The Buzzer.
On freezing, failing yourself, and what I'm still working on thirty-five years later.
I was on a game show once.
No, not Jeopardy (although, that remains a dream of mine that I will, so help me God, accomplish one day).
It was called “Clips”.
It aired on a now-defunct station here in Canada called YTV - which was, in many ways, a low-budget Nickelodeon.
*Unfortunately - this is not the episode I was in - but I’m working on getting that.)
The show was shot in a dark studio, inside a low brick warehouse in Hamilton, Ontario (a cool city these days, but 30 years ago - not so much).
As you can see - it’s four kids standing at little boxes with buzzers, watching clips of movies, music and video games flash by on a screen.
I was good at this sort of thing. I liked Trivial Pursuit. I did well at math. I thought: this will go well.
It did not go well.
I didn’t answer one question. Not one.
I stood there in terror for the entire recording.
And when it was over, I picked up my right hand (which was sitting beside the idle buzzer) and saw a pool of sweat.
I had completely frozen in fear of getting it wrong.
And so - I did nothing.
I didn’t win the bike, or the board game, or the basketball net.
What also happened when the taping was over is that I burst into tears.
What was I so upset about?
Bearing in mind this was probably 35 years ago, it could have been any of the following:
I was embarrassed. Who doesn’t answer one question?
I lost. I had nothing to show for my efforts.
There was never going to be some glorious victory story of me on “Clips”. Although, in reality, this was unlikely to have happened in any case. I am fairly certain the show only had a couple of seasons.
On reflection though, I don’t really think it was either of these.
What I think it really was was that I had failed myself. I had not stepped up to what I expected of myself. I was simply sad.
And somewhere in the audience, my parents were watching. I didn’t know if they were embarrassed, or sad, or proud of me for just being there. I still don’t know. I never asked.
The kid who was good at trivia, who did well at school, who knew movies and games and books - had not shown up when it counted.
Contrast this to my brother.
He went on another classic - “Video and Arcade Top 10”.
*Not the episode my brother was in. Also working on that.
And, he won. He won the whole damn thing. He got to take home the video game for our NES (it was Kirby’s Adventure, to be clear).
Leaving aside that this is a fantastic game, what I remember most clearly is that, when he won, he was so excited that he ran off the stage and into the audience to hug my parents. They may have even had to stop taping and redo the entire winner segment.
He didn’t think twice about it. He just ran.
I’ve thought about that a lot over the years.
Not the losing - I’m over the losing (although you might not think that reading this article).
But the running. The complete absence of self-consciousness in that moment. The joy that didn’t stop to ask whether it was appropriate, or whether anyone was watching, or whether it would look ridiculous.
He was just happy. Fully, completely, embarrassingly happy.
And I remember watching him and thinking — even then, at ten years old — what is that? Where does that come from? How do you just do that?
I have no answers to that question.
Now, flash forward to 2026.
My wife and I went to see our 4.5 year old daughter in a school performance.
And, we watched her freeze on stage.
And BOOM - I was immediately taken back to that day on “Clips”.
The stillness. The eyes that go somewhere else. The body that doesn’t move while you can see that there is so much going on in her head.
And while you might think I felt embarrassed for her - I didn’t. Not entirely anyhow.
What I felt was something that’s harder to describe - a kind of ache that sits right between compassion and helplessness.
I thought I knew exactly what was happening inside her - that the person who she thought she was before she got on that stage was not the person who actually showed up when she was in the spotlight.
I wanted to go up there and stand beside her and help her. But, of course, I couldn’t.
And I found myself wondering - is this what my parents felt, watching me in that warehouse in Hamilton?
Maybe. I don’t know.
I’ll tell you what I do know though: that looking at my daughter’s face on stage that afternoon was like looking into a mirror of myself on stage 35 years ago.
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