The Cribbage Tournament

Non-Fiction - 2,200 words

The year was 1991 and we didn't know anything. But we knew we needed to try, so, we found things worth our effort. We were an audacious 12, or as audacious as 12-year-olds can be in rural Wisconsin. Something about audacity requires an audience to be fully realized. There was no one around to realize us, or who had time to dote on us, so we doted on ourselves. We taught ourselves all the games and then got good at our favorites. Jeff and I found cribbage to be of certain stimuli; the combination of math, strategy, and trash talk was too much to ignore. Could it be the perfect game? Well-paced for chatting, or with drinking-as I would later learn. But when I was 12, I was all about winning, and the pride that comes with besting your friends.

Even still, we wanted nothing more than to prove ourselves against the greater world, so we created ways to make ourselves better. We hammered each other over miscounting, inflicting penalties for bad math. Everything was on the table, criticism beyond the pale drove all sides to further themselves. Improve or die.

We had sharpened ourselves against each other, it was time to cut a swath through the rest of the world. We would get our chance on a balmy day in May. I first learned of the contest after Mr. Loomis’ math class.

“Did you see this?” Jeff said as he plopped the newspaper on top of the book I was reading.

“Nope, what is it?” I asked looking up to see his blue eyes alight.

“Look for yourself,” I shook off his gruffness and scanned the paper. It was the schedule of events for the town's annual Memorial Day celebrations. The three-day extravaganza would be jam packed with rustic charm, all leading up to the parade on Monday.

“Less a month away, yippy,” I said hoping he would clue me in.

“Just read it, will you?” His toothy grin was gone, now replaced by a scowl. I scanned the document. Sailboat regatta, lake run, street dance, beer garden. It all seemed run of the mill.

“Axe throwing?” I asked.

“No. We can do that anytime. Keep reading.”

I thought it could be the wild game talk at the VFW, but then I spied the key words, “Cribbage Tournament?!”

“Yessir. And one of us is going to win it,” he said thumbing himself. “If you manage to cheat your way to the top, I expect half your winnings-on account of telling you about it.” Ever the hustler, Jeff smiled coyly.

“How did you hear about this?”

“None of your beeswax. But, Grandma; it is sponsored by the retirement home.”

“Cool,” I said, returning the paper. “So, there will be loads of old people?”

“Yup. Who knows if they can even see their cards let alone stay awake through a game?”

“Imagine the side bets.”

“Right? These crones are always packing an extra $10. We got this in the bag.” He stared at the listing for a moment before shoving it in his pocket. Jeff looked at me coldly, “Tell no one.”

“I promise.”

“Let's practice this weekend. My house?” he started moving to the door as the bell rang.

“Deal.”

“Yes, you will,” He said without looking back and kicked the door open to exit.

We were relentless the next three weeks. We would play full tournaments on a Friday night, before and after the movie. We'd play on beautiful spring days, then pitch a round of baseball, and back to the board to peg another win. Relentless in our pursuit, we watched for patterns, subtle tells, all the favorite positions the other sought. Jeff lured me constantly with offers to cut the deck. His confidence was blooming, and his older brother Steve took notice. Seeing how engaged we were, he turned our emotions against us on the ride to the tournament.

“Bet you $20 those old farts skunk you in the first round,” Steve eyed us in the rearview mirror.

“No way!” Jeff said without missing a step. “$20 says I finish in the money.”

“Bet,” Steve smiled. “Easiest $20 I ever made,” Steve herkie-jerked the wheel of his El Camino, causing Jeff and I to smack our heads on our respective windows. Jeff’s brother had way of making you feel smaller than a person should allow. “How much is the grand prize?”

“Entry is $5 per person. I can only imagine what the total pot will be,” Jeff said rubbing his head.

“Do you think the prize could reach $100?” I ask.

“Yeah, way more. That's only 20 entries. I bet there will be 100 entries.”

“Whoa, we could win $500?”

“Well, that would be the total. They have to pay to rent the picnic house, that's 20 bones, plus expenses.”

“Huh?”

“You know, electricity for lights,” he said pointing up.

“Right,” I was not sure what I was agreeing to. “What if there were 500 entries?

“Oh, dude, there totally could be.”

“That's $2500!”

“I can do math,” Jeff snarled has the car stopped at the beach parking lot. We stepped out of the El Camino into a chilly May morning. It was cold, even for SL.

“Patty will pick you up at 4:00,” Steve flipped us the bird and tore out of the lot.

“Half-wit,” Jeff muttered under his breath as we sauntered toward the lake. The sky was grey in anticipation, churning like my stomach. Our destination was the warming house, a long, one-story log cabin adjacent to the water’s edge. The building was a catchall for events and gatherings in town. We were so ready to rule this roost.

The possible totals continued to bounce in my head. What if there were 2,500 signups? So silly. There was only 1,100 people in town, why would another 1,400 people come here for a cribbage tourney? I shook off the notion when we opened the doors. I pictured a grander display. There were half a dozen Gray Hairs putzing about, emptying mouse traps and filling coffee. No sign of an open chest with bundles of cash... No one gave us a serious eye; we were used to that; it is one of our motivators. Jeff was patient for only a moment.

“Excuse me,” he said approaching the welcome table. It was guarded by an prudent looking woman in a dark woolen sweater with a large brooch. “We'd like to register for the tournament,” Jeff said cheerfully. Her quick eyes examined him in a glance and she continued her organizing of the cashbox. Then, the woman paused for a moment, as if her system glitched. The suspense was killing us. She continued moving bills and shuffling the tickets for a moment before responding.

