“The Ricci Trivia Game” by Peter Ricci

Author’s note: All of the following events are true; at least, they are empirical accounts from a troubled and brilliant observer. The author politely asks that any fortunate reader of this piece not infer any exact “truth” from the accounts, as the events have been suitably tweaked for narrative zeal.

Some see trivia games as simple conflicts, mere exercises in pretention for a common goal of public success. On the third Thursday of November, however, when members of the Katsion family (the mother’s side) descend upon the Ricci household for the alleged activities of turkey, football, and relaxation, the “trivia game” becomes a battleground, a site for the ultimate conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, and glory and humiliation.

The Ricci trivia game—a collection of questions composed by my father, a younger and more Italian Alex Trebek—is one of two chances all year (the other being a year-end-review game for the New Year’s Eve party) to make public all the books we read and web sites we frequent, the one opportunity to show that, yes, listening to National Public Radio has its benefits and yes, I do have some grand scheme in mind when I prefer long, quiet walks with my Macbook and her BFF Wikipedia to TV shows featuring Howie Mandel and Flavor Flav. The Ricci trivia game is the perfect justification for being a nerd, the kind of competition that deftly rewards one for being intelligent.

As I have become older, though, I have discovered a shocking and deeply disturbing trump card regarding the trivia game. The victors are entirely determined by the designer of the game, aka my father, the man who holds the true power. From here on out, we will refer to him as “the Creator.” While it is an honest fact that a contestant with a decent knowledge of film and music (say, someone who can name all seven of Liz Taylor’s ex-husbands (don’t worry, I can’t either)) stands a decent chance of success, this knowledge has the potential to be utterly useless in the face of inconceivable questions. What I am trying to communicate is, anyone short of a semi-honest Charles Van Doren is putty in the Creator’s hands.

This uncomfortable reality was no better established than the competition two years ago, a situation ripe with discontent and severe in its repercussions. Before I go any further, though, I should explain some of the Ricci trivia game vernacular.

My team, a holy alliance of old-school street smarts and new-school wiz kids, is referred to as the “Balcony team,” for the kitchen table we congregate around is situated next to a railing that overlooks the family room, the main den for the other competitors; thus, the impression of a balcony is created, and our name was derived from the image. It helps maintain the allusion. The chief participants of the Balcony Team are my Uncle Dave, his lifelong friend Tony, and I. Some cousins, most notably Uncle Dave’s son Jason and Max, another cousin, have also contributed, while the team’s other players (i.e. the wives) are reduced to occasional helpers. Let’s call them “ringers.”

Team number two—the “Couch Team”—derives its name from the simple fact that it sits on a large couch located in the family room. The unabashed leaders of our chief nemesis are my Aunt Amanda, cousin Erin, and my sister Jillian. Grandma Katsion and the spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends also round out the team, but the three aforementioned leaders remain the team’s most public representatives.

Those two teams are the sticklers, foes for all eternity. Each Thanksgiving, flawless silverware of pencils, egos, and intellect are put to use in an evening of vicious bloodshed, with the Balcony team and the Couch team in bold combat, teeth clenched and eyes narrow.

The other teams, though, are more of an inconsistent bag. The one mainstay is my Aunt Maureen, who may possibly be the most competitive member of the entire Katsion family. She and Tony frequently engage in an annual contest of competitive repartee leading up the trivia game. While she always fronts her own team, the name of that team fluctuates. This year, they were the “Chair team,” as Aunt Maureen sat in a padded flower chair. Key members of this year’s Chair team included Maureen’s sister Marjorie, my mother, and my brother Daniel.

Despite the fact that there was no fourth team this year for the Ricci trivia game, it is worth noting that a fourth team has existed in past matches, normally composed of various cousins of mine who have matured and started families of their own. Two years ago, with two of the cousins pregnant, the team was dubbed the “Pregnant team.”

Now that the Ricci trivia game colloquialisms have been properly identified, allow me to historically set the table and take us back three years to the most tumultuous match in modern history. For the rest of the Katsion family, it was merely another trivia game, but for the Balcony team, it was “The Day,” a rude awakening at the horrifying truths of the trivia game.

