The Bridge Club

"Because it's the second greatest game ever invented, after baseball," I assert when asked by friends unfamiliar with bridge what has prompted me to return to the table three times a week for three hours a session after a forty-two-year hiatus. "And with the advent of technology and bidding system modifications, it's even better today," I might add.

"If that's true," retorted one recently, always eager to accentuate apparent contradictions, "why did you leave in the first place?"

"There are two reasons," I replied. "First, back when I was twenty-eight, I was very much a perfectionist, which is not an enviable trait for a serious bridge player who presumes to know what he is doing. The notion that even a world champion could make a mistake which under the scrutiny of a postmortem seemed inexplicable was of little comfort to me when I was racking them up with alarming frequency. One egregious miscalculation at a critical moment during a tournament in Natural Bridge convinced me I needed a break, although it lasted a lot longer than I anticipated.

"Second, the arc of my life was curving upward. The first of my three children had just been born. I was taking on greater responsibilities in my family's furniture business, which included a considerable amount of travel. And I was testing a new avocation, soon to become an obsession: long-distance running. Nowadays grandchildren time, while delightful, is purely optional; my son has grasped the reins of company leadership with confidence and authority, easing me gently towards retirement; and my road rage has succumbed to weak knees. In other words, I've got many empty hours to fill -- or squander.

"As for expecting to play an error free round of bridge, just as maturity has made me more tolerant of humanity's inherent flaws, so have I come to realize that my ceiling of achievement in this humbling game is composed not of glass but of rigid steel tiles and that I had best forgo the urge to conquer and embrace it as a simple pastime."

Recent reports indicate that I'm in the demographic sweet spot for contemporary bridge playing; the average age is seventy-one, a milestone I reached sixteen months ago. But, as one might expect, as its population has grayed, so have the raw numbers declined.

According to the Association of American Playing Card Manufacturers, in the nineteen-forties the game could be found in forty-four percent of American homes, a testament to its social component, intellectual engagement, and low cost of entry (one deck, a table, and four chairs). Today that figure has shrunk to ten percent, which equates to thirty million individuals, three million of whom indulge at least once a week.

If you think that's still a lot, consider that in the U. S. Texas hold 'em claims eighty million, many of whom engorge themselves daily in online gaming and ESPN tournament broadcasts. While internationally bridge maintains a supremacy over poker -- with an estimated two hundred million acolytes compared to one hundred million -- both are far surpassed by chess, whose practitioners may number as high as half a billion.

One wouldn't want to expose himself to accusations of snobbery, but in the words of a Manhattan bridge club owner, as quoted by Edward McPherson in his 2007 book The Backwash Squeeze and Other Improbable Feats: A Newcomer's Journey Into the World of Bridge, "It takes thirty minutes to teach Texas hold 'em, and in an hour you can be as good as fifty percent of the people playing the game. That would take years of study in bridge." While the comment was intended as an endorsement of bridge, it was followed by a suggestion to McPherson that he write "a book about something people actually want to know about, like poker."

The essence of bridge was elegantly summarized by none other than tennis star Maria Navratilova who in the foreword to a popular teaching guide wrote, "It's a cerebral sport. Bridge teaches you logic, reasoning, quick thinking, patience, concentration" and teamwork.

By combining cognitive training and socialization, it may also have health benefits. A University of California, Berkeley, study in 2000 found that exercising the area of the brain associated with bridge skills -- memory, visualization, and sequencing -- stimulates the immune system. Researchers have also discovered that a higher frequency of playing card and board games correlates to increased brain volume in regions that are affected by Alzheimer's disease.

