Wise Men and Other Stories (7 page)

The result of all this is that I highly recommend taking a look at where you’ve been and what’s going on around you right now. And if you need a confidence builder, make a “done” list instead of a “to do” list. List ten things that you’ve done in the past year, and then check them off.

You’ll find that you’re not drifting aimlessly through life. Whether it was conscious or not, you’ve set a course for yourself. The things that are important to you will become obvious because they will crop up again and again on your list of accomplishments. Or else you’ll notice that after listing your accomplishments, you still have an empty feeling. Some one particular thing isn’t on the list. In either case, you’ll learn what’s important to you, and you can determine whether you are on course, slightly off course, or in need of a refresher course in cartography.

In our trek through life, we tend to revisit the same places. Sometimes the best way to figure out where you’re going is to look at where you’ve already been.

One holiday season, I found myself a passenger in a car hurtling across a wintry Midwestern landscape en route to downtown Chicago where I had an appointment with destiny. Yes, my coworkers from the Northern Illinois Gas corporate communications department and I were on our way to play in the big charity fundraiser Scrabble tournament in the hoity-toity digs of the Chicago Athletic Club on Michigan Avenue. Little did I know that before the night was over, I would test my mettle in a head-to-head competition against the reigning National Scrabble Champion. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

I’m not exactly sure how I got into this thing. I am not a big Scrabble player. I had played enough, I suppose, mostly when on vacation visiting my friends, John and Julie, out in Idaho, where Scrabble made for a fun and relaxing after-dinner activity. John is author of five books and a professor of creative writing and Julie is a freelance writer/editor, so they were excellent opponents. Beyond that, I played a few friendly games now and then, but I had never been in a tournament. Not even close. But this was a charity fundraiser for the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind, and my boss got the company to sponsor a team, so there I was.

When we entered the Chicago Athletic Club, it was everything you would expect of an exclusive and historic downtown men’s athletic club. Doormen greeted us and held open the lead-glass doors. The lobby consisted of marble floors, heavy dark paneling, a thirty-foot-high ornamental ceiling, sparkling chandeliers, and hushed tones. We were led to a bank of elevators and then taken up to the fourth floor, which was decorated like the interior of a British country manor: timbered ceilings, oriental rugs, fireplaces wide enough to hang a hammock, overstuffed chairs in comfortably worn leather, and settees covered in elegant but manly silk fabric of deep maroon and dark green reminiscent of a jungle somewhere in the far reaches of the British Empire. I ordered a Beefeater and tonic and mingled while participants registered for the tournament.

I was chatting up the team from the Tribune Company when there was a major hubbub at the entrance. I made my way over and realized what was going on: the event’s guest of honor, the National Scrabble Champion, had arrived. He was an unimposing fellow…early thirties, about 5’8”, modest smile, neatly trimmed black hair that went a little too far down the back of his neck…but he was quickly surrounded by a bevy of blushing Scrabble beauties. Yes, it was mostly low heels and there may have been a little too much polyester involved—and I’m almost positive they all wore corrective lenses—but there was no mistaking the pheromones in the air. The Scrabble Champ was in the house, and it was every articulate woman for herself.

Once the hubbub of the Champ’s grand entrance subsided, the tournament organizers got on the public address system to officially welcome everyone, go over a few ground rules, and get the tournament started. We were playing in teams of three, and we would work our way up the ladder in a single-elimination tournament until we had a winner.

My teammates and I had an easy time of it against our first opponents—an overmatched trio of young copywriters from the Leo Burnett Agency. That will teach them to send children to do a senior account manager’s job. But I was worried when I was informed of our next opponent: the editors of Playboy magazine.

Think what you will of Playboy, but the fact is their magazine has a reputation for publishing high-quality fiction and nonfiction. Now we were about to sit down across a Scrabble board from their jet-setting editors. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was pretty sure it would be either a trio of bunnies in horn-rimmed glasses or Hugh Hefner himself with two of his girlfriends in “X” and “O” t-shirts. In any case, it was going to take all of our powers of concentration to focus on the game. We steeled ourselves and went to face our opponents... and soon found ourselves sitting opposite three of the nerdiest twenty-somethings you ever saw.

“You’re
the editors of Playboy?” I asked.

“Well, not
the
editors,” said the lone female editor.

“But we do a lot of the editing,” said one of the guys.

“Yeah, a lot,” said the other guy.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s play.”

They were tough opponents, and they quickly had us on the ropes. And the further into the game we got, I noticed my teammates were relying more and more on me to come up with words.

Midway through the game, our opponents put down WRINKLE and picked up 50 bonus points for using all of their letters. They high-fived each other, adjusted their glasses, and sat back to watch us squirm. We were down by forty-five points and looking at this rack: AEORRSV.

“There’s got to be something we can do with this,” I said. If nothing else, we could put an S on WRINKLE and make WRINKLES. I started moving the tiles around... VARROES... VAROSER... REVAROS...

Eventually, I came to RESAVOR and SAVORER.

“Those aren’t real words, are they?” said one of my teammates.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think they are,” I said.

We debated for a few moments which one to play. In the end, I was slightly more comfortable with SAVORER. I explained to my teammates, “You can put an ‘ER’ on almost any verb and define it as ‘One who does whatever.’” So we played SAVORER.

The Playboy editors examined the word. “Savorer,” said one of them. “One who savors. Nice play.” We got points for SAVORER, points for WRINKLES, plus 50 points for using all of our letters. We never looked back after that, and soon we were saying good-bye to the editors of Playboy magazine and moving on to the next round.

