Game show jeopardy
“Jeopardy!” was a fan favorite when I was in elementary school. I played along almost every night, never answering in question form or waiting for Alex Trebek to finish reading the answers, but faring decently well for someone who still had trouble tying his shoes. Seriously, I had no motor skills.
Then my family moved a couple of times and thousands of miles equated into an inconvenient air time; I all but stopped watching.
Fast forward to last summer. In keeping with a time-honored tradition that had never yielded any results, I signed up for a chance at a “Jeopardy!” tryout. Only this time, I was one of the lucky people who were randomly selected. My brother called me at work one day to let me know that “Bob” from Sony Pictures had left me a message and that I should call him back posthaste.
After jumping up and down while internally singing “Eye of the Tiger” for the next 15 minutes, I punched in those 11 magic numbers. Bob informed me that, if I could promise to be in Indianapolis on Aug. 10, I would get to try out for the college tournament that would be taping in October. Without even checking a calendar to see what day of the week that was, I committed and he wished me good luck.
Suffice to say that I went a little crazy over the next few short weeks.
Not that I buckled down and started studying trivia books right away – no, the first order of business was to work out what I was going to do with the $50,000 I planned on winning. It was tough, but I decided to set aside some money for car repairs and then squander the rest on lavish European vacations, shopping sprees at CD Reunion and maybe a full-wall aquarium for my yet-to-be-purchased pet turtle.
Approximately two days before the tryout, I realized that the test might not be a cakewalk. Luckily, my mother had ever-so-graciously purchased me a “cultural literacy” study guide – I spent the next 48 hours poring over lists of the most inane facts ever compiled. Did you know that Birmingham, Ala., is the “Pittsburgh of the South?” Or that the Gulf of Bothnia lies between Sweden and Finland? I read more than 300 pages of that sort of stuff and my head nearly exploded in protest.
On the big morning, I started to feel nervous for the first time.
I knew what was coming: a 50-question free answer test that allowed a mere eight seconds per question. If I did well enough on the test I would get to stay for a mock version of the game show. No sweat, right?
OK, I was a little worried. To avoid utter disappointment, I kept my hopes down, walked into the Indiana Convention Center assuming that the questions would be impossible and my dream of appearing on “Jeopardy!” would be forever crushed.
As it turns out, I could hardly keep from laughing at how easy the test was.
When the proctors left the room to grade the papers, I busied myself filling in the personal information that becomes Trebek’s crib sheet during the interview portion of the show. I also stole glances at my neighbor’s sheet, silently laughing when I saw that he had listed his AP Chemistry score as something the American public might find interesting. My story about my car breaking down in rural Illinois was so much better.
The proctors came back in, told us that the test was hard and begged us not to cry if we didn’t do as well as expected. Then they announced who passed, pausing for a staccato applause after each name. I did, of course, along with 10 others.
The lady in charge of the whole shebang explained how the mock game worked and let us have at it as soon as we filled out some paperwork, including a waiver that prevents me from disseminating any questions from the test. When it was my turn to play, I grabbed a buzzer and pretended that I was on television.
My game was uneventful; I only got to question three or four answers and then it was over. After everyone had played, we were subjected to a “Don’t call us – we’ll send a contestant package to you” speech and given T-shirts and key chains to accompany the fancy blue logo pens given for the written test.
Upon leaving the building, I whipped out my phone to call everyone I had ever acquainted with. Mass excitement ensued, everyone was sure that the “Jeopardy!” producers would want me, would think I was great for ratings.
Once I got back to Lehigh, I hiked up to Ulrich nearly every day to check for that pink slip that would signify an invitation to the 2003 College Tournament. There were several false alarms, unexpected packages from my parents that had me trembling with excitement until I recognized the handwriting on the boxes.
With the tournament taping at Yale in just a few days, I realize that it’s too late for The Package to come, so I’ve abandoned my “Jeopardy!” dream, for now. I could always try out again next year, but I think that I might wait until I’ve graduated and try out for the more difficult standard version of the show. That’s where the big money’s at.
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