Story by Barry Scott Boring (BBO: bscotyb)

In September of 1992, I stepped through the doors of Overbrook Junior High School to my first professional teaching job. I tend to be a bit overwhelmed in new situations, so I sit back and watch until I grow accustomed to my new surroundings. At lunchtime, I went to the faculty dining room. What I witnessed upon entering would shape me and start a love affair with an inanimate mistress that would consume the rest of my adult life. There in the faculty dining room were three tables of my colleagues playing cards. I assumed it was pinochle, a game I learned in my youth, but I saw the strangest thing. Every hand, someone would lay his or her cards down on the table and watch the partner play both hands. Now I knew it wasn’t pinochle.

Tending to be standoffish until I get acquainted with new people, I sat nearby and watched from the comfort of a loveseat. Slowly, as I warmed up to these soon to become lifelong friends, I discovered they were playing contract bridge, a game I knew about peripherally from the daily bridge hands that appeared in the local newspapers alongside the crossword puzzles and daily Jumble.

It didn’t take long for a math teacher and soon to be bridge mentor, Sheila, to slide a chair next to me and invite me to kibitz. I had no idea what kibitz meant. It sounded like Jewish slang Judge Judy would use on television, and I wasn’t wrong. It’s Yiddish, taken from a German word that means to look on at cards.

I watched, learned, and became fascinated with the game, and one day there was a vacant chair. One of the regulars wasn’t in school that day, and they needed a fourth. I dove into the deep end of the pool, probably more of a belly flop, and played my first game of contract bridge.

I tend to have an addictive personality, and bridge was no different. I became obsessed with the game. It was so cerebral. My ex wife would call it my addiction, my affair, my girlfriend, my mistress. Though she said it tongue in cheek, secretly, I believe there was some jealousy there. I tried to involve her, but she never seemed to understand, or perhaps want to comprehend, the game. It was my thing to enjoy.

I played bridge for the next thirty two years. Later I discovered duplicate players call it party bridge, but I played it as often as I could. I bought books and learned conventions, which I taught to my colleagues. I arrived at my teaching responsibilities an hour early every day so I could get my schoolwork completed and free up my planning and lunch periods to play cards. When summer came, I ached. Going two months without playing bridge was like a death in the family for me. Most students and teachers dreaded the return to academia in September, but not I. I was eager to get back to my love affair with my mistress.

I discovered Yahoo Bridge, which I played on my desktop computer at home until the wee hours, and then, when smartphones became the rage, I found an app, Omar Sharif On Bridge, and it is STILL on my phone. It is my friend and travel companion as I wait in the grocery line, at traffic lights, and on airport travel days.

Flash forward to the spring of 2025. I was now divorced, no, not because of bridge, relocated to Florida, recently retired, and bored. I spent my days gardening, writing, and sunbathing at the beach. I joined a writing group to improve my writing and to give myself an outlet. One afternoon, I took a side street to avoid a traffic jam in Stuart, Florida, and I slammed on my brakes. And there she was. My long lost girlfriend had resurfaced. My mistress stood before me, seductively beckoning me. She called to me like a siren from the pages of Homer’s Odyssey. I pulled my car off to the side of the road and snapped a picture of her, Khatib Bridge and Education Center. The seductress called to me, luring me, and I was immediately smitten once again, for my adoration had never waned.

It wasn’t long before I was in a seat, partnered across from Ken W., and playing duplicate, a variation of bridge, something I had only experienced one time on vacation in Palm Desert at Duncan Bridge Center.

Duplicate, I learned quickly, was more advanced than party bridge, much more serious, much more cerebral, much more strict. Party bridge is social, fun, and talkative. Duplicate is not. You bid with bidding boxes, which house every known bid one could make in the phenomenon of contract bridge. Technology has advanced, and there is even a machine that deals out every hand. The data is transported via the Internet, and every bridge club across the nation plays the exact same hands on a given day.

My partners and opponents play duplicate fervently, like a religion, dare I say, a cult. Ironically, Khatib Bridge and Education Center is housed in a former Church of Christ, an apt location for these faithful fanatics. I learned about masterpoints, ACBL membership, membership numbers, Bridgemates, daily percentages, and a plethora of conventions.

I found a regular partner, Ali K., who not only encouraged me but kept the fun in the game. We laugh as much as we play. Ali is a delight. She told me once, “If I do something crazy, BID SOMETHING!” Let’s just say this happens a fair number of times, sometimes with great success, and most times with disastrous results. I have dubbed it “The Ali K. Convention.” Regardless of our successes or failures, we laugh, love, and live for the next time we play.

Around May of 2025, I discovered online play at Bridge Base Online, BBO. This has been the real boost to my education in the world of duplicate bridge. The online solitaire games come with some education. Before I bid, I can scroll over the bid and discover what it means, something I can’t really do during live play. I can ask my opponents what a bid means, but I can’t get tutelage before I make my bid. The online play gives me this mentoring, and I have learned so much.

If someone were to ask me what advice I would give to a budding player, it would be this. Always have your antennae out and keep learning. I’ve learned from every partner and opponent, and Khatib is never short on offering advice after I have played incorrectly or brilliantly. They want me to improve. There is no air of jealousy or competitiveness in my evolution as a bridge player among my colleagues at Khatib. They want me to excel.

Mike S., one of my favorite people at Khatib, said it best. “Don’t try to add it all at once. Learn something new and add it to your toolbox. Once you have mastered it, add the next thing.” That advice has become my bridge bible.

To recap, learn, listen, never feel like you have arrived, and play online bridge at BBO. Those things will make you a better player.

Shhh!!! Don’t tell anyone, but I’m off to meet my mistress at 1:00 today.