Two of the smartest fellows in America are accomplished bridge players: Warren Buffett and Bill Gates. In the early nineties they shared a partner, two-time world champion Sharon Osberg. Osberg said of Gates, "I've been teaching him. He's so smart. If he had more time, he'd be a very fine player." McPherson, p. 159)

Interviewed about the game, Buffett said it fascinates him because, "I like solving a new problem every seven to eight minutes," and the secret to good bridge is also the key to good business -- "Using all possible facts and inferences to make good decisions, and working with a partner." (McPherson, p. 162)

Buffett once said, "Bridge is such a sensational game that I wouldn't mind being in jail if I had three cellmates who could were decent players and who were willing to keep the game going twenty-four hours a day." (McPherson, p. 11)

Did he realize the game has been a jailhouse favorite? "During the 1950's, two-hundred-fifty Alcatraz inmates would gather every weekend for hours of bridge; at night, alone in their cells, many were said to restage the matches from memory. In the 1970's, there was a weekly game in Leavenworth. One day a year visitors were allowed to play and it became the largest men's pair event in Kansas." (McPherson, p. 11)

As for more respectable devotees, a roster might include such well-known figures as Dwight Eisenhower, Winston Churchill, the Marx brothers, George Burns, Wilt Chamberlain, Mahatma Ghandi, and Charles Schultz. The author Somerset Maugham found the game endlessly edifying, writing, "I would have children taught bridge. It will be useful in the end . . . When all else fails -- sports, love, ambition . .  bridge remains a solace and entertainment." Soldiers, sailors, and airmen who managed to play bridge while imprisoned in the Pacific and in Vietnam -- sometimes having to tap out their bids and plays to comrades in adjacent cells -- are a living testament to that statement. (McPherson, pp. 10-11)

One hundred and eighty years after it graced the opening pages of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," Edgar Allan Poe's analysis of the linkage between mental acuity and the card game that was the predecessor of bridge remains definitive: "Whist has long been known for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous . . . The best chess player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies a capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind." (McPherson, p. 60)

Originating in London, whist dates back to the early sixteenth century but spread rapidly after 1742 when Edmund Hoyle published an eighty-six page pamphlet entitled "A Short Treatise on the Game of Whist, Containing the Laws of the Game, and Also Some Rules Whereby a Beginner May, with Due Attention to Them, Attain to the Playing It Well." (McPherson, p. 58)

Thus was born the phrase "according to Hoyle," but whist's greater gift to history came two decades later when loath to quit the card table to satisfy his hunger, the fourth Earl of Sandwich devised his celebrated handheld namesake. (McPherson, p. 60)

In its basic form, four players comprising two partnerships are each dealt from a fifty-two card deck thirteen cards face down except for the last, which is exposed and and whose suit cards (spades, hearts, diamonds, or clubs) are designated trump and thus of higher rank than the remaining three. The player to the left of the dealer begins by placing a card of his choice on the table, after which the other three lay down cards clockwise in succession, following suit if possible or, if not, throwing away unpromising cards or playing in the trump suit. Each set of four cards, or trick, is taken by the highest card in the suit led or by the highest trump, with the objective being for each opposing partnership to collect as many of the thirteen tricks as it can.

"At some point a variation of whist came along that exposed one hand during play. The dummy was not a new feature-- it had been used in whist to accommodate three-sided games -- but bridge made it permanent. The dealer had the right to name the trump suit (or lack thereof) though he could defer to his partner and he automatically played the hand." (McPherson, p. 61)

The origin of the name "bridge" is uncertain. It may have been brought back to England from Cairo by a British lord. Some attribute it to the Galata Bridge in Constantinople which British officers crossed to get to the coffeehouses where they played cards during the Crimean War (1853-56). Others say it derived from "biritch," a Russian version of whist. (McPherson, p. 61)

How the idea of an auction -- whereby each player announces in turn the trump suit and the number of tricks he intends to take until the other three pass (i.e., concede) -- entered the picture is unclear, but by 1908, London clubs had codified the rules for such a game. Now bridge was no longer solely dependent on card play; clever bidding became an important component. (McPherson, p. 62)

As auction bridge expanded its reach, players sought to improve their skills and were willing to pay for it. One early luminary was Milton Work, a Philadelphia lawyer who raised $100,000 for the American Red Cross during World War I by giving lectures on the game. He shuttered his practice to devote his time exclusively to his now more lucrative profession. In 1927, he played the first bridge match broadcast over the radio; hands were preprinted in newspapers so listeners could follow along at home. "A year later, Work's services were earning him an astronomical $250 an hour; he booked a week in May at a Broadway theater where he appeared five times a day." (McPherson, pp. 62-63)

