Of the more than 225,000 people who try out for "Jeopardy!" each year, only 400 make it on the show. I won't be one of them.

Earlier this month, I went through the audition process and discovered I had a huge disadvantage compared with the other wannabes: I'm not nuts. I don't sit at home and scream out the answers when no one else is in the room. I'm not obsessed with Alex Trebek's personal life. I don't automatically press down on an imaginary buzzer every time someone poses an answer and I've got the question. (Any suspicion that these observations are based wholly on jealously should be immediately dashed.)

Of course, being nuts can make you rich and somewhat famous, at least for an afternoon or two. That's what happens when you become part of a show with a history almost as old as the ultimate Q&A man, "Wink" Socrates.

"Jeopardy!" premiered in the 1960s under the guidance of Merv Griffin, whose other significant contribution to high art was the musical number "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts." But it wasn't until the game show went into syndication in 1984 with Trebek as emcee that the show became a phenomenon. Since then, it has taken home 27 Emmys and is KARE's most popular syndicated daytime show.

But enough from the history category. Let's get back to how I got ripped off.

I started with what I thought was a significant edge over the other wannabes in that I got to skip over the online test or a massive cattle call at the Mall of America, the first stages for almost everyone else. I probably got the pass in hopes of some good publicity, but it's just as likely that producers had heard about my Mensa-worthy brain and telegenic good looks and had to see the package in person. Boy, were they in for a disappointment.

Successfully finding the testing location at the Minneapolis Convention Center must have been step one in weeding out the dummies.

I quickly figured out that it wasn't being held as part of the auto show upstairs and barely avoided taking my seat in the bleachers for a martial-arts tournament. Just across the aisle from Karate Central were about 70 very quiet, very intense adults, most dressed shockingly well for a Saturday morning, all avoiding eye contact with each other. I was home.

Once inside the room, senior contestant coordinator Glenn Kagan, who once won a scented toilet-paper dispenser on "Wheel of Fortune," revved up the nervous group with many congratulations and well-worn jokes he tells during more than a dozen remote location searches a year.

But this session had an extra treat: Sarah Whitcomb, a member of the bubbly, youthful "Clue Crew," which travels the country for interesting info it delivers via video in special categories.

This group, though, seemed less interested in Whitcomb's travels than they were in the fact that she's actually been inside Trebek's house. During a Q&A, she gamely answered the most trivial questions about the host.

How old are his kids? ("Fifteen and 13. His home life is pretty simple. Very All-American.")

What happened to Alex's arm? ("Minor surgery on his wrist.")

How often does he go to Canada? ("About once a year.")

How did he meet his wife? ("Through his accountant.")

There was only one sensible question and that came from a pushy creature near the back who asked if she was married. No, she said, waving a ringless hand.

At this point, I made plans to casually bump into Whitcomb by the water cooler in back and impress her with my knowledge of African archaeology, but she left before I could spring into action. Like the test scores proved, I'm not that smart.

It didn't dawn on me at first that I wouldn't make the cut. During the quiz (whose contents I need to keep secret so you can't succeed where I failed), I figured I nailed 40 out of 50. That sounded pretty good at the time, until my brain registered that that came out to only about 80 percent, a B minus.

More proof that I belonged on the sidelines.

Seventeen people were told they were moving on to the next round, which appeared to be more about charisma than wits. Assistants shot Polaroids of the remaining players and then Kagan gave them a tutorial that could have been called "Technical Strategies for Effectively Applying Pressure to Electronic Apparatus," aka "How to Use the Buzzer." Anyone who thinks it's just a matter of pressing down when you know the answer hasn't attended Kagan's lecture. Knowing just when you can press it (Trebek has to be completely done talking) and then how to get the edge over the competitors is almost as complex as a category on 16th-century explorers.

Eavesdropping from the back, I should have been seething, pining for a seat up front with the geniuses, convinced that I could press harder, think faster and charm better than any of the finalists. Instead, I kept wondering if I could still catch Whitcomb before she hit the door.

I was right where I belonged.

njustin@startribune.com • 612-673-7431