But it doesn't work that way. I'll never get to play Jeopardy! again. Ever. The adrenaline began to fade. With my wife holding one hand, my garment bag with its five-day champion wardrobe clutched in the other, I strode out the front gate of the Sony Pictures Studios. I now had a new goal: I wanted to sleep for a very long time.
Photos by Steve Satterwhite
Jeopardy! veteran Lionel Goldbart shares his wisdom
My life in Miami had pretty much returned to normal by the time the show aired here a month ago. As I gathered with about a dozen friends at the Gables Pub, I noticed that my hands were sweating and my pulse was thumping again -- retroactive performance anxiety.
Watching myself on TV was uncomfortable but thrilling. I seemed to be scowling the whole time I was on. My friends gave me the appropriate rations of shit when necessary, especially during my deafening silence at the beginning of the game. A rousing cheer erupted after my first correct answer. Half of them laughed and half of them hid their faces in shame at my Kermit impression. And, as I suspected they would, my pals let out a collective groan when I whiffed on the Hurricane Andrew clue.
My buddy Robert took a liking to the way I enunciated one of my responses in the "Six Pack" category. To this day he'll just look at me and intone, "What is the Six ... Million ... Dollar ... Man?"
Overall my performance looked less galling on the tube. I didn't feel as embarrassed as I had standing there in front of the cameras. Everyone agreed that Robin Carroll was a ringer and that I had acquitted myself well.
When we returned home, there were several messages on my answering machine, one from my father. His comment: If I hadn't smoked so much pot in college, I might have done better on the buzzer. The last message on the answering machine was from Lionel Goldbart.
"You played very well," he said. "That girl was one of the best I've ever seen, but you looked great, you didn't miss any when it mattered." He paused. "I'm very proud of you."