Booya!
Yesterday, a daughter sent me a cryptic reminder of my first-ever appearance at the Twin Cities’ Scrabble Club. (In those happier, pre-North American Scrabble schism days, it was the NSA-sanctioned[1] Club 42. The date: December 15, 1998. The place: the dank basement of the Minneapolis Bridge Center.)
This post is adapted from my email response to my daughters (it has been lighty-edited, festooned with footnotes, and extended by an out-of-place memorial tribute to my Aunt Barbara). It is not another excerpt from my incomplete memoir.[2]
One night in Minneapolis
A true story, embellished
“Steve Bachman, you have a phone call.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, “thanks.”
Steve, playing at the Minneapolis club for the very first time, walks across the room as his opponent, [redacted], fumes. Much later he will understand that she is mentally ill.[3]
He picks up the phone and says, “this is Steve,” while thinking “what fresh hell is this?” and “when did I give the girls this number?”
It’s not the girls. The voice at the other end of a 15-mile line is one of an adult; a woman. It sounds as if she’s wearing a uniform. She is probably banging a billy club in her open palm and thinking, “I oughta raise a knot on this guy’s head—leaving his 14- and 13-year-old daughters[4] home alone while he’s at a ‘Scrabble club.’ Uh huh, sure. I’ve heard a few euphemisms for ‘strip club’ in my time, but that’s a first.”
But the voice doesn’t betray her true feelings. She says, “Mr Bachman, I am Deputy Hangem of the Ramsey County Sheriff’s department…”
His sphincter snaps shut with an audible “thwaak.” The room full of Scrabble-playing strangers spins a bit. His opponent is probably thinking of overturning their table.
Deputy Hangem continues, “Your daughters are okay,"—he’s pretty sure she’s holding off, for the moment, on the ‘but your ass is grass’ part—“but Nicole cut her finger.”
“Off?” he thinks, “But I just rented a clarinet for her! I probably won’t get a refund.” His sphincter is quivering now.
“It won’t require stitches. It bled a lot, which must’ve been scary. Her sister Tammy called 9-1-1; the right thing to do. I’ve stopped the bleeding and they both are calm now. They’re troopers!”
He is heaving a sigh of relief. The danger of soiling his pants has passed. His opponent is tapping her foot. Tim Adamson is picturing pages 167-168 of the Scrabble dictionary in his mind. Bob Lundegaard is playing a bingo as Victor congratulates him on his “fantastic tile drawing!” Lisa Odom is killing an opponent with kindness and a barrage of jaw-dropping plays.
At length he explains to Deputy Hangem that he is 25 minutes away in south Minneapolis, but he will phone their mother who lives only five minutes away from them in St Paul. If he can’t reach her, he will head home. And he thanks her before she hands the phone to Nicole, who tells him she was washing the cheap food slicer they bought at the state fair and it sliced her finger, that she is okay, and that she is sorry.
He forgives her.
Moments later, after their mother promised to (at least) call the girls, he returns to his game. He manages to win it, which doesn’t make his angry opponent any happier.[5] He thinks “Booya!” and, “I should have asked Deputy Hangem for her number. She has a nice voice.”
My aunt, Barbara Sue (Cagle) Elmore, died this past Thursday in Atlanta, Georgia. She was 76. She leaves behind her husband of 56 years, two children, and several grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She is missed. I leave this post to the memory of her.
Click on photo to see a larger, captioned version.
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Notes
- Not NSA as in the National Security Agency. NSA the Hasbro-sponsored National Scrabble Association. Hasbro defunded it, and an autocratic Texan founded the North American Scrabble Players Association (NASPA; there is no apostrophe after Players in the name). It has Hasbro’s imprimatur. A true players’ organization was formed in response to widespread dissatisfaction with NASPA. The Word Game Players’ Association (WGPO; apostrophe included) was formed. The schism has existed for more than a decade. [^]
- Some form of it may pad out my memoir if I try to finish it. See The Big Snow or 61* - Hero or Antihero?. [^]
- I do hope this player has found peace. [^]
- I was surprised to do the math and realize Nicole was 14 and Tamara was 13 on that evening. It was the first time I had left them home alone for an evening. I wasn’t dating much. They were, at the time, “latch-key kids” who spent an hour or two alone in our house after school. But I was nervous about leaving them alone from 6:30-10:30 pm. I needn’t have been. [^]
- I went 1-2 my first night at the club, losing to Jim Kramer—who was later National Champion—by a 283-387 score. I then beat [redacted] 393-243 in my second game, and lost to the late Dawn Gewecke 350-378 in the nightcap. [^]
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