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.]