Game Boy
Confessions of a game show participant addict
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
by Ben Tritle, contributing writer
I've been a game show fan for a very long time. I'm not really sure
as to why. It might be a compensation thing, since I'm not physically
advanced. It may be a result of testing myself, since I was often a level
or two ahead of classmates when I was little.
Regardless, I've been a game player all my life. Whether it was watching
Price is Right during summer months when Minnesota schools were
out, Wheel of Fortune at dinnertime trying to fill in the blanks
faster than my folks, or Jeopardy during college in St. Louis,
I craved the stressless environment of testing myself. I even imagined
myself on the Double Dare obstacle course, but I digress.
So, when I left the Air Force in Utah in 1999, I moved out to Los Angeles,
presumably to “act.” I think what it was really to do was see
how well I could do at a large-scale test, with no strings to hold me
up. Regardless, I dove headlong into the fine craft of background acting.
Certainly nothing Oscar-worthy, but what good is a bar scene without a
crowd? In fact, my sister saw me once in Coyote Ugly, so in a small
way I'll always feel like I made it.
It was in the first few months of living in Los Angeles that the Millionaire
craze happened. Regis was everywhere, and everyone wanted his money. Networks
that couldn't have Regis wanted to jump on the bandwagon, presumably because
giving away money was good for ratings. About this time, as I shilled
from set to set, reading my L.A. Times, I came across ads on a
daily basis in the classifieds. WIN $$$$, they would say. BE ON TV AND
MAKE A MILLION, or some nonsense like that.
Regis Philbin. Who Wants to be a Millionaire publicity art © ABC.
As OK as I was doing with the background acting thing, I knew it wouldn't
last forever, and I wasn't sure what I would do in the future for funds.
Besides, I'd always wanted to be on Jeopardy, but seeing as I'd
tried out for them in the past and had not been called, this surely had
to be just as fun. Answer a question and win cash, a situation tailor
made for me.
So, I called the numbers in the paper. I auditioned to be on Greed,
but much like actors who know when they're not going to get a part, I
knew I'd never be called to play the terminator. I don't have the stomach
for screwing people over, even for 10 grand. Twenty One, though,
was a neat idea. I was familiar with the show, and having come off the
Greed disappointment, I knew how I had to present myself to be
a good contestant.
Taking the test wasn't easy, but it wasn't the hardest part either. It
was just as nerve wracking as Jeopardy, and waiting to hear your
name called is a lot like waiting for the Oscar to be announced—you
know what your name sounds like, and it's not like the name that was just
called, or the next one, or the one after that.
Anyway, I passed the test. Then came the personality test. A highly complicated
process that consisted of playing the game, then talking about yourself.
That's pretty much what game shows are looking for: can you play the game,
and can you present yourself without looking like Cindy Brady? If so,
you're off to a good start. It doesn't hurt to be unique, but that can
be developed over time.
There's a lot of middle to the story, but I've only got so much space
here; suffice to say, I waited a long time, but eventually my name was
called on the last show they taped in and I won $85,000—that show
aired on May 28, 2000, a date I will remember for the rest of my life.
Eighty-five thousand dollars! If that were the end of my story, it would
still be a heck of a story, to me at least. It doesn't end there though.
Most game shows like to have new faces on their shows. They want to avoid
“career” game show players. To combat this, there tend to be
rules about how long you have to wait before you get on the next one.
These rules are set up by the shows themselves, and they can be bent at
the show's discretion, but it's rare. Rule of thumb, though, says you
can't appear on another show until a year after your previous appearance
on a game show (or reality show). Not a year after you've taped, but a
year after it has aired. So, even though my show taped in mid-March of
2000, I still wouldn't be eligible to apply for another TV game
until May 28, 2001.
That's about how long it took before that bug bit again. For most people
one TV show is enough, and that's fair. But, as fun as Twenty One
was, Jeopardy had always been the Holy Grail. I had taken the test
three previous times, dating back to 1991. Taking the test is fun. It's
the purest form of a cultural literacy test there is in mass circulation.
Fifty questions, and if you pass 35, you're already ahead of 90 percent
of the group, on average.
It doesn't hurt that Jeopardy tapes in Culver City, California.
A simple call to their front office can elicit the schedule for any and
all upcoming testing sessions in the Los Angeles area. So, in mid-June,
within one month after I was eligible again, I was taking another quiz
alongside 80 or so other hopefuls.
When the actual test is done, the tests are graded as all the test-takers
are allowed to ask questions about the show. Some ask about its history,
others are presumptious enough to ask about what will happen when they
get on. As I had already handed in my amateur status the year previous,
I sat back and just tried to breathe. In as much as this was supposed
to be fun, the result mattered nonetheless.