On the evening of October 31, 1925, aboard the SS Finland, which was anchored outside the city of Balboa waiting to cross the Panama Canal, railroad heir, champion yachtsman, and card game enthusiast Harold Vanderbilt sat down with three friends and essentially invented modern contract bridge. Just as one takes for granted current marvels like flying behemoths and the smartphone, so do bridge players accept the intricacies of the game they love with hardly a nod at the intellect responsible for their gestation. 

Requiring a partnership to earn extra points by bidding or contracting for the requisite number of game (nine, ten, or eleven, depending on the suit) or slam (eleven or twelve) tricks prior to play rather than awarding them for merely collecting the tricks did not originate with Vanderbilt. The concept had been incorporated in similar games developed in France and India. "Vanderbilt's contribution was more refinement than revolution." (McPherson, p. 63)

He implemented a methodology for scoring that that has not changed in one hundred years. Since slams were now more risky to attempt, he increased the bonus for bidding and making them. He introduced the double to punish partnerships who might make unreasonably high bids and the notion of vulnerability, whereby a partnership who had already made one game toward a rubber would benefit accordingly but be exposed to a greater penalty depending on whether its contract was fulfilled. (McPherson, p. 63)

Vanderbilt was a dashing figure with considerable clout among the elite social circles of Newport RI and New York City. His notoriety and connections were instrumental in the rapid spread of the game in the wake of his innovations. In later years he devised a universal system that included artificial bids, wrote several books on the subject, and served on committees that drafted U.S. and international rules. 

As founder of the Vanderbilt Knockout Team Championship, which lives on today as part of the spring North American Bridge Championship, he donated the magnificent trophy that still bears his name and established an endowment to provide the winners with silver replicas in perpetuity. (McPherson, p. 96) 

Contract bridge swept across the country, and some of the consequences were stranger than fiction.

On September 29, 1929, in their fashionable South Side apartment in Kansas City, Missouri, John and Myrtle Bennett were hosting their neighbors, the Hofmans, in a tenth-of-a-cent rubber bridge game when John bungled a four-spade contract and went down two tricks. When Myrtle called her husband a "bum bridge player," he reached across the table, grabbed her, and slapped her a few times. She broke free, fled the room, and, while he was throwing some clothes into a suitcase, reappeared with a revolver. John evaded two shots by locking himself in a bathroom, but as he was trying to escape through the front door of their apartment, Myrtle felled him with two more shots. She was charged with first-degree murder. (McPherson, pp. 52-53)

At her trial seventeen months later, defense attorney James Reed, a former Kansas City mayor and U.S. Senator, argued that the shooting was the result of a terrible accident. Myrtle had been fetching the gun for John, who carried it with him on trips, when it misfired: twice when she stumbled over a chair and twice (fatally) when he tried to grab it from her. Character witnesses described Myrtle as a faithful, devoted, and caregiving woman, John as a volatile and ill-tempered man who had previously struck his wife in public. The jury was convinced; after deliberating eight-and-a-half hours, it returned a verdict of "not guilty." (McPherson, pp. 53-54)

The incident did not diminish Myrtle's appetite for bridge, although she was hard-pressed to find a partner and frequently the victim of a tale which is surely apocryphal. "One day, a fellow ignorant of her past put down the dummy and apologized for his bid, saying, 'Partner, I'm afraid you'll want to shoot me when you see this hand.'" (McPherson, p. 54)

As the Depression deepened, the low-cost accessibility and social aspect of the game made it the people's choice for leisure. In 1931, the two top-selling books in the U.S. were both on bridge. One of them, The Blue Book, was by Ely Culbertson, the most colorful and flamboyant character ever to pick up a bridge hand. (McPherson, pp. 96, 98)