There was a bit of intermission first though, so we took a break and had another round of cocktails. I was standing next to one of the big open-hearth fireplaces at the Chicago Athletic Club, swirling my Beefeater and tonic, recounting the SAVORER/RESAVOR dilemma and our ultimate victory to anyone who would listen when we heard this announcement: “The National Scrabble Champion has graciously agreed to an exhibition to raise additional funds for the Chicago Lighthouse,” said the announcer. “The Champion will take on any and all comers in a mini-game of Scrabble for a donation of twenty dollars per entrant.” I don’t know if it was the endorphins from my recent victory or the gin, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, “I’ll play him!”

The circle of people around me applauded, and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table. While one of the organizers put my name at the top of the list of challengers, I looked over at the Champ. He was standing off to the side of the registration table. In his hand was a cola of some sort. On his face was a smug smile. And by his side were a half dozen of the best-spelling women in Illinois. I suddenly felt very overmatched. The organizer took my twenty dollars.

“Where do I go now?” I asked.

“Let me sign up the others, and then we’ll get started,” she said.

I looked behind me. There were a dozen other people waiting to sign up for the challenge.

“Looks like you have time to ‘resavor’ the moment,” said the Champ. His entourage of spelling-bee queens buzzed with laughter.

I searched my brain for a witty retort. “Yeah,” I said. And then I retreated to the men’s room to gather my wits.

Walking into the men’s room at the Chicago Athletic Club is like walking back in time. You can pull a comb out of a jar of blue disinfectant and comb your hair. You can refresh yourself with a splash of Pinaud Clubman After Shave Lotion or Clubman Citrus Musk Eau de Cologne. And best of all, you can pee into a urinal full of crushed ice.

I don’t know whose job it was to keep the urinals full of crushed ice, but if he had been present, I would have thanked him. There’s just something about melting some ice that restores a man’s confidence. I finished up, washed my hands, splashed on some cologne, and braced myself to face the National Scrabble Champion.

I walked back out into the faux English country manor that was the fourth floor of the Chicago Athletic Club and heard my name on the public address system: “Mike O’Mary…report to the registration table for the Champion Challenge!” It was time.

I strolled confidently to the table. The National Scrabble Champion was standing next to the event organizers.

“I’m Mike O’Mary,” I said to one of the organizers. She introduced me to the Champion. We shook hands.

“Thank you for supporting this event,” he said.

I wouldn’t allow myself to be thrown off by niceties. “Let’s play,” I said.

There were about one hundred people at the tournament that night, and every single one of them gathered around as the organizers led the Champ and me to a table that had been set up for the Champion Challenge. The Champ and I sat face-to-face across the small square table. One of the organizers explained the rules: the Champ and I would each get the same seven letters. We would have sixty seconds to come up with our best word. Whoever came up with the word worth the most points would be declared the winner.

While the organizer was explaining the rules, the crowd gathered tight around our little table. Some of them pressed in a little too close.

“Mmmm…someone smells good,” said a female voice behind me. I looked over my shoulder. It was an attractive black woman.

“Clubman Citrus Musk,” I said. She smiled at me. Her date, a very suave looking Billy Dee Williams type, smiled too and gave me a thumbs up.

“Could we have a little breathing room?” said the Champ. His tone conveyed that this was more than a request. Volunteers stepped in to push the crowd back. We were ready to begin.

An organizer stepped up to the table and placed seven tiles face down in front of the Champ and me. I looked up at the Champ. He looked as cool and calm as ever…imagine James Bond at a Monte Carlo baccarat table, sipping a very dry martini—except he has a little too much bristly hair going down the back of his neck and his martini is a Mr. Pibb.

“Are you ready?” asked the organizer.

“Ready,” said the Champ.

“Ready,” said I.

“Begin!” said the organizer.

The Champ and I picked up our tiles, placed them on our racks, and studied them. Neither of us moved any tiles around at first, and it occurred to me that perhaps the Champ didn’t need to rearrange tiles. Perhaps he could just see things in his head. Maybe that’s why he was the Champ. Or maybe he was just messing with my head. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me by not touching his tiles, which would make me feel self-conscious about the idea of touching my tiles, which meant I wouldn’t be able to rearrange my tiles, which would put me at a disadvantage since I normally like to move my tiles around.

“Fifty seconds,” said the organizer.

Damn! I thought to myself. I just wasted 10 seconds trying to outthink the Champ. He was good, no doubt about it. Without even trying, he had gotten into my head and thrown me off my game. But I wasn’t going to let myself get caught up in his head games…not in a sixty-second dash to Scrabble immortality. I decided right then and there that win or lose, I was going to play my way.

“Forty seconds,” said the organizer. I started rearranging my tiles.

The Champ and I were each dealt the following letters: EFIOMT. Yes, I know…that’s only six letters. There was a seventh letter, but I can’t remember what it was. It doesn’t matter anyway. Neither the Champ nor I were able to use that seventh letter, so I can pretty much guarantee that it was unusable. The Champ and I each played our hand using those six letters: EFIOMT.

I was rearranging my letters and coming up with some different options … FIT… MET… OFT… but nothing good. Meanwhile, the Champ still hadn’t lifted a finger. He just sat there studying his tiles, still trying to get into my head. But I was playing my own game…staying within myself. I kept rearranging my tiles: TOME… TIME… EMIT… MITE… OMIT…

“Thirty seconds.”

Finally, the Champ started rearranging his tiles. And oddly enough, the fact that he was following my lead bolstered my confidence. But that little boost in confidence was accompanied by a shot of adrenalin, which in turn made it more difficult to concentrate, and suddenly, I couldn’t think straight. I was losing it. I continued to rearrange my letters, but it was all nonsense: MIFO… FIMO… TIMO… TEFI… FIOT… nothing!