I left the glistening white tile floors, cool marble walls, ice-filled urinals, free cologne and solitude of the men’s restroom and walked back out into the faux English country manor that was the fourth floor of the Chicago Athletic Club, the heavy scent of Clubman Citrus Musk trailing behind me. It was time.
I heard my name of the public address system: “Mike O’Mary…report to the registration table for the Champion Challenge!”
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.
“Let’s play,” I said.
There were about 100 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 60 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 with their arms out to push the crowd back. We were ready to begin.
The 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 – but with a little too much bristly hair going down the back of his neck.
“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 the rack 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 selfconscious 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 60-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!
“Twenty seconds!”
I realized this was probably just as the Champ had planned. He was playing it cool, and I had played right into his hands. But I refused to give up. Focus, I said to myself. Concentrate. That’s when I heard the little voice in my head.
“See the word.”
It started as a whisper, but it kept repeating and it grew louder and more drawn out with each repeat: “Seeeeee the wooooord.”
It kept running through my head over and over again – but then I realized the voice wasn’t coming from inside my head…it was coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around and watched as Billy Dee Williams did a stage whisper: “Seeeeeeeee the wooooooord.”
It was meant to be supportive, and I realized then that he and most of the rest of the people in the room were all pulling for me to knock off this Scrabble gunslinger of a champion who had blown into town intent on showing off his erudite ways and wooing all of our intelligent women, only to blow out of town the next day, leaving in his wake a trail of scattered Scrabble tiles, disillusioned lady literati, and humiliated but fragrant men. So I should have been flattered. But instead, I found the whispering very distracting, and the clock was counting down.
“Ten seconds,” said the organizer.
“Seeeeee the wooooooord,” said Billy Dee.
“Everything all right over there?” asked the Champ.
“Could we have quiet, please?” I yelled.
The room fell dead silent. My powers of concentration came back in a rush, and I could see not only the word, but the theme of my entire life. The structure, the design, the grand pattern…it was all perfectly clear now.
“Time,” said the organizer. “Put down your words.”
“After you,” said the Champ.
I smiled, calmly selected my tiles one-by-one, and laid down my word: MOTIF.
Billy Dee Williams and his date and the 98 other onlookers broke into a round of applause.
“Nicely done,” said the Champ.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Now for your word,” said the organizer to the Champ.
The Champ didn’t bother with putting down his tiles one-by-one. He picked them all up in one hand and laid them before us in an omnipotent motion, as if to say, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was…FOMITE.”
FOMITE?
“What the fuck is FOMITE?” I said, before I could stop myself.
There was a quiet gasp from the audience at my crude inquiry. The organizers and volunteers instinctively moved in, lest I pull a blade and try to cut the Champ.
“It’s an inanimate object that serves to transmit infectious organisms,” said the Champ.
“It’s in the dictionary,” said somebody in the audience, holding up a pocket electronic Scrabble Dictionary.
“FOMITE?” I said. But the world was already moving on.
“Good game,” said the Champ. He stood and held out his hand to me. I stood up and shook his hand, then one of the organizers yelled, “Next!” and I was ushered away.
I won’t bore you with details of the rest of the Scrabble tournament at the Chicago Athletic Club in 1998. Most of the details of the remainder of that evening are kind of fuzzy in my memory anyway. I know that we lost our third round game by a wide margin, and I recall that my coworkers observed a somber and respectful silence on the drive home later that night. But the thing that sticks with me most was my walk through the crowd after my loss to the Champ. The Tribune Company representatives gave me a pat on the back as I went by. The young copywriters from Leo Burnett shook my hand and said, “Better than we could have done.” The editors of Playboy magazine were genuinely bummed: “We thought you had him with ‘MOTIF,’ man!” And one of my coworkers came over and put an arm around me and asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need a minute.” So they all went off a left me alone by the fireplace with my thoughts. I wasn’t alone for long though. I soon sensed a presence behind me. I turned around and saw Billy Dee Williams and his girlfriend.
“FOMITE,” said Billy Dee. He was shaking his head in a motion that conveyed both disbelief and sympathy.
“Yeah, FOMITE,” I said.
Billy Dee shook his head again. “That’s rough,” he said.
“Yeah,” said his girlfriend.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Billy Dee.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ll just keep playing.”
Billy Dee nodded. “That’s right, man. Just keep playing.” He gave me a fist bump.
“You, too,” I said. “See the word.”
Billy Dee nodded again. “That’s right,” he said. Then he turned to his girlfriend. “C’mom, Baby. We got a game to play.”
