"Begin."

There was a pause. Not even two seconds earlier I was brimming with confidence. Now I felt the whole world was looking at me and waiting. But why? Waiting for what? I knew I was right. Now I wasn’t so sure. What did I do wrong?

There was silence but for the rushing sound of blood coursing through my head. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Roger. Hurry. Time’s running out,” the voice said from just a few feet away. It was encouraging, even hopeful, but firm. Time was ticking on. What did I forget? Then just in time, it dawned on me.

“Who is Begin?” I shouted, surprising even myself.

The audience erupted in applause, as did the two women on my right and left.

“That was close,” said Alex with a smile. “But you got it in time. ‘Who is Begin?’ We’re talking about Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin, the third world leader at the 1978 Camp David Accords. The others, of course, President Jimmy Carter and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat.”

My heart returned to as normal a rhythm as could be expected while under the glare of klieg lights and the unblinking gaze of television cameras. I let out a big breath and loosened the vise-like grip on my buzzer.  

“All right, Roger, you’ve doubled your score with that true Daily Double and you still have control of the board. And I think this may be a good time to remind our contestants again: all responses must be in the form of a question.”

I chuckled as I shook my head and plowed on in my first appearance on Jeopardy.

“I’ll take ‘In the Tweet Top’ for a thousand, Alex.”

With that close call conquered, I had newfound confidence in my ability to bring to mind every piece of useless information I’d ever heard. My friends back in Bowling Green, Kentucky knew me as quite the master of minutia. I ruled trivia nights at OT Sports Grill every Saturday. No one wanted to play Trivial Pursuit with me anymore––unless I was on their team. But here on the brightly-lit set of Jeopardy I was surprising even myself. I began running categories, firing off questions as answers.

“What is Unix?”

“Where is Bangladesh?”

“Who is Lord Byron?” (In “British Poets” it’s always Lord Byron. I knew that from watching Jeopardy since I was in college at Western Kentucky. I made note of trends like that for such a day as this.)

I was unstoppable. The category didn’t matter.

“Rivers That Run North.”

“Sheik It Off.”

“Fry Me a Liver.”

The audience was clearly on my side and as the dollar amounts piled up with each response, my mind started jumping ahead to what could be. One-day winner, two-day winner, the Tournament of Champions. I saw myself as the next Ken Jennings. I would be a force to be feared. It was time to be recognized.

“Roger Blowfelt is a museum curator from Bowling Green, Kentucky,” said Alex as he introduced me to the television audience during our first commercial break. “And it’s a rather unusual museum, am I right?”

“You’re right, Alex. It’s the National Corvette Museum.”

There was a buzz of appreciation from the audience. And then I delivered the kicker, the little bon mot I had been writing and re-writing ever since I knew I would be appearing on the show.

“But don’t tell anyone, Alex. I drive a Honda Civic.”

Alex smiled and tapped my arm. “We’ll keep that our little secret.” The audience laughed appreciatively.

With the perfunctory interview out of the way, I returned to concentrating on the task at hand. That focus paid off. I swept through the Jeopardy round, barely breaking a sweat by the time we took our second commercial break.

“You’re so smart,” gushed Janice, the Grand Rapids librarian, as she leaned in from my left.

I sloughed it off, even as I agreed with her. “Hey, so are you.”

The two-time champion to my right, Glenna, the dental hygienist from Tampa whispered, “I have a feeling this is my last game.”

“Ladies, don’t be so hard on yourselves,” I said, “I’ll probably blank out in Final.” I knew I wouldn’t. I just didn’t want them to feel badly. I had the game in the bag.

Double Jeopardy went pretty much as I expected. My strategy of going after the $2,000 answers first and risking huge amounts of money along the way and calling for “true Daily Doubles” was working well. James Holzhauer had nothing on me. By the time we reached Final Jeopardy, I had built up such a strong lead that, as Alex liked to say in such cases, I could not be caught. And when I saw that the final category was “U.S. Presidents,” I knew I was going to be the next Jeopardy champion. All I had to do was avoid doing something stupid.