The Balcony team was hot. Having won the previous two years, we were a cocky bunch, to say the least, with the most confident member being Tony, who is the spitting image of Henry Winkler’s “Fonz” from the famous television series Happy Days. Dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, sporting dark hair parted on one side, and speaking in the same hushed, machismo voice of the legendary master of cool, all Tony needs to do is cock his head to one side, flash the pistol signal with his hands, and casually ring out “Hey…” and the image is perfected.

As the Thanksgiving Day dragged on, the heavy scent of competition wore sticky and opaque in the warm, turkey-tinted air. Amongst the various players in the trivia game, all of the former activities that composed “Thanksgiving”—the hellos, the hugs, the hand shakes, the football, the hors D’oeuvres, the main course of deep fried turkey—were all meaningless activities in preparation for the trivia game, the event where real legends were born and the real lasting impression of that year’s Thanksgiving would be established.

After the desserts were finished, which included “homemade” pies by Tony that happened to be in Baker Square boxes, the teams assembled and the battle lines were drawn. The flugelhorn of battle sounded, and the game began—and it was a slaughter. Featuring a television trivia section of unrivaled importance, the trivia game was bold reminder for the Balcony team of the wrath of the Creator, a kind of power on par with the ten plagues of the Torah.

Not only were there several questions regarding Friends, the execrable NBC series that was akin to root canal surgery with an electric-powered drill, but there was also a dazzling series of questions about Sisters. Both of these selections played directly into the Couch team’s hands. Jillian, as it turned out, is a fanatical follower of Friends, while Uncle Ed, husband to Aunt Amanda, was a fanatical follower of Sisters (A. Sela Ward was in Sisters. B. Uncle Ed has a healthy obsession with Sela Ward. C. Uncle Ed will watch Sisters, most likely with a healthy obsession.) As the winners of back-to-back contests, the Balcony team was unprepared for such drastic, unexpected questioning, and our performance suffered a terrible setback. We finished fourth, meaning, dead last, with the Couch team placing an expected first.

Just as the tunnel darkened, though, just as we were going gently into that good night with a specially baked humble pie from Baker Square, Tony emerged with a brilliant escape plan. Silently but deliberately taking notes on the back side of our disgraced answer sheet, Tony slowly stood as our embarrassing score was read, proclaiming he had an announcement to make. The fellow teams shivered with anticipation.

“It has come to our attention,” Tony began, gesturing delicately to the Balcony team and speaking in his smooth, masculine voice, “that a level of anger, conflict, and animosity has been growing amidst members of the Katsion family these past years.” The room erupted in skeptical chuckles, with Aunt Maureen and the various Couch team members leading the chorus. “But we the Balcony team,” Tony continued, pointing a defiant index finger towards the ceiling, “felt that it was necessary for us to appease these angers and throw the game.” He exited the stage with a rousing applause.

Following this widespread debacle, the Balcony team approached the trivia game with a newfound level of skepticism, always questioning the Creator’s intent and expecting a fresh plot to sour our inclination to victory. Though a boycott of the next year’s game would have had a certain layer of poetic justice behind it, we went ahead and participated. Like the year before, we lost, except this time it was Aunt Maureen’s team that won. And while the Couch team did not win, a neighbor who just happened to stop by offered some additional help for their toughest moments, a move the Creator—naturally—overlooked. The backlash, it appeared, was permanent. We were never going to win again.

We entered the next year’s game (which was last year) with an apprehension. Confident but cool, we were now sadder and wiser, unwilling to brag about an inevitable, impending victory. Though we lacked Tony, who had to leave early for another party, this was the first year with Jason on our side, and his considerable expertise in film lent considerable aid to what was perhaps the best- designed game yet from the Creator. Emphasizing a brilliant section of guessing film titles and trivia based on screenshots from the film, Jason and I breezed through that section, answering each prompt with a flash of the mind and a scribble of the pen. Everything was sailing smooth as a penguin on skates until we encountered the one screenshot we could not recognize. Pictured were Robert Redford and Jane Fonda.

