Basketball may have been my first obsession, but it certainly wasn't my last. Around the same time I was shooting jump shot after jump shot, I was filling my mind with facts. Trivial facts to be more precise. If you want to know where my love of trivia started you have to go back—way back—to a young 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. Back then there wasn't fancy RCA inputs and patch cords to connect different pieces of electronic audio equipment. In that living room the "cord" was replaced with an open air microphone that picked up every sound in the house.
It was the summer between fourth and fifth grade, sometime in the early 1970s, 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 a house where one parent has a teaching degree and one parent is a high school principal, education was prioritized and woven into the fabric of our home. Learning wasn’t confined to the classroom—it was something we talked about around the dinner table, valued in our daily lives, and expected of each of us. Without realizing it then, those early lessons shaped the way I approached every opportunity that followed.
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.
Later in 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—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 that I hoped to visit one day.
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.
As the years passed, that trivia-loving kid grew older, but he never outgrew his curiosity. Through high school, college, and thirty-five years as an engineer at 3M, learning became less about collecting facts and more about solving problems. The same curiosity that once had me recording Jeopardy! now helped me ask better questions at work and in life.
Years later, that childhood hobby found a new home when friends invited me to join a weekly trivia league.
Our team name?
Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters.
If you're a fan of That Thing You Do! you'll recognize the reference. Like the name itself, we never took ourselves too seriously.
What surprised me wasn't how much I remembered. It was how much I didn't.
That's the beauty of a good trivia team.
One teammate hears the first three notes of a song and instantly knows the artist. Another remembers movie quotes, Broadway musicals, or 1980s television shows. Someone else can identify obscure logos or famous paintings. One person remembers statistics. Another remembers literature.
My niche tends to be history, presidents, sports, science, and the occasional geography question.
Together, we're far better than any one of us could ever be alone.
Some nights we finish first. Other nights we don't even make the top three. And honestly, those nights are often just as much fun. The laughter around the table, the debates over half-remembered facts, and the occasional "How did we not know that?" are what keep us coming back every Thursday.
Every once in a while, though, a question appears that feels like it came straight from one of those index cards I typed as a twelve-year-old.
I'll write down the answer, smile to myself, and think,
"Thanks, Art Fleming."
Looking back, I realize trivia was never really about memorizing answers.
It was about curiosity.
Some people collect song lyrics.
Some remember birthdays.
Some can quote every line from their favorite movie.
Others couldn't care less about trivia, and that's perfectly fine.
We all have something our minds naturally hold onto.
Mine just happened to be facts.
The real gift wasn't remembering them. It was discovering that learning could be joyful.
That same curiosity eventually found its way into engineering, parenting, writing, home inspections, and now West Egg Living. It taught me that asking good questions is often more valuable than having all the right answers.
Even today, every Thursday night, when the host announces, "Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters," I still catch a glimpse of that twelve-year-old boy sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, holding a plastic microphone toward the television, trying not to breathe too loudly while Art Fleming asked the next question.
In some ways, he never really left.
Looking back, I realize it was never really about the answers. It was about developing a lifelong curiosity—a habit of asking questions, exploring ideas, and believing there was always something new worth learning. That curiosity has shaped every chapter of my life ever since.
