It isn’t just the Schwab that has me addicted to the wonderful ESPN Classic sports-trivia game show “Stump the Schwab,” now in its fourth season, even though he’s reason enough to watch. The Schwab — whose full name is Howard Schwab, and who works as ESPN’s in-house statistician — wears a permanent scowl, a team jersey, and perhaps the ugliest haircut on television, but nonetheless manages to parlay his oddball charisma into a funny, fastpaced, and information-packed half-hour (it airs weekdays at 1 p.m. and 7 p.m.) that makes “Jeopardy” look easy.

But it’s the show’s perfect depiction of an American archetype that keeps me coming back. Can anyone stump the Schwab? It’s a question for anyone who has ever considered himself something of a Schwab, or known a Schwab, or met one in a bar late one night after too many beers. The Schwab is everyman, the guy who spent his childhood pouring over the sports pages and then never grew up. He sits off to the side of the set in a Barcalounger while his fellow contestants — normal-seeming folk who look as though they have real jobs and perhaps even real girlfriends — battle for the chance of a showdown with the Schwab. And they come remarkably close, considering the level of difficulty the questions pose and the challenge of competing with the Zen master of meaningless information.

Can you name all 12 players from the 1998 NBA Finals-winning Los Angeles Lakers? How about all the 20-game-winning major league baseball pitchers since 2000? Any chance you can recall all the cities where the Winter Olympics have been played — all of them, without exception? Those are just a few examples of the mind-bending questions posed by the highly entertaining ESPN announcer Stuart Scott, who treats the Schwab with the reverence Dorothy paid the wizard. Every time a contestant manages to beat the Schwab to an answer, Mr. Scott’s tone goes quiet as a sign of respect. He knows that stumping the Schwab is a challenge few of us would even dare to undertake.

The game is divided into rounds; in the first two, contestants battle each other for the chance to face the Schwab in the final. Correct answers score points for the contestant, and the one with the most points gets the chance to try to stump the Schwab in “The Schwab Showdown.” In this highly charged sequence, contestants face off with the Schwab over four silly-named categories that raise the level of trivia to new levels of the arcane and unknowable.

But no matter how much the competitors know about sports, somehow the Schwab always knows more. When he misses a question — even if it’s something hopelessly difficult, like the runners-up of a 1990s golf tournament — he grimaces and grunts as though kicked in his substantial stomach. The Schwab has obviously spent much of his life impressing people, and doesn’t much enjoy failure. (It’s not clear whether he enjoys much of anything besides sports; his knowledge is so encyclopedic, it’s scary.) The dark, smoky set adds to the tension; it’s played in the kind of room you might expect as the home of a poker game. “Stump the Schwab” makes no effort to sell itself to women — and perhaps that’s part of its appeal to men. It’s a purist’s delight, a game show that doesn’t deign to impress with anything except the mental dexterity of its contestants. Even the prizes don’t amount to much; you can win $5,000 here, and $10,000 there, but overall it’s not a get-rich-quick scheme for anyone. It doesn’t even look as though ESPN pays for the Schwab’s paltry wardrobe.

“Stump the Schwab” represents a throwback to the great old game shows that measured intelligence — not the clever guesswork that dominates “Deal or No Deal.” It’s not designed around the host’s wit (though he’s got plenty) or the charm of the panelists. Indeed, the Schwab has no charm whatsoever; he looks like someone you’d be disappointed to find as your dinner party seatmate, or next to you on a cross-country plane trip. But that’s exactly what makes the Schwab such a compelling television persona, and what makes “Stump the Schwab” one of the best game shows on television.

dblum@nysun.com