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Bruce Browman and I were the kings of PT waffle ball. The blue foam protectors had a big hole in one end and you could throw a wicked curve ball with them. We would use overhead frame components for bats and you had to be quick to hit the "ball." Our games there were legend, and we would get some pretty good crowds to watch.

At Timken Mercy in Canton, OH, the games of choice were office basketball and Jack Nicklaus golf. My most noteworthy competitor in both was John Dannemiller, the Stuart Medical rep. John was a great guy; he had played high school football at North Canton and was a tough little competitor. Someone had given me a suction cup basket so about once a week when Dannemiller came to call on the account, we would go into my office, close the door and suction-cup the basket to it. Then we would play either one-on-one basketball or "H-O-R-S-E" for a couple of hours. Dannemiller was pretty good at the basketball games, but there was no way he could touch me in my favorite sport — Jack Nicklaus golf.

Bear in mind that all this took place in the mid-1980s when computers were new. I can’t even remember where or when I got the first edition of JNG, but it was a godsend to me. I was terrible on all other video or arcade games, but I picked up golf real quickly.

And I practiced incessantly. So whenever Dannemiller came in to challenge me, he had no chance whatsoever. I think my all-time record was a score of 52 for 18 holes.

Take that, Tiger.

By the early 1990s, when I had moved to MetroHealth in Cleveland, the game changed to "33." Across the hall from my office was a gym with a basketball court. Twice a day (10 a.m. and 2 p.m.) the guys from the Print Shop, the Storeroom, Maintenance and Environmental Services would make their way to the gym to play "33." The rules of "33" are simple. It’s you against everyone else. You make a field goal and you get two points; then you go to the free-throw line and you shoot up to three free throws, each worth one point. If you make all three, you get to take the ball to the top of the "key" and try to make another field goal. If you miss, whoever gets the rebound and scores gets two points and goes to the free throw line.

The competition was fierce. Ninety-plus percent of the players were African-Americans. "33" is not a white man’s game. Like baseball, there is no crying in "33" and frankly, most white guys whine too much to play it successfully. They generally get asked to leave or get bullied into leaving.

Such was not the case with me. I had spent my whole life playing ball in the projects. My style fit in well with the black players and was often too much for my light-skinned brethren (however, in over 25 years of playing organized basketball, I only fouled out of one game). At MetroHealth the three best "33" players were me, Willie Mays from the Storeroom (yes, that was his real name) and Jeff Greene from the Print Shop. Among us, the victories were almost evenly split and the competition was brutal for bragging rights.

I did get a nickname from those battles — they called me the "White Shadow" after the character on the television show of the same name. It is a nickname I will always cherish.

As the years went by and I gradually matured (okay, so maybe I just got older), the games in the work place passed away — replaced by good conversations and after-work golf.

By 1996 I had made my way to Covenant Health System in Waterloo, IA. As Director of Materials, I built a good relationship with IT and I visited the guys there every day. Among other things, they knew that I liked hot food. On one trip to Des Moines I had brought back some exceptionally hot sauce and had demonstrated my prowess by consuming it on a dare. They were quite impressed, but — guys being guys — you knew there would be more to come.

One afternoon I got a call from Tony in IT. "Fred, come over here," he said. "Carl’s got a pepper for you to eat."

"Be right there," I said and made my way to their office.

Carl was one of the IT techs and he had brought in what he said was a habañero pepper. The unit used to measure the "heat" of peppers is called the "Scoville." The jalapeño pepper checks in at 3,500 to 4,000 scovilles; the "average" habañero checks in at 200,000 to 300,000 scovilles, and the red savine habañero tops the scale at 350,000 to 500,000 scovilles.

Habañeros are round, red or yellow and small. What Carl had was long and yellow and resembled a jalapeño. He said it was a hot habañero. It didn’t look like one to me. He offered me a bite. The time was 3:19 p.m. I took the pepper from him, tossed the entire thing in my mouth, chewed it up and swallowed.

In less than a millisecond, my entire mouth was aflame. I remembered the antidote — milk or something warm. At the same time I was trying to be cool.

But my mouth was on fire, or "en fuego" as Dan Patrick from ESPN would say. I bolted from the room to everyone’s hysterical laughter and ran to the cafeteria. I bought milk — vanilla and chocolate. It didn’t help. Then I tried warm water — no surcease.

I hurried into my office, closed the door and tried to, how should I say this — manually relieve myself of the problem.

But it had gone too far, and besides, I got pepper juice on my hands and now my eyes were on fire.

Somewhere along the line, my youngest son had come in to do his daily volunteer work. He caught me trying to barf in my wastebasket and left crying with laughter.

At any given point, the heat from the peppers told me exactly where they were in my alimentary canal.

I staggered out of my office and made it home, where I cowered painfully in bed until 9:30 when the final portion of the pepper’s journey was complete.

When I returned to work the next day I was feted as a hero. Carl had only intended for me to take a bite. Nobody believed I had eaten the whole thing.