Small Slam

Small Slam
January 24, 1982 

Dancing and card playing.  Two of life’s social graces that passed me by.  While trying to find an excuse that allowed me to avoid these embarrassments, I once considered joining a religion whose tenets forbid shuffling, either on the dance floor or with a deck of cards.  But further investigation revealed that believers who shun such activity also have a tendency to look down their noses at fellow members of the faith who enjoy an ice-cold beer on their taste buds.  That idea was then scratched in short order. 

Dancing is really no longer a problem.  After 17 years my wife has become resigned to the fact there is no sense in saving the last dance for me.  My last turn around the floor was a pre-Chubby Checker “Hokey-Pokey” during the freshmen year of high school.  Given the choice, I would indeed prefer a poke in the eye with a sharp stick to the terminal embarrassment one suffers in attempting a two-step about the floor in cadence to Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. 

Since my dancing intentions are well known it has ceased to be an aggravation, at least until somebody new moves into town, and in the tradition of all well-meaning do-gooders, insists on demonstrating the error of my ways.  Through thick and thin, however, I’ve remained faithful to the rules of the Wallflower Society. 

Card playing is another matter.  It is impossible to avoid.  Two weeks ago some friends, in a burst of misplaced hospitality, promoted a family fight at our residence by inviting us to their couples bridge group.  For the umpteenth time I told my wife, in no uncertain terms, just how I felt about all card games, and bridge in particular.  She was just as emphatic in detailing the thrill that is hers alone each Saturday night watching me stare at some dumb basketball or hockey game on the tube.  “Besides”, she said, “you’re paranoid when it comes to bridge.  It’s just going to be a friendly game, not the life or death struggle you make it out to be.” 

So over to the neighbors we go.  Upon arriving we faced five other couples, and the only familiar faces in the group were those of the host and hostess. 

During the introductions one of the participants in this “friendly” game mentioned we had met before.  “I can’t remember your name,” a large, scholarly man announced to the assembled group, “but I sure remember you.”  It was during the winter of ’68 during one of those Newcomer bridge mixers they used to have at the Cameo truck stop.  You were my partner one round and I remember you ducking that finesse and then compounding the felony by not sloughing your three of diamonds on my spade trick, and our opponent lucked into the small slam he’d bid and I had doubled.”  So much for the friendly game. 

Bridge was all right in college when it provided an alternative to studying and going to class.  But since Botany 202 is no longer a major concern in my life, neither is bridge. 

The game itself comprises many rules of etiquette that must be observed, or you’ll soon gain a reputation as a social dolt.  First off, as you sit and ponder your cards, the rules of the game require you to munch the goodies the hostess has placed on your table and with each mouthful you must exclaim, “I’ve just got to go on a diet, but this is so-o-o-o good!”  Then, sliding the bowl of goodies to the other side of the table you say, “Here, put these over there where I can’t reach them.  Three hearts.”  The person between you and your partner then passes.  Both the bid and the goodies.  Your partner then pushes the bowl back at you while responding, “Don’t put them over here, I’ve problems of my own.  Four clubs.”  This is known as bidding. 

Next, you peer over the top of your cards, stare at the scorekeeper, and say, “Are we vulnerable?”  One night my partner quietly replied, “Only when I’m paired with you.” 

It is also true the conversation in a bridge game only gets interesting when you actually have to play the cards.  Should I possess a bust hand or a lock on being dummy, the ladies at the table will get deeply involved in a discussion of how to crochet a T-shirt.  But let decent cards come my way in the deal, or should I really foul up and get the bid, forcing me to concentrate, the conversation will immediately turn to some really juicy gossip I’m dying to hear. 

It’s difficult to listen intently to the “keep this to yourself, but…..” conversation while attempting to make a five diamond bid.  You’ll often find your partner becomes a bit testy at your asking, after playing three-fourths of the hand, “Oh, by the say, what’s trump?  Am I in my hand or on the board?”