A Life in Jeopardy!

As we took our marks before the game, I met my wife's gaze and winked. I actually was a lot less nervous than I had been when I realized I'd shown up for the wrong testing slot back in May. I knew I could beat the champ if I got into a groove on the buzzer.

Johnny Gilbert announced Robin first, and she stepped on to the stage then up on to her box. (As the tallest of the threesome by far, I was the only one not on a box.) Then I strode out, "A journalist from Miami, Florida, Ted Kissell," at your service. Then came Charles. Finally Trebek bounded out in a snappy dark-blue suit.

He rattled off the categories for the first round, which included at least one strong one for me, "Oh What a Year." I hoped to get out of the gate quickly. I did not. In fact Charles and Robin fired back answers to the first dozen questions while I stood there, in the middle, looking, well, stupid. The problem wasn't above my neck, though. I actually knew most of the answers. The problem was below my wrist.

I was following the technique Dupée had described in The Book: letting my right hand rest on the podium as I tried to buzz in. But Robin and Charles were getting in first, and they were nailing every question. A tiny voice in the back of my head started whispering. Skunked, it whispered. Blitzed. Steamrollered. Sandbagged. Bitch-slapped. Buried. Humiliated.

Then Robin selected the $500 clue from the "TV Theme Song" category, and Trebek read the answer: "Jane, his wife, daughter Judy."

I pressed my buzzer. To my amazement I heard Trebek say, "Ted."

I looked him right in the eye. "Who are The Jetsons?"

He looked straight back. "Good for 500."

I scanned the game board. I needed a strong category, something like "David Bowie Albums of the Seventies," or "Women of Star Trek." The best I could do was "South American Beauty," which seemed likely to involve geography, one of my specialties.

Like it mattered. Charles gobbled up the first question and Robin the next two. I was still coming in late.

On the $400 clue, Trebek directed us to the big TV monitor to the left of the game board. It displayed a shot of terraced fields on the side of a mountain, which I recognized from some sixth-grade history book. Trebek asked for the "usual term for the agricultural levels seen here, used by the Incas."

I pressed frantically. My lights came on.

"Ted."

"What are terraces?"

"Correct."

No one rang in on the next clue, and then we'd reached the first commercial. I only had $900 ("Nicely on the board," Trebek offered encouragingly); Robin was leading with $2100, and Charles had $1300. Not too bad, and it was still early. Besides, Double Jeopardy, where the clues net up to $1000, is where champions are made. We turned around and faced away from Trebek as he bantered with the audience about a horse he owned. I imagined Jen cringing at his banter. A stagehand brought me water, then one of the coordinators offered me some buzzer advice. I was coming in too late rather than too early, he said. He showed me how I could apply slight pressure to the button without triggering it, which should give me a better chance to get in.

After the first commercial comes the "chitchat" segment in which Trebek reintroduces the contestants and prompts each to tell an interesting (and predetermined) anecdote. The prospect of this terrified me almost as much as the game itself. After dispensing with Robin's tale of dressing as Elizabeth Taylor at a costume party, Trebek sidled to the front of my podium and consulted his index card.

"Ted Kissell, a journalist who says that Kermit the Frog was a big influence on an important career decision you had to make."

"Well, it was becoming a journalist," I said, praying I wouldn't blow it. "My favorite part of Sesame Street was always 'The Muppet News Flash.' Kermit would come onscreen in his trench coat and fedora and say -- " I paused, then summoned the frog in my throat. " -- Hi-ho, this is Kermit the Frog, with Sesame Street News." I struggled to keep a straight face. "I was hooked," I declared in my normal voice. "I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up."

"You could be a stand-up comic," Trebek said, unconvincingly as the audience chuckled. "That was a very good impression." I think I caught him a little off-balance.

"I'll save the tape," I said for some reason.

Then Charles told some boring story that involved no funny voices whatsoever.