They turned to walk away, but his girlfriend looked back over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Bye, honey,” she said. Then she turned to Billy Dee Williams and whispered, “You should get you some of that Clubman stuff.”
Billy Dee turned to his girlfriend. “How many letters in ‘Clubman,’ Baby?” he asked.
“Seven,” she said.
“That’s right, Baby,” said Billy Dee. “Seven.” He smiled at her and she smiled back, and then the two of them walked back in to the Scrabble tournament and out of my life.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Scrabble Memories - Part Two
Winter 1998...Chicago Athletic Club...Round Two of the Scrabble Tournament...
My team won its first-round game against the young copywriters from the Leo Burnett ad agency, but our second-round opponent promised to be more formidable. We were going up against the editors of Playboy magazine.
Think what you will of Playboy, but the fact is their magazine had 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 as teammates. In any case, it was going to take all of our powers of concentration to focus on the game. We steeled ourselves and we 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 45 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 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 100 percent sure, but I think so," 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 $20 per entrant." I don't know if it was the gin or the endorphins from my recent victory, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, "I'll play him!"
There was a round of applause and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table again where I paid my $20 and gave my name. While one of the organizers was taking my money and putting 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 club soda with a twist of lemon. 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 $20.
"Where do I go now?" I asked.
"Let me sign up the others, 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 Clubman Citrus Musk and went back out to face the National Scrabble Champion.
[Next time: The third and final chapter of the Scrabble saga, in which a little voice inside his head helps Mike find the right word, and the Scrabble Champ teeters on the edge of defeat...]
My team won its first-round game against the young copywriters from the Leo Burnett ad agency, but our second-round opponent promised to be more formidable. We were going up against the editors of Playboy magazine.
Think what you will of Playboy, but the fact is their magazine had 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 as teammates. In any case, it was going to take all of our powers of concentration to focus on the game. We steeled ourselves and we 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 45 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 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 100 percent sure, but I think so," 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 $20 per entrant." I don't know if it was the gin or the endorphins from my recent victory, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, "I'll play him!"
There was a round of applause and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table again where I paid my $20 and gave my name. While one of the organizers was taking my money and putting 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 club soda with a twist of lemon. 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 $20.
"Where do I go now?" I asked.
"Let me sign up the others, 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 Clubman Citrus Musk and went back out to face the National Scrabble Champion.
[Next time: The third and final chapter of the Scrabble saga, in which a little voice inside his head helps Mike find the right word, and the Scrabble Champ teeters on the edge of defeat...]
Friday, February 6, 2009
My Encounter With "The Greatest"
I know I promised "Scrabble Memories - Part Two" -- and it's coming. But first, this (inspired by my friend, Stephen Parrish):
In 1977, I had a summer job as a bank teller at Citizens' Fidelity Bank in Louisville. My uncle was a vice president at the bank ("Citizens' Infidelity" he used to call it, and he liked to point out that almost everybody who worked at a bank got to be a vice president), and he helped me get the job. It was a good gig. The bank had 50-some-odd branches spread out around town, and my job was to fill in for other tellers when they went on vacation.
Some branches were better than others. Some were worse. Nice thing was that everywhere I went, they were glad to see me because I was extra help. And I had some memorable stays. I had been at the drive-through branch out on Dixie Highway, the main road going southwest out of Louisville toward Fort Knox, for about a week -- long enough to start to bond with some of my coworkers. Then one day in August, we got the news about Elvis' death. That was a rough day. Not so much for me -- I liked Elvis well enough, but I wasn't his biggest fan -- but for the female tellers between the ages of 30 and 50 (which was all of them). It was the worst day of their lives so far. You never saw so much crying. It was rough for me because I was the only one who could keep it together enough to wait on customers that day.
Toward the end of the summer, I was at the branch at Broadway and Fourth Street, Louisville's main downtown intersection. Despite its premier location, the branch was rather nondescript. And the manager was a crabby, balding, middle-aged guy. All business. Which was fine. I was just winding down the time until I returned to college that fall. I just wanted to finish out the week and get going. Then something extraordinary happened.
It was business as usual on a Friday afternoon when I looked up and saw someone coming in the main entrance. Not just any someone though. It was Muhammad Ali. You would never know he was one of the most famous people in the world though. He entered quietly...very unassuming...no entourage...and stepped up to one of the teller windows. He asked if he could cash a check. The teller was flustered. It was Muhammad Ali...and he wanted to cash a check...but it wasn't a Citizens' Fidelity account. The teller said, "Of course...I'll just need to get the manager's approval."