Both appeared young, dashing, and smiling. Young was the key trait, as Jason and I began racking our brains for films the two starlets may have shared. While no expert on Redford, my knowledge of his filmography trumped that of Fonda; still, even with all the films I recounted with Jason (The Candidate, Butch Cassidy, All the President’s Men, The Sting), nothing felt right. So we used a lifeline and called Tony, as he was on his way to the second party. We didn’t feel we were doing anything wrong. After all, the man was technically on our team, he had left the party a mere 15 minutes ago, and we were stuck on a question. Any other team would have done the same exact thing.

“Tony,” I said into the phone, “it’s Peter, we’re stuck on a question. Can you think of a movie with Robert Redford and Jane Fonda?”

“A YOUNG Robert Redford,” Jason said.

“Oh yes, a YOUNG Redford and Fonda,” I clarified to Tony.

“Well,” Tony began.

Before Tony could answer, though, the Creator discovered our call.

“Hmm, what is the Balcony team up to?” he asked, his voice a smug tone, like Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross.

“We were calling Tony. We were unsure of a question,” I said.

“Uh!!!” the Creator shrieked, notifying the Couch team and Aunt Maureen team and Pregnant team (this was the year!) of the call.

“I’m sorry,” the Creator then said, “but I’m going to have to penalize you for that.”

“But we didn’t even get an answer!” I protested.

“Yeah, but we would have never made a call, you cheaters!” the Couch team rang in harmony. The Aunt Maureen team sang a similar tune.

“But we didn’t even get an answer!!!” I shouted, this time Uncle Dave joining me in a duet of frustrated despair.

“I’m sorry, but the Balcony team will be penalized ten points,” the Creator said, a cocky smile wildly running across his face. He was clearly enjoying himself.

The Redford film (which we later learned to be Barefoot in the Park) turned out to be the only snag, as we steamrolled through the remaining selections and obliterated the bonus section of brainteasers, Uncle Dave’s expertise.

The game concluded, the scores were tallied, and the results read aloud: Balcony team, first place, and by a wide margin. Even with the ludicrous deduction, we still won by over 20 points, a margin of victory all but unheard of in the tight, neck-to-neck battles of year’s past. We were now prepared our second winning streak, our fourth victory in six years. All we had to do was win the trivia game of 2008.

The teams were in position for the trivia game of 2008: the Balcony team, the Couch team, and the Chair team, foes of the intellectual gridiron hard-pressed for victory. Composing the Balcony team was Uncle Dave, Tony (who had missed dinner but left his previous engagement specifically for the trivia game), cousin Jason, cousin Max, cousin Thomas (a new addition), and I. The addition of Thomas was a perplexing choice. Though a smart kid, Thomas always seemed content to actively avoid the trivia game of years past, opting instead for the endless marathon of James Bond video games he and his brother and my brother partook in after the eating frenzy of Thanksgiving had digested. As I would find out soon enough, there was more to that whole James Bond thing than I had previously anticipated.

The answer sheets for segment one were passed out. “Keep them facedown until I tell you otherwise,” the Creator said, his voice weakened by an impending cold. The bell tolled, and the game began. The first segment was…presidential trivia.

Nobody in our group was a master in the presidential realm, but luckily I remembered a select number of obscure facts from the hours upon hours of reading for my AP US History class from junior year in high school. These included tidbits like Taft’s incredibly fat lard ass, Harrison’s inaugural stupidity, and TR’s youthful trendsetting. Fortunate for us, each of these facts appeared as questions, but by no means did we cruise through the segment. Certain assassination-related questions, such as the specific year of McKinley’s death and a listing of failed Presidential assassination attempts, eluded us. And where we came up short, the couch team succeeded, creating an impression, albeit a brief one, that our chance at a repeat title was void.

The fears, though, were all for naught, as the Couch team had their own mishaps that the Balcony team capitalized on, bringing the two teams to a tie with the Chair team in a close third. The next section was movies, the true mash potatoes and gravy of the competition. Spread across multiple pages was, as in the year before, snapshots from famous movies. At the most basic level, we were required to identify both the movie and the stars pictured, but for the unique entries (aka, the films most favored by the Creator), there were more specific questions, such as questions regarding a character’s profession, their goal in the film, and other savory tidbits of cinephiliac obsession.

