How I Won $3,000 and Lost My Dignity on The CW
You think the cat is grumpy?
LeVar Burton tried to shake my hand.
I tried to dap him up.
“Cut!” the producer yelled.
We tried again.
Lavar accommodated my dap.
I, terrified of looking more lame than I already did, opted for the handshake.
“Let’s try it again,” the producer said.
Third time.
Breathe. You can do this.
Handshake. Firm. One pump. Smile.
Phew.
You ever tried to be as cool as a black multimillionaire with a single diamond earring, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a $5,000 Tom Ford suit when you’re white dude from the Great Lakes in a borrowed shirt named Adam?
Yeah. Good luck.
On December 12, I appeared as a contestant on the first season of “Trivial Pursuit” on The CW.
For those keeping track at home, this was my second game show appearance.
For those keeping track at home, my first game show appearance resulted in me choking away $75,000 on NBC’s “Weakest Link.”
For those keeping track at home, I won Trivial Pursuit and went home with $3,000.
For those keeping track at home, that’s a difference of $72,000.
But there are many reasons someone might prefer $3,000 over $75,000.
For instance — taxes. Winning $75,000 in California is like winning a $10 scratch-off in Michigan. Barely even worth the paperwork.
And think about the complacency. Would I have tried so hard to get on another game show if I had won the first? Hungry dogs run faster.
Plus, that money would have gone to my head. And with all this fame, that’s the last thing I need.
At this rate, I just need to win 24 more game shows to recoup the $75,000 I could’ve won on Weakest Link.
A few minutes ago, I told you I tried hard to get on Trivial Pursuit.
That was a lie.
One afternoon in April, I got a DM from a casting producer. He asked if I wanted to audition for Trivial Pursuit. I told him I did.
So I went through two Zoom auditions, and in June, I got a phone call.
“Congratulations! We’d love to have you on Trivial Pursuit. It films in two weeks in London. Can I count you in?”
When I appeared on Weakest Link, I checked off a bucket list item:
Appear on a game show
So you might think this experience was bucket-list-less.
You’d be mistaken.
My flight went from Grand Rapids to Atlanta to London. As I approached the boarding area in Atlanta, I felt a great disturbance in the air, as though a choir full of 1,000 sopranos had recently gone through a breakup all at the same time.
And it hit me:
This flight was full of Swiftes.
Taylor Swift was continuing her Eras Tour with a three-night stand at Wembley Stadium in London. Turns out, it was cheaper for some fans to fly to London, pay for a hotel, and get tickets to the show than it was to see her stateside.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, I asked the stewardess for a white wine with dinner. She said they were all out.
Wonder why.
You probably thinking, “Adam, I didn’t know you were such a Swiftie. Did you see her at Wembley? Was that the bucket-list item?”
1. I’m more of a Natasha Bedingfield guy.
2. No, it was sold out.
3. No, but this was:
When I landed at Heathrow, I headed down to baggage claim.
As I strolled to the door, I saw it.
My driver. Wearing a suit and tie. Holding a sign:
“Adam Knorr”
Bucket list:
• Get picked up at the airport buy a guy holding a sign with your name on it.
The next morning, the contestants gathered in the lobby at 8:00 AM.
You know how in sports, you “size up” your opponents during pregame warmups?
“Damn, they’re big. They look fast. Bet that kid is a good shooter.”
You do that the first time you meet the other contestants on trivia shows, too. Only your brain is smart enough to know you can’t actually tell how sharp someone is just by looking at them, so then you feel stupid for thinking you could get an edge, and you start off a day that depends on mental confidence by calling yourself an idiot by 8:07 AM.
We all piled in vans and headed to the studio.
When I was on Weakest Link, the day was a drag.
They sequestered us from the other contestants to avoid any potential collusion because of the way the game is played.
Trivial Pursuit was a much different — and much better — experience.
Trivial Pursuit is simple. If you’ve seen Jeopardy!, it’s sort of like Jeopardy! If you haven’t seen Jeopardy!, kindly get the hell out of my blog.
In Trivial Pursuit, three contestants compete head-to-head-to-head, using a buzzer to ring in before the other contestants. There’s no risk of collusion since there’s no “teamwork” in the game, so all ~20 of us got to hang out in the same green room while we waited for our names to be called.
Putting 20 trivia-obsessed people in a room is unbearable endearing. A lot of people know each other from previous game shows. Or from Learned League. Or from SporcleCon. Or from any other number of trivia-related clubs, groups, or events that I would never bring up before, like, the 17th date with someone.
Anyway, the green room.
It’s a group of know-it-all’s sitting in a room for up to 10 hours, trying to out-know-it-all each other. Obscure trivia questions fly back and forth. Etymologies of words are discussed. Everyone sets down the book they brought to “read” on the table, each thicker and more challenging than the last.
It is insufferable.
I am enamored with it.