The crabby middle-aged manager was already hovering nearby, smiling and hoping there might be a reason for him to step in -- it was Muhammad Ali, for Christ's sake! The manager was apprised of the situation, and said, "Of course...I'll just need to call the main office and get it approved." Muhammad Ali had a seat at the branch manager's desk while the manager called the main office.
It was then that I made my move. I wasn't supposed to do this, but I didn't want to miss the opportunity. I put up my "closed" sign, locked my drawer, left the teller area and went out into the lobby. I walked straight over to Muhammad Ali while the manager was on the phone, stuck out my hand and said, "I'd just like to shake hands with the Greatest."
Muhammad Ali said, "Why thank you, son." Then he smiled and shook my hand.
The manager got off the phone. "It's no problem, Mr. Ali -- or is it Mr. Muhammad? In any case, we will be happy to cash your check."
No kidding, I was thinking. His signature is probably worth more than the stupid check anyway.
The branch manager escorted Muhammad Ali back over to the teller windows to cash the check. The manager and the tellers were all pleased as punch to be cashing a check for Muhammad Ali -- now that it had been approved by the main office. Muhammad Ali was very gracious. And before we knew it, he was on his way out the door, and the Broadway branch was back to being its nondescript self.
I later learned that the reason Muhammad Ali came into our branch to cash a check that day was because he was shopping at the store next door. He decided to buy a fur coat for his wife -- but they wouldn't take his check. So he came into our bank to see if he could cash a check, where despite the assurances of everyone that "of course!" he could, I actually don't think the odds were better than 50/50. Fortunately, somebody as the main office had the good sense to realize that it was embarrassing enough -- to the bank, to Louisville and to our nation -- that Muhammad Ali had to come in, hat in hand, and ask if he could cash a check. Imagine how much more embarrassing it would have been to all involved had somebody said, "No." So I'm glad it turned out the way it did. Muhammad Ali cashed his check, then went back to the furrier and bought his wife a fur.
But a lot of things bothered me about that day. The obvious things bothered me, of course. That a stupid shop owner would refuse to take Muhammad Ali's check. And that a stupid branch manager would have to call the main office to get approval to cash the check. But beyond that, I wondered why Muhammad Ali put up with all of it. Why did he shop at a store that wasn't thrilled to have him as a customer? And why did he go into a bank that wasn't thrilled to serve him? And probably most of all, why did he go back to the shop after he cashed his check at the bank and buy something from a place that essentially refused to serve him? And on top of all that, why did Muhammad Ali put himself in a position where he would have to seek permission and approval of white authority figures? Couldn't he have gone into the store with a credit card? Or cash? Or have somebody do his shopping for him?
At first, those seem impossible questions to answer. But having grown up in Louisville myself, I know the answer. Muhammad Ali may be one of the most famous people in the world, but we never forget our roots. And the fact is, he was born and raised in Louisville, where black people -- even Muhammad Ali -- expected (and were expected) to seek the permission and approval of white authority figures. That's the way it was the day Muhammad Ali wanted to buy a gift for his wife...that's the way it was every day leading up to that day...and sadly, it's still too much that way in Louisville -- and in way too many other places -- to this day.
In 1977, I had a summer job as a bank teller at Citizens' Fidelity Bank in Louisville. My uncle was a vice president at the bank ("Citizens' Infidelity" he used to call it, and he liked to point out that almost everybody who worked at a bank got to be a vice president), and he helped me get the job. It was a good gig. The bank had 50-some-odd branches spread out around town, and my job was to fill in for other tellers when they went on vacation.
Some branches were better than others. Some were worse. Nice thing was that everywhere I went, they were glad to see me because I was extra help. And I had some memorable stays. I had been at the drive-through branch out on Dixie Highway, the main road going southwest out of Louisville toward Fort Knox, for about a week -- long enough to start to bond with some of my coworkers. Then one day in August, we got the news about Elvis' death. That was a rough day. Not so much for me -- I liked Elvis well enough, but I wasn't his biggest fan -- but for the female tellers between the ages of 30 and 50 (which was all of them). It was the worst day of their lives so far. You never saw so much crying. It was rough for me because I was the only one who could keep it together enough to wait on customers that day.
Toward the end of the summer, I was at the branch at Broadway and Fourth Street, Louisville's main downtown intersection. Despite its premier location, the branch was rather nondescript. And the manager was a crabby, balding, middle-aged guy. All business. Which was fine. I was just winding down the time until I returned to college that fall. I just wanted to finish out the week and get going. Then something extraordinary happened.