Born in Romania in 1891, the son of an American mining engineer and a woman of Russian nobility, Culbertson attended Yale, Cornell, the Sorbonne, and the University of Geneva, but was largely self-educated and fluent in seven languages. "During the first thirty years of his life -- as he bounced between Russia, America, Mexico, Havana, Spain, and Paris -- he would be an anarchist, labor agitator, hobo, revolutionary, womanizer, sailor, gambler, and brothel brawler." (McPherson, p. 97)

After his family fortune evaporated in the Russian Revolution, he eked out a living in Paris and New York City with his card playing savvy while snaring a glamorous wife and partner, Josephine Dillon, a renowned bridge instructor, whom he met at the private Knickerbocker Whist Club. (McPherson, p. 97)

"Culbertson was a born huckster and hustler, and he was full of "scientific" ideas -- some sound, other not -- that he wanted to bring to the game, particularly in the realm of bidding." Marketing himself and his wife as worldwide experts, he launched a diversified enterprise that included The Bridge World magazine, a best-selling textbook, a company to manufacture bridge supplies, a teachers' association that grew to six thousand members, and a series of international competitions. Among his many contributions to the science of the game were a proprietary method of hand evaluation, a menu of original conventions, and a scoring system for duplicate bridge. (McPherson, pp. 97-98)

By 1931, his magazine boasted thirty thousand readers and his Approach-Forcing System -- so named for its vague connotations of sex -- was the favorite of eighty-four percent of the world's twenty million bridge players. (McPherson, pp. 98-99)

The prevailing establishment, rankled by Culbertson's dominance, organized a Bridge Headquarters and promulgated its own Official System, thereby igniting a public feud. Culbertson challenged a representative, Sidney Lenz (and a partner of his choice), to a high-stakes match offering five-to-one odds. The event commenced on the evening of December 7, 1941 at the Hotel Chatham in New York City -- it was later moved to the Waldorf-Astoria -- where the National Broadcasting Company carried the opening ceremonies. The New York Times reported on each hand, while six Western Union telegraph operators stood on call twenty-four hours a day, cabling results across the Atlantic. (McPherson, pp. 99-100)

Four weeks later, after 879 deals and 150 rubbers, Ely and Josephine were declared the winners by 8,980 points. Their victory earned them a series of radio programs sponsored by Wrigley gum, $270,000 for appearing in six short films, and $10,000 for the royalties on miniature manuals inserted in Chesterfield cigarette packs. During the darkest Depression years, the Culbertsons' income topped $350,000. (McPherson, p. 101)

Ely needed every penny. He traveled to Italy to buy neckties, was known to spend five thousand dollars in an hour on new shirts, drove a Rolls-Royce and a Duesenberg, and owned five homes, including a forty-five room mansion in Ridgefield CT surrounded by cottages, lakes, and an enclosed swimming pool.

In 1936, as Culbertson was redirecting his energies toward international arms control, a rising star burst upon the scene with the publication of Winning Bridge Made Easy. Laughed at by his Montreal hostess for his ineptitude at the bridge table, the twenty-two-year-old law student vowed to prove her wrong -- which he did, in spades. Thirteen years later, elaborating on a system conceived by Milton Work, Charles Goren introduced the Ace-4, King-3, Queen-2, and Jack-1 point count evaluation model to an enthusiastic audience, and swiftly elevated himself to authoritative stature. (McPherson, p. 103)

His second bestseller, Contract Bridge Complete, released in 1942, solidified his reputation and entrenched his Standard American bidding system as the most accessible, effective, and poplar in the world where it remains today eighty years later. Goren became a bona fide celebrity. He wrote a syndicated newspaper column, appeared on the covers of Time and Sports Illustrated magazines, surfaced as a guest on "You Bet Your Life," and was the favorite partner of Dwight Eisenhower and Omar Sharif.