Personalities start to emerge in the green room. You try to learn what you can, just in case it’ll become some sort of advantage once you’re on stage. Some people are talkers. Some people are smile-and-nodders. But there’s one group of people you pray you won’t have to face on your show:
The Stoics.
The Stoics have no interest in speaking. They are not there to make connections. They do not care if you’re aware they know The Bridges of Madison County was the best-selling book of 1993 — they figure by the time you learn this about them, it will already be too late.
So what do The Stoics do?
The Stoics sit. And the Stoics do not move. Not when the coffee guy comes around, not when lunch is ordered, not when you ask if they’d like to do a light 5K to get the blood pumping.
The Stoics stare at the wall or keep their eyes closed, either running through every trivia fact they’ve ever studied, or simply deciding whether they’re going to mutilate you or just embarrass you once the show starts.
You do not want to face a Stoic.
After a couple of hours in the green room, the producer and a lawyer knock on the door.
The producer explains the rules of the game. The lawyer threatens to sue you. Then, they ask the last question you want to hear:
“Does anyone have any questions?”
You know who has a lot of questions?
A group of 20 people who have made it their life’s work to understand as many things as possible. Those people have a lot of questions.
After a few decades of detailing the fine print of the fine print, we went upstairs to see the Trivial Pursuit set and run through the rules of the game.
We sat down in chairs to the left of the stage — where the live studio audience would be sitting during our filming. Another contestant — a girl in a Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame hat — sat next to me.
I like baseball. So I said to her:
“Do you like baseball?”
This girl told me she did, then she told me her name was Emily. Emily was a sign language interpreter from Poughkeepsie, New York. Emily and I talked about baseball, shared how we got on the show, and made a pact to not ask any questions the next time they asked, “Does anyone have any questions?”
After the trial run, we headed downstairs to await our turn.
They called the first three contestants up.
An hour later, the producer walked back into the green room.
“Adam, Emily, Michael, you’re up.”
I already knew Emily.
I couldn’t remember everyone I had met that day, so I looked around to see who Michael was.
Yep. You guessed it.
He was a Stoic.
Before we headed up to the stage, we were directed to wardrobe to change into our outfits.
When you get accepted for a game show, the producers ask you to send potential outfits you might want to wear on the show. For me, they chose my white button-down.
We went through a practice round, then prepared to go live. After the practice round, the producer walked up to me:
“Hey, your white shirt doesn’t work with the camera. We need you to wear this other shirt we had in the back.”
The production schedule relies on time, so things have to move quickly, and I didn’t have a chance to go change in the bathroom.
And that’s how I became one of the few people to ever stand shirtless on a game show stage in front of a live studio audience.
The game began.
Here’s how Trivial Pursuit works:
The host, LeVar Burton, asks a question. The first person to ring in gets to answer. If they get it wrong, the other two have a chance to answer. There is no penalty for a wrong guess.
Every correct answer is 100 points. Your goal is to accumulate “wedges” in the six Trivial Pursuit categories — Entertainment, Geography, Sports & Leisure, Science & Nature, History, and Art & Literature.
When you answer a question correctly, you get a wedge. Every wedge is worth 200 points. At the end of the first round, points are totaled, and the third-place person is eliminated.
LeVar picks the first category — History — and starts reading:
“In 1989, thousands of Germans used hammers and chisels to help destroy what infamous barrier?”
I buzz in first.
“The Berlin Wall.”
100 points already. Took Wilt an entire game.
I get to choose the next category. This is a no-brainer, even with Baseball Emily next to me.
“Sports and Leisure, LeVar.”
“A Baked Alaska is a cooked dessert traditionally comprised of cake, ice cream, and what other ingredient?”
Now, I have played a lot of sports in my life. And I consider myself to be a man of leisure. But I’ve never seen anyone make Baked Alaska on ESPN (or even ESPN+) and I’ve never found the kitchen to be a place of relaxation.
Luckily, my competitors didn’t know the answer, either. No harm.
I try again, this time with my second-best category, Art & Literature.
LeVar reads the question, and I’m the first to ring in. I get it right.
We’re three questions into the game, and I’m up 200 points on both of my opponents. I’m feeling good.
Then, The Stoic makes his move.
Unsurprisingly unfazed at falling behind early, Michael goes on a tear, racking up 700 points. With just a few questions left in the first round, Emily and I are tied at 200.
I get another literature question, answering “Don Quixote” for a famous Miguel de Cervantes character. Adam, 300. Emily, 200.
Three questions left for round one.
Michael gets the next question right, pulling further into the lead.
Two questions left. If I get one right, I’m through to the next round.
LeVar reads:
“Celebrity feline Tardar Sauce was better known on the Internet by what unhappy name?”
Let me back up a moment.