It was business as usual on a Friday afternoon when I looked up and saw someone coming in the main entrance. Not just any someone though. It was Muhammad Ali. You would never know he was one of the most famous people in the world though. He entered quietly...very unassuming...no entourage...and stepped up to one of the teller windows. He asked if he could cash a check. The teller was flustered. It was Muhammad Ali...and he wanted to cash a check...but it wasn't a Citizens' Fidelity account. The teller said, "Of course...I'll just need to get the manager's approval."
The crabby middle-aged manager was already hovering nearby, smiling and hoping there might be a reason for him to step in -- it was Muhammad Ali, for Christ's sake! The manager was apprised of the situation, and said, "Of course...I'll just need to call the main office and get it approved." Muhammad Ali had a seat at the branch manager's desk while the manager called the main office.
It was then that I made my move. I wasn't supposed to do this, but I didn't want to miss the opportunity. I put up my "closed" sign, locked my drawer, left the teller area and went out into the lobby. I walked straight over to Muhammad Ali while the manager was on the phone, stuck out my hand and said, "I'd just like to shake hands with the Greatest."
Muhammad Ali said, "Why thank you, son." Then he smiled and shook my hand.
The manager got off the phone. "It's no problem, Mr. Ali -- or is it Mr. Muhammad? In any case, we will be happy to cash your check."
No kidding, I was thinking. His signature is probably worth more than the stupid check anyway.
The branch manager escorted Muhammad Ali back over to the teller windows to cash the check. The manager and the tellers were all pleased as punch to be cashing a check for Muhammad Ali -- now that it had been approved by the main office. Muhammad Ali was very gracious. And before we knew it, he was on his way out the door, and the Broadway branch was back to being its nondescript self.
I later learned that the reason Muhammad Ali came into our branch to cash a check that day was because he was shopping at the store next door. He decided to buy a fur coat for his wife -- but they wouldn't take his check. So he came into our bank to see if he could cash a check, where despite the assurances of everyone that "of course!" he could, I actually don't think the odds were better than 50/50. Fortunately, somebody as the main office had the good sense to realize that it was embarrassing enough -- to the bank, to Louisville and to our nation -- that Muhammad Ali had to come in, hat in hand, and ask if he could cash a check. Imagine how much more embarrassing it would have been to all involved had somebody said, "No." So I'm glad it turned out the way it did. Muhammad Ali cashed his check, then went back to the furrier and bought his wife a fur.
But a lot of things bothered me about that day. The obvious things bothered me, of course. That a stupid shop owner would refuse to take Muhammad Ali's check. And that a stupid branch manager would have to call the main office to get approval to cash the check. But beyond that, I wondered why Muhammad Ali put up with all of it. Why did he shop at a store that wasn't thrilled to have him as a customer? And why did he go into a bank that wasn't thrilled to serve him? And probably most of all, why did he go back to the shop after he cashed his check at the bank and buy something from a place that essentially refused to serve him? And on top of all that, why did Muhammad Ali put himself in a position where he would have to seek permission and approval of white authority figures? Couldn't he have gone into the store with a credit card? Or cash? Or have somebody do his shopping for him?
At first, those seem impossible questions to answer. But having grown up in Louisville myself, I know the answer. Muhammad Ali may be one of the most famous people in the world, but we never forget our roots. And the fact is, he was born and raised in Louisville, where black people -- even Muhammad Ali -- expected (and were expected) to seek the permission and approval of white authority figures. That's the way it was the day Muhammad Ali wanted to buy a gift for his wife...that's the way it was every day leading up to that day...and sadly, it's still too much that way in Louisville -- and in way too many other places -- to this day.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Scrabble Memories - Part One
It was January 1998 and 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 was 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 was an English professor 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 30-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 maroons and dark greens 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 30s, 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 glasses – 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 in our first match – 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.
[Next posting: Part 2 of “Scrabble Memories,” in which Mike faces Hugh Hefner’s best and brightest, and in an unexpected turn of events, finds himself going one-on-one against the National Champion.]
I’m not exactly sure how I got into this thing. I was 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 was an English professor 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 30-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 maroons and dark greens 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 30s, 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 glasses – 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 in our first match – 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.
[Next posting: Part 2 of “Scrabble Memories,” in which Mike faces Hugh Hefner’s best and brightest, and in an unexpected turn of events, finds himself going one-on-one against the National Champion.]
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