"His TV show, 'Championship Bridge with Charles Goren,' ran on ABC from 1959 to 1964. Every Sunday afternoon, after the dulcet tones of the theme 'Music to Play Bridge By,' Goren would sit down with Grouch and Chico Marx, bandleader Les Brown, and other celebrity guests" -- diplomats, athletes, corporate executives -- and engage his audience, which included your faithful scribe, in some instructive bidding and play. (McPherson, p. 104)

He won thirty-four national championships, took home the inaugural Bermuda Bowl for world preeminence in 1950, and authored forty books which sold over ten million copies. Although a stroke and failing eyesight forced him into retirement at the relatively young age of sixty-five, twenty-five years before his death in 1991, for at least two generations, my mother's and mine, the name Charles Goren was synonymous with bridge.

Once I outgrew the juvenile simplicity of "War" and "Go Fish," the card game most cloaked in nostalgia for me is "Casino," which I learned from my grandfather, who loved it for its fast pace and the opportunity it presented him to demonstrate his mathematical dexterity. As for bridge, I'm not sure who planted those seeds. I've often credited them to a teen-age counselor finding fertile ground in a nerdy eight-year-old camper, although, looking back, that seems hardly plausible. Whatever their origin, the buds were nurtured by Goren curricula and study.

Somehow, while I was perfecting my fantasy game, in the middle school grades I managed to lasso three fellows who were as awkward as I at both competitive sports and charming the opposite sex and thus had plenty of free time to complete my foursome. Several times a week, Rob, Macey, David, and I would gather at one of our homes, most often David's, whose parents' front room featured a spacious window overlooking Boonsboro Road one-half block east from the house I grew up in (but no longer inhabited) on Greenway Court. For a couple of hours we would play round-robin tournaments, switching partners after eight hands while tabulating individual scores in order to crown a daily champion.

Macey's father (also Macey), a cigarette-loving urologist who advertised his profession by tagging "2PPCME" on the vanity license plates attached to the new cars he traded for every other year, was an avid bridge player himself, and introduced his son and me to the duplicate format, wherein every deal stands on its own. The cards are kept segregated, so that at the conclusion of play they can be replaced in thin pockets in a plastic or metal tray, or board, and passed to the next table. 

There are two variations of duplicate bridge. In match point play, each partnership receives points based on how well it scored on a hand compared to all others who played the same hand. A typical game might consist of twenty-seven hands or boards each played nine times: three at a time at nine tables. If my partnership scored better than the other eight who played the hand, we would earn eight match points; if we scored worse, we would earn zero. If every partnership scored the same, each would earn four points. At the end of play, match points are totaled to determine the winner. 

Theoretically, match point play eliminates any advantage associated with holding stronger cards. In reality, the skill of your opponent on any particular hand can obviously influence your result positively or negatively and thus add an element of luck to that hand. 

The truer test of skill at duplicate bridge is the team game, which is the format at championship tournaments. Teams consist of four players, two playing the North-South hands and two playing the East-West hands against their respective partnerships from an opposing team. After a specified number of hands are played, results are compared, and the team with the highest score is declared the winner. In a single elimination tournament, the two best teams will ultimately end up playing each other for the championship.

 

Macey's and my occasional forays into the realm of serious gamesmanship may have exposed our flaws, but they instilled in us confidence that we could hold our own with the best of the local crowd and were good training for the next chapter in my burgeoning bridge career.

In 1999 Stephen King named his collection of 1960's themed narratives after the marvelous signature piece, Hearts in Atlantis, defining the era as the intersection of Donovan Leitch's sentimental paean to the lost continent and the other card game that spawned as many devotees as the proverbial weed. According to the protagonist, Pete Riley, after one semester nineteen of thirty-two boys on the third floor of Chamberlain Hall at the University of Maine "had either moved or flunked out, victims of hearts," which his best friend Skip denigrates as "Bridge for real dopes," compared to Whist, which is merely "Bridge for dopes."

 

 

As Pete describes it, with four players the ideal number, all fifty-two cards are dealt out, and then collected in thirteen tricks, the deuce of clubs being led first. Each hand contains twenty-six points: one for each heart and thirteen for the Queen of Spades, dubbed the Bitch. The game ends when a player accumulates one hundred points; of the remaining three, the one with the lowest score is deemed the winner, and in Pete's and his buddies' low-stakes contests entitled to a payout of a nickel a point from each loser.