I have spent most of my life drilling trivia facts. I don’t really know when this obsession started, but I do know I had the state capitals memorized by the time I was 7. I own books like “How to Get on Jeopardy! And Win” and “The New York Public Library Desk Reference.” I can tell you that the Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066. I know that the configuration of the sun, the moon, and Earth lying in a straight line is called “syzygy.” Millard Fillmore is the 13th president, which is easy to remember, because only the world’s most unlucky man would be named “Millard Fillmore.”
So what bit of trivia do I have to call on with my game-show life on the line?
Yes.
“Grumpy cat.”
100 more points for Adam.
First round secured.
Dignity lost.
Here’s how things stood going into round two:
Baseball Emily: Eliminated
Grumpy Cat Adam: 1,000 points
Stoic Michael: 1,800 points
Round two had a different format. Michael and I went head-to-head, each getting our own questions. No buzzing in, no chance to steal. Each question was worth a different amount of points, ranging from 200-1,000.
Earlier in the day, each of us had filled out cards in the event we got to round two. We were allowed to pick which categories corresponded to which points, and eliminate one category we didn’t want to answer.
Here’s how I drew mine up:
Entertainment: 200
History: 400
Geography: 600
Art & Literature: 800
Sports & Leisure: 1,000
Michael had an 800-point lead over me. I felt like a member of The Tortured Quizzers Department. I was going to need a miracle.
Round two starts, and I get question one correct on a lucky guess.
Michael misses his.
Adam: 1,200
Michael: 1,800
My 400-point question is next:
I take an educated guess.
“1789.”
Correct!
Michael responds, nailing his 400-point question, to which I am unable to disguise my chagrin.
Adam: 1,600
Michael: 2,200
Time is running out.
My 600-point question discusses the Oregon Trail, which is great because I spent 30% of my childhood playing Oregon Trail on the computer, ignoring the pleas of my fellow travelers to buy them some medicine for their dysentery while I shot yet another bison on the great plains.
I get it right. Michael misses his.
Adam: 2,200
Michael: 2,200
My 800-point question is in a tricky category for me — Art & Literature.
I do not like art. I do like literature. I figure if it’s a book question, I’m golden. If it has to do with a painting or a sculptor or a flamenco dancer, I’m in trouble.
But it’s something else: Opera.
At this point, if you’re watching at home and you know me, you think I’m toast. You think opera is the last topic I want to see. You think that just because I live with NFL RedZone hooked up to my veins that I have no culture. This is largely a solid assessment.
But what you don’t know is that three years ago, I got so fed up with missing opera questions on Jeopardy! that I created a notebook full of famous operas.
I would’ve had more trouble singing the ABCs.
“La Bohéme,” I answer.
Adam: 3,000
Michael: 2,200
Michael’s 800-point question is about Taylor Swift.
With how fast he answered, you would’ve guessed he was the one who spent six hours on a transatlantic flight joining in sing-alongs of “You Belong With Me.”
Adam: 3,000
Michael: 3,000
One question left.
Sports & leisure for both of us.
LeVar reads:
Would it have killed them to ask me about, you know, sports? Not Baked Alaska or pickleball or the UFC. But baseball, football, basketball, hockey. You know — sports?
When I heard LeVar ask the question, I told myself if Ronda Rousey was an answer, I was going to say Ronda Rousey.
So I said Ronda Rousey.
I was wrong — it was Amanda Nunes.
Michael has last at-bats. If he gets his question right, it’s over.
Luckily, The Stoic knows his Taylor Swift better than his Kanye West.
Michael answers Urban Outfitters.
The answer is Gap.
Adam: 3,000
Michael: 3,000
To a tiebreaker we go.
The tiebreaker is sudden death.
LeVar reads. Michael and I try to be the first to buzz to answer.
I ring in.
“Punxsutawney Phil.”
Not the most impressive question to win on.
But at least it wasn’t Grumpy Cat.
Winning the tiebreaker put me through to the final round — a 60-second speed round to get as many questions right as possible.
Answer all six right, and you win $20,000. If you don’t get them all right, each correct response is only worth $1,000.
This blog is already too long, and I’ve already recapped enough of the show, so we won’t go through every question here. I only got three out of six right and walked away with $3,000.
It wasn’t my debut show, and I certainly wasn’t fearless, but it was one I hope did my reputation proud — one that demanded I speak now and seize the moment — one I’ll explain to my grandchildren and my lover when I share the folklore of my life — one I’ll remember evermore while I’m lying awake at future midnights, wondering if I would’ve looked better in red on TV, or if maybe studying foreign policy back to 1989 would’ve made me a few more bucks.
It was a surreal, charmed, exhilarating experience that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. It’s never lost on me how blessed I am, how much support I have, and how fortunate I am to get to experience these things.
Want proof of how lucky I am?
The studio audience was all Brits.
They had no idea how easy “Punxsutawney Phil” was.
Loved this, Adam! Really fun to hear you narrate the process and the Taylor Swift album mash-up at the end was brilliant. MORE GAMESHOWS IN 2025.