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...]