We the Balcony team worked with methodical focus, skipping the films we faltered on while breezing through the selections that came natural: The Big Chill, A Few Good Men, The Breakfast Club, etc. As the movie segment ran on, though, there were two particular questions we did not have answers for, regardless of all the cumulative brain effort of the Manhattan Project.

The first was the image of a man and a woman looking into a bathroom mirror. The man, who resembled Cary Grant, was shaving, while the woman was doing some kind of primping. The image was in black and white.

“Ok, that’s Cary Grant,” I said, feeling that the image was of some movie I should know about.

“Hm, I don’t think so, Pete,” Uncle Dave said.

“I have no idea,” Tony muttered.

Jason was equally clueless, sharing my frustrations at a seemingly easy question.

Moving on, we encountered a second road block—this with the legendary slacker comedy Wayne’s World.

“All right,” I sighed, noticing the multiple questions associated with the film. “What was the name of the car Wayne and Garth drove?”

“The Garth Mobile!” Max exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure it’s something like that.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Uncle Dave said.

A novice to the film (I’ve see it a mere 1.25 times), I casually accepted the answer my teammates provided. The second question, though, became Tony’s shining moment, the rare instant where he stepped out of his flawless role as a supportive teammate and into the spotlight.

“What were the brand, model, and year of the vehicle in question 2?” I read. Like the first question, I was utterly clueless as to what the answer was.

“Well, it was an older car,” Uncle Dave said. “I’d like to say an AMC.”

“Yes, it was an AMC!” Tony said, clearly excited at his grasp of the question. “An AMC Pacer, I know it for a fact.”

“I don’t know, Tone,” Uncle Dave said, using his old nickname for the man, the myth, the legend. “I’m thinking it was a Pacer.”

“No, trust me David, it was a Gremlin. I can see the car in my head right now.”

Uncle Dave gave up. There was no convincing Tony, he knew from experience. He had been trying to do so for the last 40+ years.

Back to the question: we had the brand and the model, but not the year.

“It’s sometime in the seventies,” Tony said in a specific voice. “I know that much.”

“Seventy-four? Seventy-five? Seventy-two?” Uncle Dave asked, attempting to lodge some kind of response from the Fonz.

“Sorry Dave, all I can think of is seventies.”

“Well,” I began, trying not to seem annoyed by my lack of contribution to the question at hand, “I’m just going to put seventy-six and move on. If we have any other thoughts we can always go back.”

“Why seventy-six?” Max asked.

“I don’t know, it just feels right,” I said.

We finished the packet moments later, and the Creator ascended once again to read off the answers. There was always a strange, pulsating rhythm to the event, as he deliberately and voraciously read the scripture of doom.

The first few questions, as expected, were right on the money, as our answers were exactly what the Creator ordered. But then, a snag occurred.

One of the earlier questions displayed a photograph of two young men speaking in a bar. Their haircuts were short, they wore pristine white Navy/Marine outfits, and their faces were slightly blurry.

“A Few Good Men,” I had instantly said. “Who are pictured in the photo?”

“Tom Cruise and Bill Paxton,” Jason said.

“Who was the love interest?” I read aloud, instantly knowing it to be Demi Moore.

We were so right—in our own minds, that is.

“An Officer and a Gentlemen!” the Creator read. “Who is pictured? Richard Gere! Who was the love interest? Debra Winger!”

It was like dining in the city of Jericho as the walls came tumbling down. We recovered with a series of correct responses, including the naming of every major cast member in The Big Chill (a tour-de-force performance, if I say so myself). And then came the dreaded Cary Grant film. In an act of desperation, I failingly wrote His Girl Friday, a random guess with the background knowledge that the Creator had recently watched and loved the film.

“The answer is…” the Creator said, fading with the flair of a boxing announcer and flashing a sly smile my way, “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House!”

A rapid-fire gauntlet of obscenities ran though my mind that is best left unprinted. They were rash, but entirely justified. I knew of that film. I knew Cary Grant was in it. And I knew the Creator loved it. As far as I could tell, the game was lost. The Couch team had to have gotten those questions right, automatically giving them the lead and ending our winning streak and beginning a month-long process of mocking our apparent confidence at a repeat. This Thanksgiving was ruined.