So, when the contestant coordinators came back in, they had announced
that 14 people had passed the test, a large number by their standard,
bad for the contestant hopefuls, great for the show. The larger the pool,
the better mix of contestants they can bring in. Once again, you listen
for something that is somewhat akin to the name you're accustomed to.
After about eight names, I was through. My luck is such that I either
I go early, or I go home. I had started gathering my belongings when I
heard “and, lastly, Ben Trittel.”
Well, it's TRY-tle, but close enough.
Time to stretch out all those contestant muscles I had developed the
previous year. It was fun. I had passed the test once before, while stationed
with the Air Force in England. So, familiarity, I felt, would be an advantage.
Time would only tell as I left the studio, pleased with myself that I
hadn't lost any gray matter.
Fast forward three months. Disney announced a Millionaire attraction
at Disney's California Adventure park, and ads actually started running
the weekend prior to its big opening with Regis. I absolutely wanted to
go, just to see it.
I had other priorities in the first days following September 11. Just
keeping my head screwed on straight seemed to be a chore. I have one cousin
in New York, and bless him he lived through the horror. But, day after
day of coverage wore on me; I try to be Mr. Happy when I can, and when
the TV shows a different picture 24 hours straight for days on end, it
becomes impossible.
So even though going to a theme park was not necessarily constructive,
it was the only way I felt I could maintain sanity. I went to DCA, Sunday,
September 16 with my friend Bill.
We'd been once before, before Millionaire opened. We're among
the few that put DCA in the like column. Naturally, though, my attention
drifted to Millionaire. We went once early in the day, where there
was a small crowd, but I couldn't get in the hot seat at all. That was
OK, it was fun and harmless. We enjoyed the park a few hours more. As
the day wound down, just after the parade, Bill and I split up and I was
off to Millionaire again. This time, with prior experience, I still
couldn't get to the hot seat, but at least I was on the board, at the
top, when time was called.
I convinced Bill to come back with me one more time right away, and he
did, bless him. He's not a game show “fan.” It's an acquired
taste. But he has patience.
So, there we sat in the studio. I'm pushing at the buttons furiously
from my perch, while a child gets into the hot seat, followed by an adult,
followed by a teenager (or maybe pre-teen, so hard to tell these days).
When the third contestant leaves “the show,” I was sure time
would be called, but they went back to the board right away, so another
game would start. Unfortunately I was second. However, Mouseplanet's own
Adrienne Vincent-Phoenix was first, and, for whatever reason, she had
to disqualify herself, which popped me to first.
Time to play contestant again. Even though it was a smaller audience,
one thing I've learned over time is that nobody likes watching someone
who doesn't want to be there. Playing Millionaire at DCA is no
different than playing in a television studio in that there is an audience,
and there is a game to play. Although it wasn't for cash, the experience
was no less intense.
Over the course of two “shows” I answered questions about cooking,
Disney, movies, sports, culminating in a million-point question about
American history. If anybody saw Nancy Christy's recent million-dollar
win on the syndicated show, I can relate completely to her emotion. The
prize was smaller, but the game was the same. Anybody who tells you there's
a difference between the two games is lying. A game player invests themselves
in the game regardless of the forum.
When I saw the million-point question, I recognized the last name instantly,
and tried to rattle off something intelligent about Martha Washington
before saying “final answer.” To this day, I don't know what
went on in the studio besides confetti falling and the winner music playing.
I truly wish there was a video floating somewhere. I've been told I'm
in some sort of promotional video. Nevertheless, the thrill of victory
in a forum like that is a rush.
I have to admit to something at this point, a secret if you will: I think
part of what makes a good game player is the ability to realize that the
game is not about you. You are simply one person playing the game, and
whoever is watching will invest a little bit of themselves each time they
are watching the show. So, as I went back to fill out the release forms
and prize forms, the cast member who was my handler was excited, since
I was the second to scale to the top.
“Is this the biggest thing you've won?” he asked. In an instant,
I could see he was thrilled to be a part of the moment. I wasn't going
to take it away from him. “Yes,” I said enthusiastically. A
little lie? Perhaps. The reality was, however, that winning here was
no different than winning on Twenty One. I discovered, to
myself, the accomplishment of the goal was my number-one priority. The
prize was secondary, though much appreciated.
Months went by, I thought Jeopardy had forgotten about me, and
I went on about my life. We scheduled our Disney New York trip for mid-December.
