to be explored.

That kid grew up, sure—but he never stopped being curious.

And every Thursday night, when the trivia host announces, “All right, let’s see what Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters can do tonight,” that twelve-year-old is still there, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, holding his breath, waiting for the next question.

Because for some of us, the love of learning never really leaves. It just finds new ways to play the game.