Our following questions were correct, but it did little to sway my impaling pessimism. I limply turned the page of the answer packet, noticing two things that placed me on opposite ends of the happiness spectrum: first, I saw that this was the last page of the packet, filling me with tidings of comfort and joy at the prospect of casting this cursed packet to the depths of hell; second, I was reminded that this last page bore the Wayne’s World question. The bonus questions about the vehicle, worth ten and 20 points, would make or break our destiny (though I already thought it shattered at that point). As we approached the question, though, Jason experienced an epiphany.

“Wait a minute!” he said, showing an uncharacteristic excitement. “That answer about the nickname of the car, what did we put down?”

“The Garth Mobile,” I said.

“That’s not right!” he exclaimed. “It’s the MURTH mobile, I can remember it perfectly now!” I changed it in the nick of time, feeling relieved we would get that answer right. Little did I know the following event would render our last-minute revelation all but mute.

The Creator began reading his answers. “Movie? Wayne’s World. Stars pictured? Mike Myers and Dana Carvey. Vehicle name? The Murth Mobile. Vehicle make, model, and year?” He turned to the Couch team, prompting them for an answer.

“1972 AMC Pacer,” my sister read. The Creator turned our way.

“1976 AMC GREMLIN,” I defiantly read. The Creator paused for a moment, creating the brief impression that we had chosen the correct answer.

“The correct answer,” he said, “is a 1976 AMC Pacer.”

Pandemonium erupted, a din of Katsion power that made the family’s Greek roots beam with pride. We were so close. My forehead collapsed onto my resting wrists, as if an anchor were attached. We were going to lose.

Tallies were totaled, and the evidence answered my fears. The Couch team was now in the lead by ten points, with the Chair team in a close third. The Creator passed out the final segment of the trivia game, this one focusing on Bond girl trivia in lieu of the new Bond film Quantum of Solace. It was then that the thought hit me, a revelation of such force and power I was nearly shocked out of my chair. Cousin Thomas, the newest team member cousin Max was so proud of acquiring, was our family’s resident Bond expert. We had this game in the bag.

“Oh no, THOMAS!” wailed one member of the Couch team in irritated dismay.

“What?” Thomas asked, noticing the address came from his mother, Aunt Amanda.

“I was trying to get you on our team!”

We began work on the new section, but it all seemed too easy. The segment required us to match photographs of Bond girls with the appropriate films, meaning, it required Thomas to point to a photograph and for me to write the correct answer.

“Octopussy,” he said, pointing to a photo of a ravishing brunette with wavy hair. “Man With the Golden Gun. Casino Royale. Die Another Day. For Your Eyes Only. From Russia With Love.”

He even knew the names, garnering us bonus points on a few of the selections. We were going to win. I knew it.

The segment concluded, and we tallied our final scores. In total, we scored a 95 on the Bond section. The Couch team scored a 75.

“That means we won!” Tony said in a restrained, excited voice. I did not want to jump to conclusions, though. I was smarter than that. Compiling our scores from all three rounds, my heart was pounding in my chest in a rapid, almost unbearable succession. The final scores were read, and our dreams were realized: we won, defeating the Couch team by a miniscule ten points.

We were awarded the first place price, a double-decker assortment of Dove chocolates that were high-sugar evidence of heaven, but for Tony, bragging was the ultimate prize of the victory.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Maureen,” he said, taunting the fallen leader of the Chair team in an arrogant, dignified, gentlemanly manner. “You guys didn’t lose by that much. It was still a close game.”

“Tony, get out of my way!” Aunt Maureen warned.

“No, see, it’s just, I’m trying to be fair here, to be a good sportsman about everything, to show you some respect, and—“

He never got to finish. Frustrated at Tony’s cocky abandon (and perhaps angered at her third place finish), Aunt Maureen issued a faint, harmless swipe at Tony’s chest, moving him out of the way for her to continue her forward progress. She made a pitiful mistake, though, as this act was a weapon of mass manipulation in Tony’s hands.

“Did you see that?” he asked me, exasperated. “Did anybody else see that? She hit me! Here I am, trying to be a gentlemen about it, and she HITS me!”