A Bridge to Somewhere

dated 2010-03-08 | posted in columns | topic Leisure | permanent link

A Bridge to Somewhere?

I studied hard to become a passionate teacher and a prolific, if not famous, writer. (I now make regular blog postings just to keep my writing arm working: patwesty.wordpress.com) But there’s one area of recent endeavor that has brought me more agony than joy: learning how to play bridge. I came from a family that held books, not cards. So when my friends persuaded me to try this engaging card game I said “yes” with no idea what challenging, even excruciating, days and nights would follow. It’s truly humbling to walk into a room and play with, or against, people who have been playing for 20-40 years. My six months of play doesn’t give me immunity from the occasional abuse hurled at me like last week when an experienced player yelled, “You sure made a mess of that hand.” (He was right, but couldn’t he say it in private?)

Bridge is full of rules, most of which seem logical and ultimately possible to learn. They involve bidding actions and conventions that, presumably, partners have agreed upon. Some players disband with the conventions and just use their native card sense. The problem here is that I have none! In my early months I shuffled the cards awkwardly, splatting them all over the table instead of mixing and piling them up for the next dealer . Then I was berated for waving my cards in front of all the other players to see ( the biggest “sin” all, for obvious reasons. ) Then come all the intricacies of who shuffles while who deals, how to hand the cards to the dealer and how to lay them down when one’s partner is playing the hand. Players tap the table with impatience, tap the players when they break the rules of protocol, and are more apt to tell you what you do wrong than right. The fact that my husband is a good player is both good and bad. On the good side I have someone at home to help me learn. On the bad side, he’s more tolerant of my mediocre cooking than of my paltry playing.

The actual play of the hand causes me the most apprehension of all. I was a decent test taker in school but when the bridge hand is mine to play, my heart beats hard, my hands sweat so much the cards wilt, and my head fuzzes over as though I’ve had three whiskeys too many-- and I’m not even a drinker! Some of my non-bridge playing friends tell me I should give up and go to Scrabble, but I’m not the quitter type. Plus I was encouraged to continue when a top player friend told me that a great percentage of bridge payers don’t get dementia, and maybe not even Alzheimer’s, as they age. That’s enough to keep me trying. At least I can serve as a good whipping boy for the ill tempered perfectionist players who forget what it was like to be a beginner or the competitive Charley’s who are delighted when they get to play against me. But I return to the tables weekly with the hope that some day I’ll have enough card sense to make my bridge contracts at least once in an afternoon or evening. And if I don’t, at least I’ll make some new friends, eat some tasty smoked salmon sandwiches and learn to keep score unless I give up and start to play snooker instead.

patwestheimer@gmail.com