As I write this, I’m in the middle of the Pula Bridge Festival, which is my baby. I’ve been organizing it for over 20 years now (the festival itself has a 62-year tradition). It’s wonderfully international: this year, we have participants from 38 countries. The preparations are always stressful, stretching throughout the year, but once I’m here, I’m reminded why it’s all worth it.

It may sound unusual, but it’s mostly about belonging to a (very) special group of people and identifying with them. Once I arrive in Pula, this in-group feeling becomes so obvious. I sit in a local restaurant, see familiar faces, and overhear groups discussing hands they’ve just played. I can instantly tell who’s “in the group” and who’s not. I think I could even spot festival participants just walking down the street, without hearing a word. They all have this look—relaxed, yet determined—like people on an enjoyable, exciting mission. Even though many of these people aren’t my close friends (there are nearly 600 players here!), I feel connected to them by this special bond of shared interests and passion. I’ll hear someone say, “And then I discarded a club,” and everyone bursts out laughing. They’re loud, cheerful, completely absorbed in their conversation, while random tourists at other tables look on, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Festivals and tournaments are probably the most obvious places where bridge players stand out from the rest of the population, but we have similar experiences in our everyday lives too. Generally, the bridge player within us comes out when we’re around others of the same kind. In such moments, it’s hard to ignore and pretend we’re “regular” humans.

Take, for example, that one friend we all have—the one who doesn’t play bridge but occasionally joins us after a tournament or at a party at the club. They cling to this naïve hope that, one day, we’ll really talk about shoes or the weather right after a session. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll start to understand our bridge talk. Over time, they slowly get used to us, but at first, you can see the disbelief in their eyes as, despite their efforts to join the conversation—and us trying to be polite—the topic always circles back to bridge. They soon realize we’re speaking a foreign language, and even when we use familiar words, they seem to have entirely different meanings: “The dummy ruffed a diamond...” Whaaat?! Trying to explain to a non-bridge player why a certain bid or play is hilarious is just mission impossible. Bob once asked if we could talk about bridge but in a way he’d understand. “After all,” he said, “it’s just a game.”

Well, Bob, we can’t. I just can’t take one concept out of context and explain it to you. Over the years, bridge players adopt a vocabulary, just as any group of professionals or hobbyists develops its own specific slang. But I think it’s even more complicated in bridge. It might take a few months to learn the basics, but as you improve, more and more terms and phrases sneak into your repertoire.

This vocabulary is vital because it makes communication and learning so much easier. Learning the lingo helps us understand the principles and techniques more clearly. It shapes how we think, absorb information, and sort concepts. It also serves as a ritual of initiation into the society. Have you noticed how easy it is to gauge someone’s skill just by the way they talk about bridge? It’s not so much what they analyze, but how they phrase things. Funny, but true.

While vocabulary and language might seem like superficial, secondary issues, they’re essential for conceptualizing knowledge. Teaching bridge for over 30 years now, I would sooner put my money on a novice who can describe their hand properly than on the other who can make a finesse. Once you learn to describe your hand properly, e.g. seven spades to the ace-queen, three small hearts, void, third king, you start to play in your mind without the physical presence of cards. That’s why I insist on teaching people how to write and read hand records. Have you ever thought about reading a hand record as a special skill, like reading music? For us, it’s automatic, and we probably can’t even remember when we learned it.

Once, I went to the grocery store after a tournament and accidentally left my hand records in the shopping cart. I didn’t realize until I got home but didn’t bother to go back. The next day when I was paying at the register, the cashier handed me the papers while trying to avoid eye contact and whispered slightly trembling, “You left your codes yesterday.” I’m not sure which secret organization she thought I was part of, but telling her those were only hand records didn’t help. My visits to this shop were never same again as they were very obliging and even asked me if I wanted them to shut down the cameras while I shopped 🙂

But isn’t it wonderful to have this secret language shared only among bridge players? As a psychologist, I’ve also picked up some psychological jargon, but it’s nowhere near as fun as bridge slang. And while many people with broad knowledge or a specific interest in psychology can follow semi-professional discussions, bridge is a different beast. Even if you know a few terms or bits about the game, the moment you open your mouth, it’s clear how much—or little—you’re really into it.

I’m pretty fluent in “bridge language” (let’s call it Bridguage!) in both Croatian and English, so I can talk with players worldwide and read books and articles, which is essential for both training and feeling part of the society. Along the way, I’ve picked up bridge terminology in Italian, German, and all the Slavic languages, even though I’d struggle with basic conversations like introducing myself. When I’m at a tournament abroad, and we go for dinner after, we may be from five different countries and our English isn’t always perfect. Still, we all know the bridge vocabulary, so we talk about what really matters—how we bid and played. It’s often a mix of many languages, but no one minds. Our friend Bob, fluent in all five languages at the table, still can’t follow the conversation—because he doesn’t speak Bridguage.

As members of this secret society, we’re spread across the world, and I always feel more comfortable when I know a city has a bridge club. I know that I just need to say a few words and I will be assimilated.

It’s like coming home.

About the author

Tihana Brkljačić is a psychologist and a bridge player. She teaches psychology and bridge at Zagreb university. She represented Croatia at multiple European championships and at The World Championship (Wuhan cup) in 2022. As a psychologist, her main areas of interest are in quality of life, well-being and communication. Additionally, she studies the psychology of games (focusing on bridge in particular) and consults players on various topics.