During my college days, hearts was always the last resort whenever my bridge regulars preferred its faster, mindless pace or spurned my supplications in pursuit of grades or women. Several gambits increased the complexity and heightened the thrill, but discouraged us from wagering our paltry allowances. We played in two-man partnerships, which enabled us to inflict severe penalties on our opponents. Three danger cards were passed to the player on one's left, vastly improving his holding until he retrieved the three that were foisted on him from the other side. A player (or team) could attempt to "Shoot the Moon," that is, to garner all twenty-six point cards (thirteen hearts plus the Queen of Spades), which could then be assigned to any opponent's scorecard; failure, however, by even one point meant a huge spike in his own total, perhaps costing the game.

Night after night "quartets of hearts-playing fools" are lured by the irrepressible Ronnie to fill every table in the third-floor lounge in Pete's freshman dorm . . . "ragtag scholarship boys who had to buy their texts in the used section of the bookstore" risking their futures on the luck of the deal. One by one they succumb to the addict's irrational squandering of time and money in a futile quest for continual gratification.

Kirby suffers a mental breakdown, and attempts suicide by swallowing two bottles of baby aspirin. Trunk in hand, Frank heads home to take a maintenance job at a lake resort and possibly face the draft, because, he says, "I ain't doin nothin but playin cards." Brad, hit with "the Bitch" three times in four hands, punches a guy over a Coca-Cola, and ends up on disciplinary probation. Kenny bugs out, scrawling "I quit" across a Queen of Spades lying on his pillow. 

 

Pete himself fails his pre-Thanksgiving Geology, History, and Calculus exams, and is on the verge of flunking out when he is redeemed by three watershed events. His three-month love affair with the "extraordinarily pretty" Carole is abruptly terminated when she decides to drop out to care for her alcoholic mother, leaving him with the parting admonition: "Get out of that stupid card game." He and his hearts-playing mates break into uproarious laughter as they watch Stokely, a crippled fellow resident hobble on crutches back to the dormitory through a driving rainstorm -- until he slips, rolls downhill into a creek, and starts to drown; Pete and his buddies rush to his rescue, save his life, and are ultimately humbled to learn that Stokely's disability is not congenital but the result of a car accident that killed his father, mother, and sister. As the semester draws to a close, Pete uses his hearts' winnings to hire two tutors -- one for himself and one for his friend Skip -- and both survive through the benevolence of their instructors, who, not wanting to condemn them to a Vietnam casualty list, Pete surmises, confer them passing grades.

 

While the depth and breadth of the affliction consuming King's collegians are grossly exaggerated, his evocation of a time, place, and culture that abide as the soul of our generation, his rendering of our friendships, cruelties, dreams, and disappointments, and his illumination of a society on the cusp of war and revolution are exquisitely real.

I remember only one fraternity brother, chain-smoking Tony B., actually flunking out of Washington and Lee during my tenure, although it is unclear whether that was attributable to his many hours at the card table or to the multitude of other distractions that kept him from cracking his textbooks -- including mashing the driver's side of my brand new Ford Fairlane GT when I was foolish enough to loan it to him for a road trip to Randolph-Macon Woman's College.

 

Tony was a lot smarter than he looked -- or behaved. Duly chastened, he got his act together, re-matriculated, earned a handful of degrees, and enjoyed a long career as a well-respected physician.

 

After graduating college and returning to Lynchburg, somehow, between family responsibilities (which included a wife but no children as yet) and the obligations of a job (one year of school teaching before a leap into the furniture business), I found the time to retry my hand at duplicate bridge.

My former high school comrades having abandoned me for more enchanting locales, the good Dr. Macey took me under his wing, either recruiting me as his partner or hooking me up with one of the native novices (or aspiring experts). In serious bridge there's usually a pecking order; better players want their peers sitting across from them. I was fortunate to fall in with a cohort of young engineers and executives whose skill level was equal to mine. At times, we would give the upper echelon a run for its money.

