Imagine this: you get the call-up. You’re going to be on Jeopardy! You hit every textbook, every question in every version of trivial Pursuit, watch past episodes, research the buzzers… you’re 100% ready to go.
Then you get there, they slap a baseball kit on you and make you hold a bat in your other hand. Welcome to the SPORTS Edition. Prepare to be embarrassed.
“What the fuck?” you might ask. “Alex, what is this shit? Ask me questions about quarks and protoceratopses and James Joyce and Paula Abdul and shit! What the fuck is this shit? I don’t even know who Fay Vincent is!”
You start to hyperventilate. Someone from off-stage comes on during the commercial break, and, mercifully, paper bags you. Another comes and replaces your hat; you’ve managed to sweat through it already. He threatens you, quietly, in your ear: “stop fucking sweating or I swear to God I am going to rip out each of your glands, one at a time.”
Alex might have heard. You look at him:
His cold, uncaring eyes burn a hole through your pathetic, sportsless head.
You watch in horror as each answer comes up more perplexing than the last, as your rivals buzz in and answer “Wrigley Field” or “George Steinbrenner” flawlessly nearly every time because, apparently, they’re the only two things in baseball.
You manage to hold out with a modest score of $-800 by Double Jeopardy, and start turning around your fortunes. I’ts not until Alex starts asking you about whose number 34 was retired at Auburn University (a question you find, later, isn’t even easily Googled) that panic sets in again. You look to him for even a shred of mercy, but all you are greeted with is:
I had a nightmare like this once. Fuck this game.