I was left alone with my thoughts during that last commercial break. This presidential category was like a gift adorned with ribbons and bows. It was exactly what I had hoped for. I knew Shakespeare and opera and rivers well enough––categories that put the fear of God in other, less well-versed contestants––but American chief executives throughout history? That was my sweet spot. I couldn’t wait to get back in the game. No way would I be stumped.

The playful between-segments music faded out and the audience settled down as we prepared for the final lap. My victory lap, as I thought of it.

The floor manager’s voice cut through the studio air as he barked out his countdown before signaling Alex with the wave of his hand.

“Back in 5-4-3-2––!”

“All right, players,” said Alex. “The Final Jeopardy category is a good one: ‘U.S. Presidents.’ Good luck.”

Luck? Who needed luck? Certainly not I. But then it hit me. In a rush of unnecessary bravado, without even hearing the clue, I had wagered everything I’d won to that point. I didn’t have to do that. Even the dullest math student would have known that I simply had to wager enough to keep ahead of my opponents should I make the wrong response. Now, in order to win the game, I had to respond correctly or lose everything I’d earned and head back to Kentucky a disgraced man, the guy who “couldn’t be caught” and still got caught. I’d never live it down. My only hope, besides getting the right response, was that Glenna and Janice weren’t as smart as they looked.

There was a ding of the bell and then Alex read the clue:

“He is the only president whose native language was not English.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be okay. The only president who didn’t grow up speaking English? Are you kidding? I had known the answer to this one since I was ten years-old, rattling off the names of every president––and their vice presidents––from Washington to Reagan for the amusement of my parents’ friends. It was Martin Van Buren. Everyone knew that. He grew up speaking Dutch.

I scribbled my response on the slick screen in front of me as quickly as I could and watched as Glenna and Janice pored over theirs. The final notes of the Jeopardy think music faded out and I crossed my arms, awaiting my coronation as the next champion.

“This was a tough one,” said Alex, as I smirked to myself.

“Janice, this just wasn’t your day. You’re going to finish in third place,” said Alex. He slowed down as he strained to read Janice’s childlike handwriting. “Who is this guy next to me who knows so much?”

“Well,” chuckled Alex, “Roger is a smart one indeed.”

I laughed and shook my head, affecting a form of humility. But I agreed with the assessment.

“And you wagered nothing. So nothing gained, nothing lost.”

As Alex next directed his eyes toward the defending champion, I started inwardly rehearsing how I would react in victory. I settled on a simple fist pump.

“We turn now to Glenna, our champion. You started off well but just couldn’t keep up with Roger.”

Glenna shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“And you wrote down––nothing. A big question mark. How much did you wager? Oh, $10,000. Interesting. And that leaves you with $5,500. Not a bad payday. That’s a very fancy question mark, by the way.”

A what? Suddenly I felt faint. My knees buckled. What had Glenna written down? A question mark? A big fancy question mark? The one punctuation mark that the whole game of Jeopardy is based on?

“We come now to Roger who couldn’t be caught. And you wrote down––Martin Van Buren. Oh, my goodness. Right answer but it must be in the form of a question.”

There was an audible gasp mixed with laughter from the audience.

“But all is not lost. Your lead was big enough to overcome that mistake. And you wagered––hello! Everything! Oh, my. Glenna, that means you remain Jeopardy champion with a three-day total of $34,600!”

It’s hard to remember exactly what happened after that. I heard music and applause. I saw Alex approach the three of us. He was shaking his head and smiled a wry smile, if I remember correctly, as he shook my hand, patted my shoulder, and said something, presumably to make me feel better. He moved on to the others and I stared straight ahead, thinking nothing.

It wasn’t till I got back to my hotel that I was able to somewhat objectively evaluate the dumpster fire my life had become. Other unfortunate things had happened to me in my forty-seven years. How did this rank among the worst of them? Where do I begin?

The time I dropped my car keys overboard during an Alaskan cruise?

The time I called my first wife by the wrong name during our wedding vows?

The time I tried to run a marathon without training for it?

No, they all pale in comparison to the time I forgot the basic rules of Jeopardy and blew $47,000 and a chance to return the next night as champion. By all standards, it was the worst day of my life.

Without question.