Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy!

by Bob Harris

  I am saying out loud something I am trying to believe, something I am just wishing were actually true.

  I can feel my fever returning.

  As an aside, I caution you to consider any malady I suffer here as(a) nothing that will ultimately affect any outcome, and (b) affirming little more than my own status as a certified, MedicAlert-bracelet-wearing Weenie. In fact, my status as a PWW (Person With Weenieness) is so advanced—and so uncontaminated by actual disease—that it will one day be described in sophisticated journals.

  My sister Connie, on the other hand, has been diagnosed over the years with Acute Chronic Hyper-Everything. You’ve already met “Marvin,” her variety of baffling unwellnesses, and Marvin’s possible origin in the tank of a Bug Truck atomizing its neuroactive piss through the watershed of a marsh in the Snow Belt.

  However, over the years, my sister has also been positively, definitively diagnosed (or misdiagnosed) with the following, among others:

  Erythema nodosum

  Fibromyalgia

  Environmental and chemical allergies, various (see “bug truck”)

  Asthma

  Myasthenia gravis

  Multiple sclerosis

  Inflammatory arthritis

  Guillain-Barré syndrome

  Lupus

  You don’t want to know the invasive procedures Connie has endured in order to receive such diverse explanations. Rest assured, however, that she is deeply familiar with a half-dozen -ipsies, a variety of -opsies, and one unforgettable expedition thrillingly described as “fishing up the urethra.”

  That Connie has not yet been reduced to a boneless heap of quivering infective goo by all this, and has in fact raised two brilliant children, shows that her heart is made of strong elastic and her spine is cast from purest titanium. Her husband, meanwhile, has the loyalty of your average moon.

  The first diagnosis came when Connie was in her early twenties and suddenly had an inexplicable series of red bumps on her shins. The doctor blinked at her, went away, then returned with a definitive diagnosis of erythema nodosum. This may sound impressive.

  Erythema nodosum, if you have not spent months studying Latin roots in case Alex Trebek asks you about them, simply means, quite exactly, “red bumps.” Which is what Connie came in complaining about. Gosh, thanks. As to what to do about the erythema nodosum, the doctor had absolutely no idea. It could have been associated with anything from tuberculosis to hepatitis to leprosy to, I kid you not, cat scratch fever. Ted Nugent, stay away from my sister.

  The erythema nodosum could also have been, in the doctor’s words, “idiopathic.” “Idiopathic,” when said by a doctor, means “we have absolutely no idea what the deal is,” although the literal Latin translation would be closer to “one’s own unique suffering.” Both definitions are entirely too accurate.

  Eventually the erythema nodosum went away on its own, although the doctor had to be paid to do the same.

  This story repeats many times, changing only in what hurts for how long, and how much of my sister they surgically remove. The one thing I can assure you Connie does not have: hypochondria. I have been present for many of the various innard rebellions, and can certify that there are days when her vital organs seem likely to fly out of any orifice at any moment. I would suggest an exorcism, but once confronted with some of the doctors Connie has had, any demon would long ago have retreated to Hell.

  She will in any case be diagnosed with many other things, if only out of habit. Some doctors send Christmas cards with fresh diagnoses every holiday season. As I’ve said, if Jeopardy! ever has a category on AUTOIMMUNE DISORDERS, stand the bloody hell back.

  Meanwhile, my PWW status during the Tournament of Champions is above question.

  Double Jeopardy begins with these categories:

  WANDERERS(What is this? Explorers, maybe? Hmm.)

  VIVE LA DIFFERENCE! (And what the heck is this? Some gender thing?)

  EXCHANGES(What? Like needle exchanges? The barter system? I’m really lost.)

  NAME THE MUSICAL(Great. I know what this is, and I’m not good at it.)

  AN “I”(Things that start with an I. That’s kind of a long list, but I’ve got a prayer.)

  FOREIGN EYE(And, once again, what the heck is this?)

  It is the first time in eight games that I have looked at a set of categories with such confusion and fear.

  My head’s central heating system kicks up one degree.