Back then the Lynchburg Duplicate Bridge Club had its own unofficial Hall of Fame: Adelphine (Fi) Lonergan, whose love of the game was manifest in the long hours she devoted to teaching it, in the professionalism with which she offered advice after an opponent's error, and in the speed and accuracy with which she could calculate and total one thousand scores after three hours of intense competition; Carlisle Stinnett, dean of the firefighters cadre of bridge wizards, who with his laconic sidekick, Watt Gilliam, took his greatest pleasure from soundly trouncing my friend Macey, which he accomplished with numbing consistency while never failing to instruct his victim as to how he had gone horribly wrong; W. C. Canada, a white-haired gentleman best described as a sedate version of Back to the Future's Doc Brown, whose level of expertise may have suffered by comparison with these other luminaries yet whose visage glowed with rapture at every bid or play; and of course the cunning curmudgeon, Orion Templeton, retired naval commander, patriarch of his family's paving company, who, reveling in his contrariness and rarely at fault, reprimanded his partners with a twinkle in his eye while chasing bridge games wherever he could find them, including at the fire station, where he staked out a permanent seat.

For some strange reason -- perhaps because he saw me as an impressionable Pygmalion whom he could sculpt to his own specifications and who was too intimidated to object to his barrage of unsolicited lectures -- Orion latched onto me as a favorite. His sprawling ranch house off Old Trents Ferry Road was regularly the site of the traveling team games we played over a season, where, comfortably ensconced in his basement, we enjoyed a striking view of his tennis court. Since he was a man of substantial girth -- and one of the first persons I ever knew to undergo a gastric bypass -- I often wondered whether he actually ran after the ball or simply ordered his opponent to hit it directly to him.

I was playing with Orion in a tournament in Natural Bridge when I committed the grievous mistake that convinced me I would never master the complexities of this intriguing game and compelled me to throw down my cards in frustration and disgust and swear off wasting my time now and perhaps forever. I bid a grand slam, contracting to take all thirteen tricks -- which is so seldom accomplished that one should be almost certain of success before attempting it. When Orion, the dummy, laid down his hand, I studied it, and determined the proper course of play, which, however, I failed to execute. The outcome of the match hung on that deal; needless to say, we lost.

After I left him, Orion persevered, burnishing his legend as a true champion of Lynchburg Duplicate Bridge. In the sixties and seventies the Club met on the third floor of the YMCA Building on the corner of Sixth and Church Streets, for which I assume it paid a nominal rent. Later, I understand, it became somewhat of a stepchild, moving from hotel meeting rooms to church basements to whatever venue could accommodate twelve card tables and a tiny budget. 

 

In the early 2000's Orion purchased a former day care center on Wiggington Road, remodeled it, and donated it to the City of Lynchburg provided the City maintained it and made it available to the Lynchburg Duplicate Bridge Club at basically no expense. The Templeton Senior Center opened in the Fall of 2004. Today it is a community gathering place for many activities besides bridge, including canasta, mahjong, Zumba, yoga, cardio workouts, public interest discussion groups, and art classes. Unlike most of the other three thousand clubs across the U.S., the Lynchburg Unit has no occupancy costs; thus it is able to keep its fees low, offer frequent special games that pay more master points, sponsor a semi-annual tournament, and bank a healthy reserve. 

 

 

For example, at the Honors Bridge Club in Manhattan, a three-hour session will cost you $35. I understand lunch is included, but having never been there, I can't say whether that's a cheese platter or a hefty hamburger.

I can truthfully attest that I did not hoist another bridge hand for all those long years I was in hibernation, although I scouted the weather daily with a diligent examination of the newspaper column. I was tempted a few times by generous invitations to the Club's annual Christmas party, but after three or four polite rebuffs, my former mates concluded I was a lost cause, and fell out of contact. Even the pleadings of my mother, who played at the Club into her eighties, landed on deaf ears. Looking back, I realize that giving up the game I had played without interruption since the age of twelve was no different from my decision to refrain from the consumption of meat and chicken: after three weeks I never missed any of them. Alas, the appropriateness of the analogy was doubly confirmed when abstinence in both cases proved to be temporary.

