Story by Ronald J. Brown (BBO: RonJB)

Back in the late ’60s and early ’70s, while I was at university in Montreal, the cafeteria was home to a perpetual bridge game. From early morning until late at night, there was always a table going. If you wanted to play, you just sat nearby and waited for someone to leave for class — then you were in.

We were beginners, all of us. Bidding felt more like a duel than a dialogue. Each player would keep bidding their best suit — louder and prouder each round — until they could bid no more. Somehow, though, we got the message across. Some of us even hummed clues: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” or “My Heart is an Open Book.”

Stayman and transfers? Never heard of them. If someone opened 1NT and their partner responded 2 clubs, it meant one thing only: the opener had a rock-solid hand, and clubs — even four to the ten — was the responder’s pride and joy.

We didn’t keep score. Every hand was a fresh start. Some players, a bit further along, tried to teach us things like the finesse or the squeeze — concepts that seemed as mystical as alchemy back then. But those long, laughter-filled sessions gave me my bridge foundation. And years later, it all paid off — not in points or prizes, but in people. I met my wife over a kitchen table bridge game. Without those messy student matches, who knows where I’d be?

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