Herb Benham: Beating the wife in Scrabble is, in a word, blissful
| Friday, Jul 24 2009 02:53 PM
Last Updated Friday, Jul 24 2009 02:53 PM
Last Sunday, I challenged and defeated my wife in Scrabble, which in deference to the day, qualifies as a small miracle. I went first, snatched the early lead, held on for dear life and then stumbled across the finish line as if I were a triathlete and had bonked at mile 20.
This is what married people do once the children flee. The game fosters a companionable silence, and in some cases, allows one person to inflict their will on the other. It provides an acceptable channel for aggression that otherwise might result in Alfred Hitchcock movie-like strangulation.
For us, the game is Scrabble, which is both enjoyable and provides me an opportunity to perform an hour of public service. Usually I offer myself as a human sacrifice. If I were a virgin, and Mayan, I'd be throwing myself into the Scrabble volcano ablaze with words like sheqel, za and qindarka.
This is to say that Sue has beaten me at least 20 straight times. The games start with easy conversation and as she begins to pummel me, I become tight-lipped and the room becomes quiet enough to hear the birds outside and the sound of a leaf blower in the distance.
Even with its ritual slaughter, Scrabble has provided some lighter moments for our family. My brother, after Sue beat him on the last play of the game with "Quiz," (the Q landing on a double letter and the word itself earning a triple word score of 96 points), flipped the board in the air and uttered a word that is neither in the Scrabble dictionary nor is it acceptable in a family newspaper.
My favorite word was proposed by my cousin, Bea. Having "f-e-c-e," but lacking the "s," Bea asked if "fece" might be the singular of "feces." One fece, two feces.
My Scrabble strategy is similar to one a cyclist might employ during a climbing stage at the Tour de France: Limit one's losses. Try to live to ride another day in terrain more favorable to one's talents.
Victory for me is staying within 100 points. That may sound easy but once we have picked our seven letters from the soft, cotton bag and the game begins, I find myself in a position similar to the one Tom Watson was in with his final putt in regulation at the British Open: I have a tendency to come up short.
If Scrabble were school, I would be in second grade with my hand raised. Without flashcards and visual aids, four- letter words are about all my pay grade allows. Beyond that I'm in the "see dog run" camp.
Sunday, I had one of those 1 in 100 games. It was akin to a batter seeing pitches as if they were slow moving breadfruit. Given the letters I drew, anybody with a reasonable amount of intelligence would have posted Dow Jones type of numbers.
My opponent had a series of hands that included too many vowels and not enough consonants. Even after turning in her entire hand three times, thus forfeiting three turns, the Scrabble Queen was still within striking distance near the end of the game. The tipping point came when I declined to use my "q" in order to make the word "quey" which thwarted her from laying down "query" which would have resulted in a triple word score and 51 more points.
I knew enough to know that my opponent is like Medusa. She's never out of it. No matter how many haircuts she's given.
I won by 40 points. I knew better than to gloat, although it was hard not to whistle and break into song the rest of the day. I offered her a rematch when it fit into my busy, busy schedule.
Scrabble. What a game. It can be a tonic for a relationship and sometimes, it's even better for the s-o-u-l.
