In my life, I've taken many important tests. The SAT, ACT, GRE, LSAT, two bar exams, five AP tests, and countless college and law school exams. So when my editor, Roland Liwag, called and asked me whether I'd be willing to take the Wonderlic test, I answered yes before he could even finish the question.
At long last I could establish my dominance over the mythical Wonderlic, the stuff of NFL combine legend. I was confident, oh so confident. In my mind I was a solid No. 2 seed and the Wonderlic was, at best, an upstart No. 15 seed from some place called Libertyville, Ill., on, of all places, North Butterfield Road. Yep, North Butterfield Road.
I was confident my mental prowess would make the Wonderlic itself melt in shame. Eight minutes for 30 questions? Please, I'll only need five.
Every few minutes I take a break from the Dixieland Delight book -- which is nearing completion -- to see if the Wonderlic test has arrived. Toss a couple of punches in the general direction of my computer screen. Lean back and stretch. Bob and weave. It's noon and my mind is a taut rubber band filled with expansive knowledge and incalculable brilliance. The Wonderlic is in for a Pacman Jones-out-on-the-town-level beat down. I have no doubts. Then, magically, the test arrives in my e-mail inbox.
The instructions say I will need scratch paper. Scratch paper? I spend more than 10 minutes looking for a blank tablet. Then I turn to a fresh page and check my pen to ensure it works adequately. What was I going to need scratch paper for? Scratch paper is for simpleton fools. I twirl my pen in front of the computer screen.
The test commences with three practice questions. Before the first one I freeze. It's a vocabulary question and it doesn't count. Even still I am suddenly nervous. Three years ago I scored a perfect 800 verbal score on the GRE. In high school I was nearly perfect on the verbal section of the SAT. These mental boosts raise my self-confidence a bit, but still I'm frozen. For five long minutes I timidly stare at the screen. Then I type in my answer. Correct.
I zip through the next two practice questions. The powerful façade of the Wonderlic is beginning to shudder from my body blows. I'm 3-for-3 and on to the 30-question test.
I race out to an early lead like the No. 2 seed that I am. Up through 10 the test cannot contain me. I am Gilbert Arenas playing against a high school team. Certainly I'm smarter than Dan Marino. By the time I finish this test, Wonderlic is going to hire me to take over the company. Or suggest I have to take all future Wonderlic's in Latin. Just to be fair.
Then it happens, the test stiffens around No. 14. I run through a math question and my calculations uncover an answer that isn't available. The five answer choices feature four numbers and one marked "None of these." I recheck my work on the scratch paper. For the first time I taste doubt. My tongue lingers on the roof of my mouth and my fingers are shaking. I notice the ticking clock that stops for no man in the right corner of the screen. Back to the scratch paper I go.
Again, the same answer.
Tremulously, I type in "none of these" on the keyboard. The No. 15 seed has just run off a few baskets to slice into my double-digit lead.
And what's this, another math question and another calculated answer that doesn't appear on the screen? I repeat my calculations again. This time more harried. My paper is beginning to resemble the scratch marks left behind by a person who has been buried alive. The clock is still ticking.
I take a breath. Pound my heart in front of the computer screen as I have seen countless basketball and football players do in times of crisis. My heart does not respond. But now, at last, a break. Another verbal question.
