Pinochle

 

The outlook is gray for Pinochle today

I sit across the table from my future father-in-law attempting to read his mind. He squints back at me, trying to ascertain my intentions. To my left, my fiance squares off with her mother on my right. A couple people clear their throats, hem and haw, look around the table and back at their hands. It is the moment of truth; I raise my hands and make a bet. Audible sighs from around the table, some of agreement, others of dismay. The pinochle table cements the newbie’s place in the family. 

It is Black Friday, we are gathered at the kitchen table as the Red Lodge sun squeaks between the curtains, cutting a sharp line across the playing surface. The FIFA World Cup squawks from the television in the next room. I have positioned myself so that I cannot see the TV because I have to focus. This is a family tradition and I feel pressure to acquit myself well. 

The stories fly back and forth across the room from various family members as Thanksgiving leftovers sit ready to be devoured after we complete this epic marathon. Remember that time that Grandpa did this! Or that time your brother did that! They speak in card table jargon that sounds French to a beginner like me. I have a cheat sheet of the necessary scoring by my left elbow so assist me in decision making. Pinochle is not just a game in this family, it is a rite of passage. It is a measuring stick of composure, competitiveness and clairvoyance. They have all played since they were old enough to count cards. I hear anecdotes of the myriad of times the petite and reserved grandmother has swept away the competition like a shark through a school of fish. They are all professionals who have seen just about everything that can happen in a pinochle game. And in my seven hands, I realize that to win, you need to play without mistakes. But realizing that I need to play a perfect game does not mean I know how to play a perfect game. Good luck grasshopper. 

Alas, the cards are cold today. Some days, it seems that each hand is legendary. Points rain down like two heavyweight boxers going punch for punch. Terms like “ropes” or “hundred aces” or the random combination of the queen of spades and jack of diamonds, the eponymous “Pinochle” are thrown about by focused professionals. Table talk, communicating in hand motions or false statements, is against the rules, but when families are this tight, the recognition is obvious when a partner reads the mind of the person across the table from them. 

I puzzle over my hand, giving random tantrums at the lack of anything useful. As I hear endless tales of epic hands that fell from the heavens in the time of greatest need, I look out upon a wasteland of mediocre cards. Nines, the weakest card in the game, seem to be everywhere. I offer what I consider to be reasonable critiques of the house rules. Not the most polite thing to do as the guest of the house, but this game is cutthroat. Turns out that even progressive people are conservative when it comes to house traditions. We do what we need to to win, even if that is to massage the rules to better work in our favor. I am not the first. My suggestions are thrown back like little fish into a pond. These pinochle kings know all the tricks. 

By the fourth hand, this game is over. I let everybody know, quite loudly and boorishly. Father–in-law and myself have not made any major mistakes but the cards were just not in our favor today. Accepting loss is not one of my stronger attributes, but I admit that fiance and mother-in-law earned their triumph. We are all fatigued from our competition. It is funny how sitting in a chair for four hours and talking in a loud voice can tucker you out. Our brains have used up all the energy from the previous Thanksgiving meal. Thankfully, there are piles of leftovers and recliners calling our names for afternoon naps. Another holiday will come along soon, and we will return to this battleground and compete in the great tradition we call Pinochle.