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THIS BRIDGE ONLY
GOES ONE WAY |
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My wife is aging before my eyes. Not physically, of course,
but mentally. She's clearly concerned about the years taking a toll on her
brain, because she's taken up bridge.
I've got nothing against the game of bridge. It's the perfect
activity FOR OLD PEOPLE! My grandmother played bridge, and then she died.
"You are way too young to be playing bridge," I
said to my wife last week as she headed off for her weekly lesson.
"Stay home with me and watch the Giants play the Seattle
Mariners."
"Thanks, but no thanks," she replied. "I wish
you would come with me. I think you'd really like it."
And I'm sure I will. WHEN I'M OLD! My father took up bridge,
and he really liked it. Then he died.
"I plan on taking up bridge someday," I said.
"But I'm not even close to that day."
"Everyone in our group is about our age," she
replied with a little too much gusto. "Including The Swede."
The Swede was a good friend of mine, who was now my wife's
bridge partner in their lesson group. He's a strapping young man who has
obviously lost interest in remaining young. His wife refused to play,
citing the fact that she was under the age of 70.
"Have fun with The Swede," I said, nonchalantly.
And then I experienced a touch of panic. "Is there drinking involved
while you play?"
"Of course not," she scoffed. "You have to
concentrate too much."
It was sounding more fun by the moment. "How about
gambling? I remember my grandmother used to brag about winning 25 cents
from her senile geezer friends."
"Nope. No gambling. We're just trying to learn the game.
It's incredibly difficult."
I looked back at the television screen, instantly using my
incredible concentration to recognize what was wrong with the Giants
meager lineup. "How long do you think it would take me to learn? A
couple of hours?"
"You are so clueless. It would take you that long just
to get the vocabulary down," she answered, knowing I was only
half-kidding. "By the time you eventually decide to become a bridge
player, I'll be years ahead of you."
"Maybe you and The Swede will be Grand Poobahs by
then."
"They're called Life Masters," she said, "and
our teacher happens to be one. She spends quite a bit of time on cruise
ships, which give her a free cruise for teaching bridge."
My grandfather liked taking cruises, and he liked playing
bridge. Then he died.
I wasn't budging. I played a bit of poker in college and a
few times since. There was plenty of drinking and gambling, and I still
didn't like it all that much. Imagine a bunch of cards with nothing to do
except concentrate.
"Have fun with The Swede," I called out as she
headed for the door. "Tell him I said I was sorry he had succumbed to
the dark side. Tell him I said it was okay for you to wipe away his
drool."
And then she was gone. I made my dinner, quaffed a couple of
beers and watched a little more of the baseball game. Manly, young stuff
like that. Before you knew it, the door opened and she had returned.
"How was the bridge?" I asked, looking up from my
chair. "Are you a Grand Poobah yet?"
"Actually, we only played for a short time," she
replied. "Then our teacher arranged a private discussion of 'A
Devil's Tickets,' which came out a few years ago."
"What's that?"
"It's a book about the true story of Myrtle and Jack
Bennett, a husband and wife who played bridge together."
Just like the cruise ships, she had played right into my
hand. "Myrtle?" I replied. "Sounds like a good name for a
bridge player."
"Actually, Myrtle had a little spunk to her. And it
happened in 1929. I guess Myrtle and Jack got into a bit of an argument
over the bridge table."
"So what happened?"
My wife looked at me with quite the twinkle in her eye.
"She shot him."
If that was supposed to get me fired up for bridge, it wasn't
a very good strategy. My only thought was the obvious one:
Better The Swede than me. |
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