Seven Letters and a Cloud of Dust
Sherman’s having dinner at Edwardo’s with the current national Scrabble champion, Brian Capalletto, and my boyfriend and wannabe champion, Marty Gabriel. All three are competing in the top division, but after eight rounds Sherman is nowhere near the top. Capalletto is in second place, Gabriel in first, which is something of a coup. I’m tied for sixth in the third division, which is next to the bottom, and playing only tolerably well.
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Scrabble players include lawyers, retired businesspeople, housewives. Rosie O’Donnell plays, as do Homer and Marge Simpson. Graham Greene loved the game. Capalletto mentions a woman who used to be a high-class madam. Sherman’s ears perk up. “Is she from here?”
On Sunday morning the organizers of the tournament are making sure that players have their official score sheets and that there are enough sharpened number-two pencils to go around. A few players are setting up their boards. Some people have their boards glued onto a large wooden or plastic circle and the peripheral area decorated with bright little tiles. Others prefer their boards set in a bare expanse of fine wood varnished to a glossy finish. And of course some think a no-frills board works just fine.
I win all five of my games, ending up in third place. This is an ordinary tournament–one of more than 100 held each year in the United States and Canada–but I’m elated. Gabriel is happy but not elated, having dropped from first place to third. Sherman has moved up to finish second but looks more disappointed than Capalletto, who has finished fourth.
