Where the Auction Is
The game of bridge and the human condition.
Dec 24, 2007, Vol. 13, No. 15 • By DAVID GUASPARI
The Backwash Squeeze and Other Improbable Feats
Harold Stirling Vanderbilt, yachtsman and socialite, invented contract bridge on a cruise ship waiting to transit the Panama Canal. The year was 1925, and by the end of the decade bridge had become--for all segments of society, high, low, and Hollywood--the most popular card game in America.
The Marx Brothers played enthusiastically, as did Dwight Eisenhower, Wilt Chamberlain, and Mahatma Gandhi--though never, I believe, at the same table. So did James Bond, who cheats the villainous Sir Hugo Drax in a high stakes game at Blades Club. Blades is modeled on the world's oldest bridge club, the Portland, to which Ian Fleming belonged. (Had Drax been a true expert, he'd have known the deck was stacked when he picked up his cards and saw the Duke of Cumberland hand, a famous swindle from the days of whist.)
In April 2005 things looked different. When Edward McPherson proposed to write a book on bridge, Jeff Bayone, part owner of the Manhattan Bridge Club, told him he was nuts. Bayone teaches poker, too, because poker is what's hot. Celebrities no longer play bridge. They play poker, "probably because they're nitwits." Poker is easy to follow on TV and the cable networks can't seem to get enough of shaved heads and wraparound shades and the soul-stirring drama of money changing hands. Championship Bridge with Charles Goren, featuring four decorously dressed adults who played for the equivalent of matchsticks, went off the air in 1964.
Now, says Jeff Bayone, bridge is dying. A younger generation of players "DOES. NOT. EXIST." The reason? "It takes thirty minutes to teach Texas Hold'em, and in an hour you can be as good as fifty percent of the people playing the game. That would take years of study in bridge."
All of which made McPherson's project admirably countercultural. And of course, James McManus had already done the poker bestseller, Positively Fifth Street. Advance publicity for The Backwash Squeeze treats Fifth Street as its fraternal twin, a comparison misleading in every possible way--most importantly because McManus, a lifelong amateur player, writes about a mania from within its grip, while McPherson is a novice under no compulsion to play bridge, a bemused anthropologist touring the game's subcultures.
That territory is varied. "Rubber bridge" can be played for simple social fellowship or (at tony private venues such as the Portland or New York's Regency Whist Club) for serious money. Four players partner one another in turn, which demands flexibility and a "table presence" attuned to each player's strengths and weaknesses. "Duplicate bridge" is the format for tournaments, which are mainly contests for glory and rankings. It reduces the luck of the deal: Partnerships are fixed, and the hands are dealt once and circulated, to be played repeatedly by different competitors. A pair's score on any hand is determined by how well it did in comparison with those who held the same cards.
Increasingly, both forms are played online, where one might find oneself at a virtual table with enthusiasts Bill Gates (screen name Chalengr) or Warren Buffett (T Bone).
Accordingly, McPherson seeks out not only experts but also ordinary amateurs, with an emphasis on spunky old ladies. Prominent among those is Tina, an octogenarian in his beginners class who became his regular playing partner. Reserved, intelligent, with a dry sense of humor, a season's subscriber to several off-off Broadway theaters, Tina is the sort of person about whom there seems always something new and surprising to be learned. The book's slender narrative chronicles their growing friendship.
"You're the only person in the world," she once says, "who knows this much about me." That story concludes with their trip to Chicago, full of trepidation, to enter a beginner's event at the North American Bridge Championships.
Some of McPherson's anthropology is clichéd. Do we need yet another comic take on flabby vacationers in a tacky American tourist town? And vignettes of "ruthless" old ladies at an afternoon tournament and "brilliant" play by the author's friend's nonagenarian grandmother raise the question: How would he know?
But his descriptions of the stratosphere--the money game at fancy clubs or at London's raffish TGR, the tournament circuit and its stars--are absorbing. He presents the professional Michael Polowan, for example, as an artist for art's sake. Polowan rarely plays for cash and never hustles--always making sure that the other players in a money game know just who he is. His living comes primarily from fees for partnering others in tournaments, but he deliberately limits that income because too much time with weaker players takes the edge off his game.