In high school the guys on the executive council did the morning announcements. When I was a sophomore one of the guys was always sneaking in a joke name. He once called Abe Froman the Sausage King of Chicago down to the office. To my straight A’s, Jesus is always watching, fourteen-year-old mind, this was the height of comedy.

At my all boys Jesuit high school, each individual class had its officers but the seven member executive council made up of seniors presided over the entire school. When I was a senior, I was on the executive council.

“Presided” is a strong word. I don’t remember doing much. I did it so I could put it on my college applications, which, save watching stand-up comedy and playing soccer, is why I did most things in those days. Our main responsibilities included going to meet with a travel agent regarding our senior trip and then heading to a bowling alley for an hour or so. That and doing the morning announcements

We were ambassadors for the school, though. On one end of the spectrum we attended the funeral for a sophomore on behalf of the school. I shook his father’s hand and gave my condolences. His name was Chris Desso and the first time I ever saw him was in his open casket.

On the other end of the spectrum, we went to apologize to a rival school for an insulting top ten list that circulated our school. Unbeknownst to most, perhaps our faculty but certainly theirs, a few of us on the executive council had written it, myself included. But that’s a story for another time.

I wanted to talk about announcements we made twenty-three years ago today, where I saw my chance to insert humor into the morning.

The routine was two or three of us would go into a small room by the principal’s office, choose the morning music snippet, cue it up, turn on the audio, play it, then read the morning announcements. They were written on note cards and we split them up so we each got to read something. That day Joe Schaeffer had the list of people to call down to the office.

It was Groundhog Day. Inspiration struck.

“Say Punxsutawney Phil!” This was brilliant.

Joe stared back, “What?”

“Say Punxsutawney Phil!” I mean, Abe Froman was good, but was it timely? This was going to kill.

Joe looked at me blankly. The microphone was being handed to him. He didn’t have time to protest. He began to read. “Will the following people please report to the office… R.J. Cerame, T.J. Cashette, Paul Theruviparampil…” and then, in my memory, Joe audibly sighs into the microphone and says, “…Punxsutawney Phil…” It was the only time I’d ever heard a human voice sound like an eye roll.

I still thought it was hilarious.

It wasn’t.

I remember on the way to class my friend Pat running up to me in the hall, laughing at how lame I was. “Punxsutawney Phil! Wow! Punxsutawney Phil? Amazing joke, Penty!”

I’ve bombed many times in my life. I’ve been on stage and delivered lines that I thought would slay and heard crickets. But nothing stings quite as much as that first time.

But at least I made Shaeffer do it. Sorry, Joe.