  Kim begins, playing from the top of the board, eschewing any hint of the Forrest Bounce or Daily Double hunting. It’s a cordial, we’re-all-friends sort of move. It doesn’t feel like a surprise.

  FOREIGN EYE turns out to be about fictional non-American detectives. I manage

  Who is Sherlock Holmes? and

  Who is Hercule Poirot?

  while Dan reels off

  “Who is Dick Francis?”

  “Who is Father Brown?” and

  “Who is Lord Peter Wimsey?”

  —which are three more responses I’ve as yet never heard of. And I know that Dan has heard of Holmes and Poirot. This is not encouraging.

  We wander to WANDERERS, which turns out to be about gypsies, bedouins, and other nomads. Kim gets the first clue, and then I reel off three in a row to jump back in the lead. My timing is finally perfect again—five for five in this round when I try to buzz in—but I think the Ivy League Serial Killer can smell my fear.

  I call for the $1000 clue in WANDERERS. It turns out to be a Daily Double:

  THE MEANDER, A RIVER IN PHRYGIA, IS SAID TO BE THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS MYTHICAL STRUCTURE

  As with the Compleat Angler clue, I have no idea. None. I never learned this in school, and I have no mnemonics in my notebooks. This is nothing I have ever heard of. However, there are almost always hints in the clues. Here, again, my frantic internal dialogue:

  OK, don’t give up. Mythical structures. Whose name means the same as “Meander.” Mazes? Mythical mazes? Maybe. OK, what else…Phrygia was a Greek term for someplace or other. So this is a Greek mythical maze. Wait! Icarus’s dad was in a maze of some kind. Was that the “labyrinth”? I think so. Sounds kinda Greek, rhymes with “Corinth,” at least. Yeah, there was a bull and some girl who rescued him, I must have read that somewhere. OK, all I got, give it a shot…

  What is the Labyrinth? I ask, and I am genuinely asking.

  And this is actually correct.

  In memory, the thought process takes several minutes. On the tape, it lasts just six seconds. However, as the adrenaline screws with my body chemistry, my timing begins to falter. As Jane will notice later, in watching my games on tape shortly after we meet, I always lose my timing and train of thought after any Daily Double, right or wrong.

  Perceptive woman, that Jane.

  Five clues later, I find the final Daily Double. I have a $1400 lead, and we are late in the game. Dan and Kim are starting to grow a little frustrated; I’ve gotten all three Daily Doubles, have not made a single mistake, and am in position to start taking command of the match.

  What they don’t know is that my fever is returning.

  This is the Daily Double clue that comes up:

  MALES OF THE PIPEFISH & THIS RELATIVE HAVE A POUCH FOR INCUBATING THE FEMALE’S EGGS

  Once again—as seemingly always now—I have no idea. None. I’ve never heard of the Pipefish. I have no idea what its relatives are. I am surprised to learn that fish with pouches even exist. So here again, I try to work with what’s there:

  Pipefish…what does that free-associate to? Um…Tubefish? Plumber-fish? Drainfish? Toiletfish? Monkeywrenchfish? Crap. God, I can’t think. Pouch. Try pouch. Maybe that goes somewhere. Kangaroos? Mail pouch tobacco? Diplomatic pouches? Crap. Incubating…birth, pregnancy…heat lamps…fine, I’ve got kangaroofish with little diplomatic pouches under goddam heat lamps. I can’t think. I just can’t think all of a sudden.

  “Aw, I know this one, too,” I say out loud, trying to convince myself while I’m thinking. It is not act
ually true. I just want it to be. I am helpless.

  Even if given several weeks, the correct response—What is a seahorse?—would never fall from my lips. I just don’t know, and I don’t see any hints.

  Thanks to this sudden case of actual ignorance, I blow this Daily Double. I fall back into a tie with Dan, whose over-my-head responses continue to punch holes in my confidence. Moments later, Dan whips this one out:

  LATIN FOR “SWADDLING CLOTHES,” THEY’RE BOOKS PRINTED BEFORE 1501, IN THE INFANCY OF TYPOGRAPHY

  “What are incunabula?” Dan says, with a maddening matter-of-factness. He gains $1000 and my growing panic as a bonus.

