From time to time (usually after I’ve done something either remarkably ridiculous, or ridiculously remarkable), someone will look me in the eye, wag their head back and forth, and hit me with this:

“You know something? You’re just like a big kid.”

And I’ll sit there, take it all in, and say exactly what I learned during countless years of schooling: “Am not.”

The other day, I realized two things. First, everyone who’s ever said that to me is probably right. And second, I’m not alone.

In case you didn’t notice, the tournament’s in town. And as I’m sure you probably didn’t notice, every time that happens, the town fathers and mothers get in touch with we media members … and make us an offer we can’t refuse.

First, they say they’ll give us the first shot at the tourney stash of red hot dogs (this is not another one of my dreams. It’s true!) if we show up. So we show up.

Second, and more importantly (I know those of you who know how much I looooove those red dogs will find this hard to believe), they tell us we can shoot free throws on the Bangor Auditorium floor, if we want.

They call it a contest. If I won, I’d probably call it a contest. But since I didn’t (in part because WZON’s Dan Hannigan made nine of 10 shots with a girls ball, and in part because I stunk up the old joint with my own ball, which I brought from home), I’ll call it an exhibition.

Either way, that’s not material to the matter at hand. … unless I had won, that is. Then it would have been the reason for this column. (I know, I know: I’m acting just like a big kid again).

But after losing, then chomping on a couple of those oddly soul-soothing dogs, I noticed a funny thing taking place.

Everyone had started acting like I usually act.

Keith Erickson of Channel 5 was first. As he polished off his lunch (in record time, I figure), he got this strange look in his eye.

“You know, he’s not gonna leave until he makes one from half-court,” Channel 2’s Wayne Harvey told us.

I think Keith would have grinned, but he was too busy standing at midcourt, heaving a leather ball at a 10-foot-high basket … in a nearly abandoned gym. And having fun doing it.

One by one, people began joining him on the court. Some dribbled. All shot. Some even made a few.

I sat there, kept eating, and shook my head. Not because they were being ridiculous, mind you. Because I understood.

For us, covering these games that children play is a job. But it’s more than that. Inside each one of us (and inside many of you, too, I suspect), there’s a big kid waiting for the chance to get out.

For us, here’s what that meant: We got the chance to walk onto the hardwood floor where many of us had never had the opportunity to play … and to shoot a few hoops.

Just like your favorite team’s stars will do for the next week or so. Just like we’d always wanted to.

For me, a former track guy who gave up the roundball after a frustrating freshman season, showing up at the Auditorium every February and hearing the MDI band rip into its version of “Jesus Christ Superstar” is still about as good as it gets.

I grew up inland about 40 miles, but in my mind’s eye, if I were going to be a tourney hero for a day, that’s the band that would be playing when I sprinted out of the back hallway, into the bright lights. That’s my tourney dream.

We didn’t hear the band the other day. But we found the dead spots. We walked where many of you have … and many, sadly, won’t.

The grown-up in me is glad I got another chance to do that.

The big kid in me? He wishes you were there.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net