Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy! (34 page)

“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 everything.

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.

The clutter and lights removed, the living room became large and empty and silent and dark.

There was room once again for Annika. Not that it mattered anymore.