“I think you have the wrong building,” she said finally looking to him. Her sharp movements seemed to slice away the air in the room, I instinctively took a step back. Jeff, never deterred, took the newspaper clipping from his wallet.

“I believe you are mistaken,” he said laying the page of the newsprint on the table. “Here, in black and white,” The woman looked to the page and nodded.

“Yes, that's us,” she said ripping out pairs of tickets before abruptly turning to call, “Wanda!” A pudgy woman with an easy smile rounded the doorway.

“Yes, Sarah?”

“These are for the raffle, competitors get a free one with entry,” Sarah looked coldly to Wendy. “This time, make sure they each buy a second, they all have an extra 10 bucks on them.”

“Sure thing, Sarah,” Wanda gave a fake grin as she picked up the tickets. Sarah's frosty glow extended beyond Jeff and I, that was good to know.

“You were saying,” Jeff said as politely as a rebuffed 12-year-old can.

“That is us,” she replied coldly. “But, it is not you. This tournament is for retirement aged peoples only.”

“It doesn't say that anywhere,” Jeff was getting flustered. Steve's comments had not set him well and this new information was creeping into his nerves. I know he was feeling all kinds of ways. His bet with his brother was looking grim; this was not a loss, but Steve was not one to entertain semantics. $20 loss, ugh. To your older brother, double ugh. I could feel him start to count the changes in his wallet.

“It doesn't have to say it. Everyone knows it,” her eyes left Jeff and set up on something behind us. I looked to see a few pairs of elderly folks, one with a walker, both with sunglasses. “We do this every year. I think your building is over there,” she pointed out the window to the snack shack.

“But, we have money,” Jeff said pleading as he showed her his money.

"In that case," her eyes were void of any responsibility toward us. “You can sponsor one of our contestants.” I was blown away with her forwardness.

“No, thanks,” Jeff said. He turned and stuffed the $5 bill back in his wallet. We exited in silence but had no place to go. Patty was instructed not to return for hours, because we’d expected to compete deep into the afternoon. Jeff sped up while walking through the park, I tried to keep pace, but it was clear he wanted to be alone. I knew what I needed to do.

After I returned from a 10-minute sojourn to the snack shack I found him at the water’s edge. I pulled out an ice cream sandwich and unwrapped it. I offered him the prize, but he declined, as I knew he would. I had a plan. I ate the sandwich in silence, he wouldn't be able to resist what else I brought.

“What a rotten joke,” he said flicking a stick to the water. I knew his pride was such that he would not accept even a gift from the snack shack, so I playfully ate my victory. I was mad about the dismissal, but I allowed him to carry the disgruntlement for the both of us. Funny how anger must be possessed by a soul. Somehow the rage is comforting, useful fuel as one pines about revenge.

I finished my first sandwich, pulled out a second and started right in. I could feel Jeff's lusty eyes inspect me with disdain.

“Trying to make heavyweight next year?” He sneered as he snagged the ice cream sandwich and devoured it in two bites. “There, don't say I never did anything for you,” he muttered with a full mouth. I nodded and pried out the real prize, an oversized Oatmeal Cream Pie.

“Cookiepie?” I offered.

“Hell, yes!” he said. The light of old flashed on his face, it was nice to see Jeff again. We snacked in silence for a time. The cold lake was warming but it would be weeks before swimming would be tolerated. The sky remained overcast, as did our attitudes, but I tried to crack it.

“Next year we should host our own tournament,” I said half joking. Jeff paused and looked to the waves.

“Shockingly, that is a good idea,” he spoke frankly, certain never to give me much compliment. I nodded at his approval.

“Thanks. We could even reserve the warming house now, so the old fogies would be the ones crying in their milk.”

“I'm not crying!” Jeff snapped back.

“Yeah? Tell that to the tears on your jacket,” I said playfully. I knew this was the moment. He would either turn to fury, or he would smile and punch me.

“Get bent,” he smiled and tried to hammer a charley-horse on my thigh.

“No, thanks,” I said mockingly. “I'm too busy planning next year's big tournament.” I stood and brushed the sand off me. Jeff did the same. The day was wavering, but the sky shone brighter on our full stomachs, now sated by cheap sugar and lousy fat. We were already a success. Now what?

Jeff looked to the horizon at the far end of the lake. “I got five bucks burning a hole in my pocket. What say we go get a couple cheeseburgers to wash down that ice cream?”

“Deal!” I smiled.

“Yes, you will. Gotta get your game up if you expect to beat me in next year's tournament.” Jeff grinned and started walking toward the snack shack. I watched for a moment wondering why my 12-year-old friend was already more of a man than most of the men I knew. I sprinted to catch up and walk at his side. I don't recall if the burgers were good. The rest of that day is a blur. We never hosted a cribbage tournament of our own, instead we hustled our way through Jeff's grandmother’s rest home on visiting days.

I realize now it wasn't about the winning, the money, or the trash talking. It wasn't about cribbage or cards. All we were doing was finding excuses to play together. Our motive was spending time with each other outside prescribed interaction. We sought reasons to share the same place in time, call it ours. Our bond is proven it by the memory we keep, and the longing for the next hand. Here's to you, Jeff Naglosky, wherever you find yourself today.