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 twenty dollars per entrant.” I don’t know if it was the endorphins from my recent victory or the gin, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, “I’ll play him!”
The circle of people around me applauded, and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table. While one of the organizers put 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 cola of some sort. 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 twenty dollars.
“Where do I go now?” I asked.
“Let me sign up the others, and 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 cologne, and braced myself to face the National Scrabble Champion.
I walked back out into the faux English country manor that was the fourth floor of the Chicago Athletic Club and heard my name on the public address system: “Mike O’Mary…report to the registration table for the Champion Challenge!” It was time.
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.
I wouldn’t allow myself to be thrown off by niceties. “Let’s play,” I said.
There were about one hundred 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 sixty 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
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 twenty dollars per entrant.” I don’t know if it was the endorphins from my recent victory or the gin, but the announcer had no sooner put down the microphone than I blurted out, “I’ll play him!”
The circle of people around me applauded, and I was simultaneously congratulated and ushered across the room to the registration table. While one of the organizers put 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 cola of some sort. 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 twenty dollars.
“Where do I go now?” I asked.
“Let me sign up the others, and 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 cologne, and braced myself to face the National Scrabble Champion.
I walked back out into the faux English country manor that was the fourth floor of the Chicago Athletic Club and heard my name on the public address system: “Mike O’Mary…report to the registration table for the Champion Challenge!” It was time.
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.
I wouldn’t allow myself to be thrown off by niceties. “Let’s play,” I said.
There were about one hundred 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 sixty 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
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