You Don't Play Bridge? Well, It's Not Important

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
date (prob.) Feb 1952

   THERE ARE crosses one must bear which leave permanent scars and make one yearn for the life of a lighthouse keeper on some rockbound and inaccessible reef.
   Mine is a colossal ineptitude at the bridge table, from which prospective participants have been known to scatter like hares before the hounds at my approach.
   You may write this attitude off as complete nonsense. What matters it, in these times of crises, cold war and one dollar hamburger whether one can play bridge? There are, after all, really important things to do.
   I have attempted, as a defense measure, to assume this state of mind. However, one cannot forever go around stoop-shouldered with responsibility just because the war in Korea may become World War III. Man is a social being and is sometimes forced to act like one even when bridge is involved. And my pride, though flattened repeatedly, still survives. When some galoot sitting opposite me, whom I have appraised as no smarter than I, looks at the ceiling and sighs patronizingly when I trump his ace, I long to go home and cry into my pillow. A small thing, really, a mere dagger thrust to the vitals.

   I GAIN a measure of solace, however, from the fact that my partner in life is, herself, as awe-inspiring a blank at bridge as I am. The only time I can play the game comfortably is when she is my partner. Who is she to frown when I am set four tricks? And who am I to point the accusing finger when she, with a bust hand, jumps my bid?
   In a moment of madness last winter--after we had gained delusions of competence by playing, now and again, with a couple about as dumb as we were--we accepted membership in a bridge club. My brother-in-law, curse his iniquitous soul, tendered the invitation. He eased our doubts with assurances that the paramount aim at these once-a-month functions was sociability, that bridge was strictly secondary, and that if we slipped occasionally it didn't matter. "We don't play seriously at all," he said. "It's strictly for fun."

 For him and the others it may have been. For the Guthries it was blood, sweat and fumbleitis. The only times we shined was at the dessert luncheon preceding the fiasco. The wife and I yield to no one when it comes to stashing away groceries, but even the delight of dipping into the cuisine was dulled by thoughts of the approaching ignominy.

   LET ME give quick assurance that our fellows in the bridge club were sound and gracious citizens, with astounding tolerance for our miscues. But they came to play bridge and did not care, overmuch, to mix it with conversation about the weather, and little Joe's recent bout with the mumps.
   They played with rapidity and chilling efficiency. And after a hand had been played they could post-mortem the operation right down to the last trick. The only thing I am reasonably sure of, at the conclusion of each round of play, is that I originally held 13 cards. How many honors? I couldn't say. I am not one to mull over the past.
   Well, demons for punishment that we are, we finished the season out and then resigned, saying that I had come down with a slight case of leprosy. They expressed regret but in their hearts they knew relief. We hold no grudge and if they do, we don't blame them.

   WE DON'T play bridge any more. We have entered new fields. Happily--although it took a bit of doing--we have found two other couples with no more card sense than we have--and we play canasta. At least we call it that. I saw recently where they changed the rules or something but gave the item small heed. I knew none of us would understand.
   We have dessert, too, just like at the bridge club, and approve this practice heartily.


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