When my Ukrainian family came to the United States in 1965 they could not speak English and enrolled in “foreign language” classes. Little did my grandmother know church halls across Buffalo would become a second classroom, as she quickly learned to count from 1-75 and spell the letters B-I-N-G-O.

The game runs in my family’s blood. My beloved, beautiful Baba died doing what she enjoyed: playing bingo. She had a massive heart attack in the middle of a game, God rest her soul, and was fortunate to pass on doing something she loved. No, she didn’t win the jackpot; it was simply God’s time to bring her home.

My earliest memories are getting to the St. Nicholas Ukrainian Church bingo hall on Fillmore Avenue two hours before bingo started. My father, my Tato, was the bingo caller. The first task was placing yellow ping-pong like bingo balls in the caller’s grid. Then we stacked admission boards. The best part of the night was working in the kitchen selling Buffalo’s best barbecued hamburgers.

I’d eat a burger and watch my father call bingo. He’s a Ukrainian Sean Connery with a hearty voice and thick yet charming accent. He threw out quirky lines: “I-22, double ducks.” “G-55,double nickels.” “B-4, and after.” And the ever popular: “I-30, your face is dirty.” In some respects I followed in my father’s footsteps by making a living talking into a microphone.

While I spent countless hours in bingo halls, I never had the inclination to buy a lucky troll doll with spiked orange hair and play bingo. I didn’t think it was in my blood.

That is, until a friend at Corpus Christi Church asked me if I was free Saturday afternoons. They needed a bingo caller. I accepted.

The first call was to my Tato, who agreed to let me use the “double nickels” lines as long as I paid him royalties. He offered sound advice on bingo calling: be steady, make them laugh and have thick skin.

In my years as an investigative journalist I have been called every name in the book, threatened with lawsuits, yelled at in public and harassed by politicians. That level of emotion is child’s play compared to the energy in a bingo hall. Hell hath no fury like someone who needs one number for both the outer square and coverall and doesn’t win.

When I walked into the Corpus Christi bingo hall the first thing that hit me was the smell: barbecued hamburgers. I was home. And I was terrified.

What if I called the wrong number, like “B-9” instead of “B-6?” The groans would be heard in Lancaster because of my mistake. What if I dropped the bingo balls before a game was over? Oh, the horror.

I sat in the caller’s seat, announced the next game, and people actually clapped for the new guy. The room roared with the “I-22, the double ducks” line. Thanks, Tato.

One month down, and for the most part, it’s been smooth sailing. No mistakes so far but I will for sure make some, and will be loudly called something that rhymes with “ducks.” Those who win will sing my praises in the car ride home, most who lost will wish I got back into television to stop calling bingo.

I hope my father is proud and somewhere up in heaven, my Baba is playing a big bingo game in the sky where she has every number called, wins every game, and is smiling knowing her grandson is a bingo caller at Corpus Christi Church.