A week before the trip, I had a voice mail waiting for me. Turned out
it was Glenn from Jeopardy. “We'd like you to come in on January
9 at 8 a.m. and bring three changes of clothing.”
"Wait a second,” I'd say, “I need to ask this just so that
I fully comprehend, are you saying that I get to play the game for real?"
"We want you to be a contestant,” Glenn responded.
A game player's dream, a trivia addict's drug. After having written it
off, I was not prepared for them to say “yes,” even though I
had heard it once before from another show.
January 9 rolled around, and I was on pins. Are my clothes OK? Will my
brain freeze? Did I forget to shave? What if I ring in and I don't say
anything?
Turned out I needn't worry. As part of a group of 12 that were brought
in, I ended up being one of two people who would become “alternates”—we
weren't aware of that until the end of the day, though we were warned
it was possible. After all they tape five shows a day, and logic says
they'll only need two new players per show, so 10 will live their answer-and-question
dreams, two will be sent to purgatory.
Thus brings about an important point for any future game show contestant:
you are not God's gift to game shows, no matter what opinion you have
of yourself or the show. Confidence in yourself is one thing, egomania
is another. If you get on the contestant coordinator's nerves, your ticket
out of the studio will come that much sooner. Humility is a quality I
strongly advise. Once you understand that it is a privilege to be invited
to play, the rest will fall into place.
So after watching five shows from the comfy audience seats, I would be
invited back in just three short weeks to repeat the process with hopefully
a different result, namely playing the game.
As luck would have it, I did get to play… badly. My timing was awful,
and there were times that even when I did ring in, I shouldn't have opened
my mouth. Not to say that I didn't compete, but the coordination of all
the things you need to play Jeopardy didn't truly happen during
the game… until Final Jeopardy. Thankfully, while I stunk up the
game, my fellow newbie was giving the champ a run for her money. In doing
so, my piddly little score was still enough to be a “spoiler”
as Alex called me. And with a lot of luck, I snuck up through the middle.
To this day, the words ring in my head (mostly because there's nothing
in there to stop the echo) “Ben, you did it, you're the new Jeopardy
champion.”
It truly didn't matter how much I won, though it was nice. The accomplishment
was bigger than the reward, and I will maintain that after $78,600 and
a Jaguar X-Type. I managed to put together five wins that aired over May
16 to May 22 of 2002, almost two years to the date after my appearance
on Twenty One. Even better, Alex said I would be invited back for
the tournament of champions where 15 of Jeopardy's biggest winners
since the previous tournament return to play King of the Hill. My ultimate
strategy of “Play the game so you can play the game again,”
though not particularly helpful in racking up huge dollar amounts in the
new days of Jeopardy's double figures, allowed me the opportunity
to play a game again.
As this story is being written, the tournament is about halfway over.
Sadly, I'm completely over. When 15 champions are brought in, only nine
of them are allowed to move on to the semifinals, either automatically
by winning their first match, or by wild card by scoring well. I did neither.
Through some fluke of fate, I had the same idea as five of my tournament
brethren, bet it all in Final Jeopardy because a high score is needed
to move on. Turns out you only needed a buck, but who was to know.
If you want to know more about the mindset of 15 Jeopardy players,
go to unofficial Jeopardy's 19th Season of Tournament Champions
Web site (link
– multiple pop-up warning). The recaps that have gone around on a
mailing list to interested parties, as well as some added information,
has been uploaded into this site as a tribute that tells the tournament
story from our point of view, because there is more to it than you'll
find on Jeopardy's official tournament site (link).
I think I was more upset that I wouldn't get to play the game again,
but who knows. They've been bringing back players for one thing or another
these days. Maybe it's not over. It could be worse, I could have been
on Real World or Road Rules. It seems like they never go
away.
I would have loved playing more games, particularly because I think I
would have been competitive all the way through. But I'm not sorry for
what I've gained. Someone has done the math for me and figured out that
in a little over three years, I've amassed over $200,000 in cash and car.
Amazing.
It doesn't mean, though, that I want to stop playing games. You'll still
see me at DCA, because now I can go back and play Millionaire again
since it's been almost a year and a half since I first won. And you can
be sure that if Jeopardy called again to ask me to play, I'll certainly
say yes.
Ultimately, I've been asked what makes a good game show contestant. Humility,
desire, and vulnerability. That's it, in my opinion. It's a privilege
to play a game that you want to play, and you're willing to open yourself
up to give people a reason to want to cheer you on.
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Ben, 31, is originally from Worthingon,
Minnesota, and currently resides in the Los Angeles area. He's a Disneyland
annual passholder (it lets him visit Who Wants to Be a Millionaire–Play
It at DCA).
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