  By the end of the round, Dan has only won on the buzzer seven times in twenty-eight chances, but frequently on the most valuable, bottom-row clues, the ones you’d expect a professor to get. He has just a $600 monetary lead, but as my fever rises, his psychological advantage is becoming enormous.

  (Again: my physical stress is merely a symptom of PWW status. Dan and I have talked about it many times, and he knows I believe the outcome would be the same in any circumstance, including the disconnection of his buzzer. In which case he would have managed to ring in with his mind.)

  The scores from the two Final games will be combined, with the highest total score winning the $100,000 grand prize. As Double Jeopardy concludes, I know that my concentration will fade in the second game. So I will need a big first-game score in order to win. If there’s any opening at all, it’s now or never.

  As Alex steps toward the section of the board where the Final Jeopardy category will be revealed, I remember the broadcast date of this particular game: February 12. Lincoln’s birthday. On Halloween, there had been Halloween clues. On Thanksgiving, there had been Thanksgiving clues. On Lincoln’s birthday, however, there have not been any Lincoln’s birthday clues. At least not yet.

  And the Final Jeopardy category is—p-TING!

  U.S. STATESMEN

  My throat tightens. I swallow hard, knowing what I have to do. I write down my bet—every dollar I have—and start snapping my fingers, snappity-snappity-snappity-snappity, trying now to find calmness for just one more minute.

  Brian Sipe slings the ball heavenward…

  In 1981, the Cleveland Browns made the NFL playoffs, where they were big underdogs to the Oakland Raiders.

  On an icy field, playing with a frozen ball in a bitter wind, they held their ground. As the clock wound down to the final seconds, they were just short of the Raiders’ goal line, preparing to score the winning points.

  Brian Sipe dropped back to pass, scanned the defense as usual by peeking between his own linemen, and flung the ball as he had so many times before into the end zone. Dad and I watched, thinking this time we’d win.

  When the ball fluttered down, there was an Oakland Raider beneath it. The play Sipe had called was technically named Red Right 88. In the Snow Belt, however, this play will forever be known as The Pass.

  In 1987, the Cleveland Browns made the NFL playoffs, where they were big underdogs to the Denver Broncos.

  Facing a team full of All-Pros and fighting a series of injuries, they held their ground. As the clock ticked down toward the end of the fourth quarter, the Browns scored what appeared to be the winning touchdown. As a finishing touch, they managed to down the kickoff on the Denver two-yard line. Hall of Fame quarterback John Elway was faced with the nearly impossible task of leading his team 98 yards with no time-outs left. Dad and I watched, thinking this time we’d win.

  In the Snow Belt, the inexorable Denver victory that followed will forever be known as The Drive.

  In 1988, the Cleveland Browns made the NFL playoffs, where they were again big underdogs to the Denver Broncos.

  With a team reaching its prime and in near-perfect health, the Browns fell behind by three touchdowns and still clawed their way back. Denver scored what seemed to be the winning touchdown with just a few minutes to play, This time, it was Cleveland’s turn to rally dramatically. The Browns’ offense drove the length of the field, reaching the Denver goal line as the clock neared zero. On Cleveland’s final offensive play, running back Earnest Byner broke into the clear on the left side of scrimmage, chugging into the end zone to score a glorious, game-saving touchdown. Dad and I watched, thinking this time we had finally won.

  But Byner had dropped the ball an instant before crossing the goal line. In the Snow Belt, this play will forever be known as The Fumble.

  In future years, Cleveland Browns fans will surely endure other, similar shorthands. There will be The Blocked Field Goal, The Sack, and The Tackle Eligible. Browns fans will curse these, and still they will look forward to next year. There will be The Sneak and The Statue of Liberty, The Blitz and The Safety, The Punt into That Freak Gust of Wind, The Onside Kick Taken Thirty Yards in the Wrong Direction, and The Ball Just Damn Exploding, and Browns fans will keep faith.

  Finally, at last, there will simply be no more ways to lose a championship, heartbreakingly, in the final seconds.

