A Letter to Alex

Dear Mr. Trebek-


Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Matt, and for the last 12 years or so of my life, I've been preparing for your show.


You and I have never met, but I have some of your staff. About 4 1/2 years ago, to be exact. That's when, as a new graduate on a California adventure, I was invited up to Culver City for the chance I'd been waiting to receive. Of all the people who applied to take the Jeopardy! Test, I was one of the lucky ones selected. And, of all places, I got to take the test in your own studio, not far from the men's room where one other gentleman, also taking the exam that day, muttered aloud, "I wonder if Ken Jennings peed here." No, I wasn't that man obviously struck by an odd sense of urinal brotherhood, but I was there on that fateful July 31, 2005.


I'll never forget that experience. In the months between learning I would be taking the test and traveling to the Sony studio, I studied trivial knowledge with far more gusto than I'd ever put into Algebra or History. I drove up to LA the day before the test, locked myself in a shady Super 8 Motel room just down the road from LAX, and I crammed like I was about to take a combination SAT, driver's test, and exam to become one of the Men in Black.


I was 23 years old, by far one of the youngest contestant hopefuls who gathered in that parking garage that morning. We were led to the studio, and there I was- a naive, barely employed newspaper stringer- walking amongst stern doctors, lawyers, and various -ologists.


Your staff sat us in that studio. It was one of those summers when the stage was being renovated, but there were the podiums and the big screen, not to mention to pedestal from which you officiate so many trivia contests. For good measure, as I sat in one of those studio audience seats covered with reddish velvet, the pocket of my pants caught the chair's arm. When I stood up, I heard the telltale "rip." Yup, the biggest test of my life, and I would take it with my boxer shorts poking out of a new hole where the pocket used to be stitched.


Your staff scared the heck out of us with stories of the test, the many people who took the exam so many times and failed. I wasn't phased. As silence set in across the studio and I filled out my questionnaire (yes, I mentioned the UConn Marching Band several times), I was focused. The test flew by, and when it was done, I had a certain confidence that I can't really understand. Somehow, I just knew I had passed.


I was right.


When Sarah, the veteran of your Clue Crew, announced the names of those who passed, mine was the fourth name she read. She even hesitated for a split second as and "En" formed on her lips, giving me just enough time to gather myself before she uttered the final "gelhardt."


The other six people who passed were quiet with their joy. I shouted a jubilant "yes," and though the rest of the moment is foggy, I think I attempted several chest bumps. I learned an important lesson that day: most -ologists are unnerved by the prospect of chest-bumping a delirious nerd.


Your staff kicked everyone else out. The seven remaining got to perform an actual audition, got interviewed as if we were contestants, and even got to hold the electronic buzzers. The words were reassuring: the hard part was over. Now it was just a waiting game, and some of us would get a call to be on the show.


I, naturally, took the opportunity to call everyone I've ever known and tell them that I was going to be on Jeopardy! I prepped madly, watching taped versions of the show twice a day, recording my scores, even buzzing in on a ballpoint pen. Every time my phone rang, and I didn't recognize the number, I would grow short of breath, certain the next voice I'd hear would be yours. Inevitably, it would be Discover Card on the other end, making me a special offer to increase my credit line. I was ready to be the next Jennings, or Bad Rutter, or Frank Spangenberg, or Eddie Timanus, or my personal favorite, Bob Harris. I could care less about whether I'd used my credit card that month.


And while I got ready, so did my friends and family. Fraternity brothers back at UConn designed a Matt Engelhardt Jeopardy drinking game. Few conversations didn't begin or end with "so when are you going to be on the show?" I didn't have a Facebook account back then, but if I did, you can bet the wall would be full of Jeopardy-related questions and taunts.


You never called, Alex.


One full year, and not an email or letter. Contestants came and went, people I soundly beat from the comfort of my own living room. Yet there would be no Jeopardy for Matt, much to the dismay of the city of Middletown, CT and my UConn brethren.


So now, every year, I take the impersonal online test for the chance to be called for an audition. All that prep, and I'm back in the faceless pool. A few hours ago, I once again completed the test. There was no studio, no men's room of cultural significance, and no ripped pants. Just a doofus typing answers on a keyboard, clinging to hope.


Consider this, as your people look through the tests and pick out auditioners: I'm a heckuva lot more photogenic now than I was then. Since that day, I've lost about 60 pounds. Frankly, I no longer care that a camera may add 10 pounds, because I'd still look 50 less than I did that July. I'm still ready to roll, and my fiancee will attest to the fact that the practice routine has not dwindled. If I go to bed without watching and scoring along from home, I'm quite the grouch. In essence, I may take up less space than the Matt your people met years ago, but my trivia brain hasn't lost any weight.


So Alex, lord of all things pop culture and trivial, I continue to wait for your call. If nothing else, do it for Megan. Maybe after I've been on the show, I'll put the nightly routine to rest... but I doubt it.


Truly yours in trivia and hope,

Matthew Engelhardt


PS: I knew the answer to Jennings' last Final Jeopardy was "H&R Block." And, if you do call, I'm hoping to have to patronize that particular firm in the very near future.