Fame seven years late is still fame. Right?

Several months ago, I was at a benefit in downtown Providence when someone walked up to me and asked if I had ever been on a TV quiz show. Wearing a weird vest.

TV, quiz show, vest . . . omigod, it’s The Weakest Link! Way back in 2001 I was on the NBC quiz show, which enjoyed a brief period of popularity. So brief, in fact, that my episode, taped in advance, never even got to air on the network before the show was canceled.

But now here it was, back from TV limbo. Apparently a cable channel called The Game Show Network had bought up the old Weakest Link episodes, including mine, and put them on the air. I think it aired again a few weeks ago, because a colleague at work greeted me in the lobby with the words: “You never told me you were on The Weakest Link!”

But I was.

In case you’ve forgotten, The Weakest Link was an odd cross between Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and Survivor.

Eight contestants were asked a rapid-fire series of questions, with each correct answer raising the prize money that would go to the eventual winner. The twist was that at the end of each round the contestants voted off one of their own, the hapless Weakest Link.

The show was hosted by an acerbic Englishwoman named Anne Robinson, who appeared to take considerable glee in insulting contestants. Her catchphrase, addressed to the losers, was: “You are the weakest link! Goodbye!”

Early in 2001, Providence was one of the cities where The Weakest Link went trolling for contestants. The newspaper sent me to cover it. Everyone gathered in an empty store on the top floor of the Providence Place mall and took a test to see what sort of useless information was rattling around in their brains.

For jollies, I took the test myself. Useless information is a specialty of mine, so I did pretty well. The Weakest Link folks made videos of about 20 people, including me, and said they’d be in touch.

Maybe. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

And sometime that summer, they did call me. They asked if I could fly to Los Angeles in July to be on the show. Sure, I said.

A few weeks later they called back. July was no good. Maybe August. Then they called again. August was doubtful. Maybe sometime in the fall. It reminded me of this cute blond woman I tried to date in college, who seemed to be on the exact same schedule.

Then The Weakest Link called a third time, in September. As a matter of fact, it was about a week after Sept. 11, 2001. Maybe you remember the date.

How would I feel about flying? The Weakest Link folks asked. How would I feel about being on a game show?

I thought about that. I figured that if I passed up this opportunity, it would mean the terrorists had won. By going on a game show (and just possibly winning a large sum of money) I would be striking a death blow to Osama bin Laden himself!

So I flew to Los Angeles, where The Weakest Link was taped. But first I had to sign a draconian 16-page contract whose basic premise, repeated many times, many ways, was that under no circumstances whatsoever was either the network or the show’s producer liable for anything that might happen to me. Ridicule. Slander. Lies. Bodily harm. Anne Robinson could shoot me in front of a national audience, and my grieving family could do absolutely nothing.

I signed it anyway.

After a restless night in a Los Angles hotel, The Weakest Link contestants assembled in the lobby. For some bizarre reason, we were not allowed to talk until after we had all been herded into a van and taken to the studio, so everyone just stared at each other.

Once at the studio, we hung around a big room while Weakest Link staffers reminded us of our contract and had us sign a bunch more papers. It’s entirely possible that by this time I had sold my mother into slavery and renounced my American citizenship. Who cared? I was going to be on television!

Or was I? I couldn’t help but notice that although there were eight contestants on the show, there were 12 of us milling around the room. Which meant some of us were not going to make it. This only raised the already high levels of suspicion and tension.

Thankfully, I was one of the eight. I was The Journal’s TV critic at the time, and I think the chance to have Anne Robinson drop a little venom on a critic proved irresistible for the producers.

I tried chatting with my fellow contestants. One guy in a bright blue sports jacket told me he was a musician, and I told him that I used to be a music critic. He told me he hated critics. So much for making friends.

Soon we were lined up backstage, waiting to take our places on the show’s set, while Weakest Link employees darted around us, dabbing powder on our faces and spraying our hair.

I was surprised at my incredibly high level of fear. My plan was to go out, have some fun, engage in some witty repartee, and, just maybe, win some money. Instead, my brain was dominated by just two thoughts: DON’T PASS OUT and DON’T THROW UP. Both seemed like very real possibilities.

Once on the set, I felt a little better. But not much. Anne Robinson, dressed all in black, appeared in the middle of the set, our podiums grouped around her in a semi-circle. The studio audience, also wearing black, looked down at us from their seats.

Robinson started out with a warm speech. This was the first time she had been back in the States since 9/11, she said, and she wanted to convey to everyone the sympathy and friendship of the British people. We all applauded.

“OK,” Robinson said. “That’s the last nice thing you’re going to hear me say.” Then it was as though a mask of cruelty descended over her face, and her nasty Weakest Link persona took over. I knew Robinson’s reputation in advance, of course, but I figured my charm and quick wit would make me a worthy adversary.

Instead, as soon as Robinson started talking to me, I turned into an incoherent bundle of nerves. After a while, Robinson tired of toying with me and turned her venom on a feisty prison guard from somewhere out West. Mr. Prison Guard, apparently used to dealing with unpleasant personalities, gave as good as he got.

Then the questions started. I answered the first two correctly and made it through the first round. Then came round two. Robinson asked me about a “disco era” show whose characters included Kelso and Donna.

“The ’70s Show,” I answered.

“Correct,” Robinson said, and moved on.

When my turn came around again, I had to identify a Jewish holiday that lasts eight days.

“Hanukkah,” I said. Right again! I was on a roll.

But then an assistant producer appeared, and stopped the taping. More production types emerged from their booth overlooking the set. They marched over to my podium, and told me that they had reviewed the video, and my answer was wrong. It wasn’t The ’70s Show. It was THAT ’70s Show.

So they were going to re-start the taping immediately after my answer. Only this time Robinson was going to tell me I was wrong. Then they were going to keep going with all new questions.

Not only was I wrong about That ’70s Show, I got the next question wrong, too, something about whether a 121-pound boxer was a lightweight, featherweight, or flyweight.

Two wrong answers. My fellow contestants turned on me like rabid wolverines, insulting my prowess as a TV critic in the process. (“He calls himself a critic. Doesn’t even know That ’70s Show!”)

“You ARRRRRRREEEEEEEEEE the Weakest Link!” Robinson shouted triumphantly as I skulked off the set.I watched the rest of the show in sullen silence from seats that had been set aside for the losers who couldn’t make the grade.

When I got back to Rhode Island, I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything that had happened on The Weakest Link until after the episode aired, although I did tell my family. Coincidentally, right about the time I returned from taping the show, my wife bought a new car. This started a buzz in the neighborhood that I must have won. Why else would there be a new car in my driveway?

But no. No money, no glory. Just a tiny, tiny slice of recognition, years after the fact, courtesy of The Game Show Network. That’s all you get, all you deserve, when you’re the weakest link.

asmith@projo.com