  And on that day, the Browns will leave town.

  They will move to Baltimore. Again. And they will immediately win their first Super Bowl. Again. They will, in fact, defeat the other former Cleveland Browns team, which has already moved to Baltimore and immediately won a Super Bowl.

  And—this is the essential part, if you want to understand life in the Snow Belt—Clevelanders will be genuinely sad to see them go.

  I will wish Dad could have seen every play.

  p-TING!

  BETWEEN 1803 & 1848, HE SERVED AS A U.S. SENATOR, SECRETARY OF STATE, PRESIDENT, AND CONGRESSMAN, IN THAT ORDER

  If I can get this, I’ll probably have a massive lead entering the second game, and possibly a psychological advantage. If not, I’m done. In this moment—right now—I seem to have $100,000 riding on this one clue.

  As always, I have thirty seconds to think. Here’s what comes next:

  Lincoln was never a senator. Lincoln was never secretary of state. Oh, man. OK. So. What president went to Congress after his term? Crap. I know that’s in my notebooks. There were, what, four secretaries of state who became president? Or was it six? Shit. I just need one. OK. Think of a president somewhere around 1830, 1840ish. Lincoln is 1860, and he’s number sixteen. So this is, what, twelvish, right? Zachary Taylor was twelve, Fillmore was thirteen. That’s not ringing any bells. Polk was eleven. And wait, he was somewhere in one of my only-president-who lists. Crap, I’m running out of time…Polk…? Polk…?

  When my games first began, I called your attention to an Anthony Hopkins film called Amistad. You will also recall that I later blew off my buddy David, who wanted me to see the film Amistad, because I was too busy studying to take even one break to participate in real life. Here’s what I missed out on seeing:

  In Amistad, Anthony Hopkins portrayed the one U.S. president who, after serving out his term, was elected to the House of Representatives. It’s a brain-sticky tidbit, too, since before long this president proceeded to drop dead in the halls of Congress.

  This was not James Knox Polk, who was the eleventh president. I was not even close. The man played by Anthony Hopkins, a certain sixth U.S. president, was the correct response to the Final Jeopardy clue above. If I had simply stepped out of the house one day to see a movie with a friend, I would have responded correctly and easily.

  Perhaps someday Cleveland Browns fans will call this The Polk.

  Theoretically, I could still score more in the second game than Dan or Kim might total in two games combined. And theoretically, your subatomic particles could undergo a random series of quantum fluctuations, transforming you into Alex himself.

  In which case, you’d know that I was done, although you’d be too kind to let on at the time. Instead, you would utter the Oooh.

  As my response was revealed, a murmur of disappointment washed across the studio audience. A few seconds later, a hidden technician, somewhere amid all the humming doojobbies, pushed a button, revealing that I had wagered every
thing.

  My score rolled over to zero.

  “And I’ll be going now…” I said to Alex. Wishing it were true.

  My score at the end of the first game in our two-day final: the same as when we started.

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to spend thirty more minutes on national TV with no chance to win, while somehow not completely humiliating myself and everyone I loved.

  It was not exactly the subject I’d studied for.

  CHAPTER

  16

  THINGS TO DO ON JEOPARDY! WHEN YOU’RE DEAD

  Also, Private Moments with Mrs. Butterworth

  I don’t remember watching the second game of the two-day final when it first aired. Or, more accurately: I do remember not watching it.

  It’s not that I remember what I did instead that night. I don’t. But I am sure it specifically involved not watching the second game.

  Perhaps I did not watch the second game the night that it aired because I was rearranging my furniture, making my apartment look more like an apartment. Annika had moved into another place. We were still seeing each other, still trying to believe we might work things out, and still not going to.

  The low bookcase became, once again, a low bookcase. The pedestal lamps found a closet. An entire living room full of books—almanacs and readers, Norton Anthologies, This-That for Idiots and The Other for Dummies by the score, a sheer 100-foot face of Cliffs Notes—went into a dozen cardboard boxes.

  My notebooks went onto a shelf, next to a ballpoint pen wrapped with masking tape. Certainly never to be used again.