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AFTER I shake hands with The Man and we head into a commercial break, all hell breaks loose around me. Associate producers come to congratulate and relax me, and to remind me what Regis will ask me during our first conversation. Makeup artists swoop in to touch up my face and hands, and technicians adjust my microphone. I look around in awe, enjoying the surreal moment, and slowly grow accustomed to being the center of attention.

The first five questions are pretty easy. They’re designed not only to get kids to play along at home, but to relax the contestant. I breeze through them, and then begin the first line of questioning from Regis. I’m still nervous — slightly overwhelmed — and I stumble through some of the conversation.

We get back to the game. The first curve ball thrown my way is the sixth question, worth $2000: Which of these products would most likely be labeled PABA-free? a) diet soda b) lunchmeat c) sunscreen d) dental floss. Uh-oh. PABA? What the hell is PABA? In my 42 years, I have never heard this term. So what do I do? Guess? Not bloody likely. I figure that since it’s an early question, probably everyone else in the room knows the answer. I take my chance with the audience lifeline. A resounding 86 percent tell me the answer is sunscreen. I feel like a dope, but if a term has never crossed your radar screen, you have no choice but to reach out for help.

Two more questions come and go, and suddenly the horn sounds to end the show. I have answered eight questions and collected $8000, and I’m now the infamous holdover contestant for the next show. I have two lifelines left and 90 minutes before the next taping begins.

Back in the dressing room, as I wait for the second show’s contestants to make their way upstairs, I am oddly content and confident. Having already answered a few questions, I’m familiar with the surroundings and the feel of the celebrated seat. And I’m the only one who knows he’ll be sitting down with Regis; everyone else will be as nervous as I was just hours ago. I’m a sophomore; they are freshmen.

The hour for the second taping arrives. There’s a new studio audience. Regis is again introduced to the crowd, makes the same corny jokes as he did the first time around, and disappears backstage. When we’re cued, we emerge, shake hands, and walk to our respective chairs.

We get right into the questions, and boom! I’m faced with a query about dessert preparation. Dessert preparation? I decide to tap my phone-a-friend lifeline option, and call my cooking expert, Todd. My former fraternity brother knows the answer is crème brûlée, and helps lift me to the next level. Thanks to brotherhood, I have now reached the $32,000 question — but only my 50-50 lifeline remains. Next up is a geography question: Which of these Central American countries is not bordered by the Pacific Ocean? a) El Salvador b) Nicaragua c) Guatemala d) Belize.

I smile to myself, knowing that the absolute last piece of cramming I did the night before was to look at maps, and the final map I studied was Central America. Does that necessarily mean I know the answer? No. But I have the image of that map in my mind, and I use my final lifeline to narrow it down to two options. When Nicaragua and Belize are left, I think long and hard. Will this be a guess? Do I want to lose $15,000 on a 50-50 proposition? Should I walk away with the $16,000 and call it a day?

As I sit there, I grow conscious of the dreaded music and the bluish spotlights that bathe us at center stage. The rest of the studio is absolutely dark, and all I can see is the haze — and Regis. I dimly recall seeing Nicaragua on the map’s Pacific coast. I’m not positive where Belize is, but I’m confident enough about Nicaragua’s location to take a shot. My final answer is Belize. There is a deafening silence. Regis takes about three seconds before confirming that my answer is correct. I am thrilled.

With $32,000 secure, the 11th question is a no-lose proposition. Even if I don’t know the answer, I can guess without risking any money. With no lifelines left, I know the end is probably near, especially since I’m probably due a nail-in-the-coffin science or mythology question. Instead, I get a sports question, and hit it for $64,000.

Every time I’ve seen the show, it seems the most difficult gamble has come at the very level I’ve just reached. Do you risk losing $32,000 if you’re not sure of the next answer? Sure, it’s tempting — and makes for better TV drama — to take the chance and go for $125,000. But it’s always seemed to me — comfortably lounging in my easy chair at home — that if contestants thought clearly and had a healthy respect for the color of money, they’d realize how foolish it is to guess away that much cash. So I’d always believed that if I reached this level and had no lifelines available, I’d take the $64,000 and run. But then the question comes up: Viewers never find out the first name of which of these TV crime-solvers? a) Banacek b) Columbo c) Mannix d) Matlock.

Damn. A TV question. I consider television expertise one of my strengths, and here it is. I have a pretty good feeling that the correct answer is Columbo, but I start to second-guess myself. I know that Lieutenant Columbo always introduced himself by his last name on the ’70s crime drama, but was his first name ever mentioned? I can’t be sure. I’ve never watched Banacek or Matlock, so I’m not positive about those characters’ first names either. Mannix’s, I know, is Joe.

I go back and forth. For $125,000, I think, this should be a very difficult question, and Columbo seems too obvious an answer. And it could very easily be a trick question, since Columbo’s first name could have been mentioned in at least one episode — one I didn’t see.

My final decision is based on something I read in a trivia book in the weeks leading up to my Millionaire appearance: an entry on Columbo referred to the lead character as Lt. Philip Columbo. (See " No Trivial Pursuit, " above.) I have to believe that the show’s creators wouldn’t have arbitrarily assigned him a first name only to omit it for the entire run of the series. It has to be a trick question. I have to walk.

But even after telling Regis that I’m not certain enough to proceed further, I have the nagging feeling that the answer is indeed Columbo. Just as Regis is about to reveal the correct answer to the viewing public, I blurt out, " It’s b), isn’t it? "

Yes, he tells me. It was b). But it’s too late. I have to leave.

I LEFT happy: happy to have reached the level I did, happy not to have lost money on a wrong answer, and happy to leave on my own terms. But it would have been a lot easier to sleep in those weeks after the taping if the correct answer had been Banacek.

To this day, I still think about that last question. But I always come back to the rock truth that I am a banker’s son, and I was taught to value and respect money: it just wasn’t in my nature to risk so much on an answer about which I had so many doubts. Did I wimp out? Sure. And I can live with that, along with the 64,000 clams. (Although the show’s lawyers tell us to expect taxes to eat up as much as 45 percent of the take.)

Six weeks. That’s how long I had to wait between the day we taped the shows and the time they aired. Winning $64,000 is not an impossibly huge secret to keep, but it was a secret nonetheless. ABC advises you keep it that way, and my wife and I agreed to do so. But in the first few days after my return to work, I began to get antsy. I wanted to talk about the experience, about PABA, crème brûlée, and Columbo.

A couple of weeks later, when I headed up to visit my ailing father in upstate New York, I decided to share the details with him, knowing that he wouldn’t tell anyone. I was curious to hear the wise old banker’s take on how I’d done. He seemed pleased and proud of me, and made me feel better about my decision to walk away with $64,000, rather than risk it for greater gain. Because I won, in 15 minutes, what my dad probably made in three years at the local bank, I wanted his approval. I had hoped he would reinforce my belief that large sums of money are not to be trifled with or frivolously gambled away. That’s exactly what he did.

And I’m glad that I got to share my Millionaire experience with him that day, because a week later, the wise old banker passed away in his sleep.

Christopher Young is the managing editor of magazines and special publications at the Phoenix Media/Communications Group. He can be reached at cyoung[a]phx.com. He is available for Millionaire consultations at cyoung[a]phx.com