Aside from the aforementioned lifestyle changes, what lures me back to the bridge table are my phone (of course) and four lovely ladies. Stranded in a coffee shop one sultry afternoon while my friend JSG and her daughter AEG peruse the shops along the picturesque waterfront of Beaufort, NC -- where we are in a placid holding pattern en route to depositing the latter at Camp Seafarer -- I pick up my Android, and search for bridge sites. I find not the more sophisticated and ubiquitous Bridge Base Online (BBO), which I will discover two months later, but one equally serviceable. I download the app, and within minutes am hooked. It only takes me only a few weeks to familiarize myself with the bidding practices that have vastly improved the modern game: five-card major suit openings, Jacoby transfers, weak two-bids, weak jump shifts, negative doubles, support doubles, key card Blackwood, and part score sacrifices.

I'm ready to play again, but with whom? I've gotten wind of several party games around town, one all male, one coed, one with couples, but am not inclined to be intrusive, especially since I'm hardly aware of my own skill level, much less that of others. Then, at a Christmas Day gathering, a little bridge banter prompts Marty, Naomi, and Nancy to reveal that they are looking for a fourth to replace Nancy's ailing husband Bill. We choose Oakwood Country Club as our site, settling first in the Ladies' Locker Room Lounge, after which, despite its remoteness from any embarrassing encounters, we are summarily banished to the Grill Room Solarium.

There, as the bright sunlight belies the February chill, Marty pulls from a bag four yellow boxes filled with an array of small placards. "What are those?" I ask innocently. "Bidding boxes," reply the three women in unison.  

Unlike forty years ago, when players announced their bids, now each in turn extracts one of the thirty-five possible choices from his box, and lays it on the table where all bid cards in a round can be seen. It's odd that this apparatus which was invented in Sweden in 1962 didn't enjoy widespread acceptance in the U.S. until around 2000 since its benefits are so obvious: it is language neutral, reduces noise in the room, prevents bids from being overheard at nearby tables, eliminates information being inferred from the tone or inflection of one's voice, and keeps the auction visible until it is concluded.

While I enjoy the company and appreciate the opportunity to test my prowess against humans as opposed to robots, after a few rounds I conclude that rubber bridge -- in which mistakes can often be overcome by the luck of the draw -- offers me neither the competitive challenge nor the sense of accomplishment which can be gleaned from the more rigorous duplicate version.

Enter the gracious and charming Frances, another dear friend who, unbeknownst to me in spite of our long acquaintance, is a regular at the Templeton Center. When I explain my history and renewed interest in the game, she entreats me repeatedly to partner with her -- just once. Why am I so reluctant to acquiesce? Am I afraid that my game won't be up to par? Am I worried about how this old upstart will be received by all the veterans there? The real reason, I suspect, is that once won't be nearly enough and that this initial step will launch a habit -- however benign -- not easily governed. My forebodings are soon justified when my oath to limit the diversion to one time a week gradually erodes to two and finally to the maximum three. 

 

 

Every Monday afternoon and Friday morning forty-eight to sixty-four persons gather at the Templeton Center for three-and-a half hours to slake their thirst for duplicate bridge. (The numbers decline by a third on Wednesday evening.) About sixty percent are women, and almost all of both genders are over the age of seventy, which is understandable, since what demographic segment other than the retired could devote this much time to pure leisure during working hours?

These folks come from all walks of life: engineering, law, health care, business, teaching, sales, construction, administration, civil service (I've previously mentioned fire stations as an incubator), and homemaking. One's level of education or IQ is a poor indicator of his skill at bridge. Rather the keys to success seem to be a good memory, a disciplined temperament, a logical mind, and an instinctual "card sense" or insight which allows one to visualize the holdings concealed behind his partner's and opponents' inscrutable expressions; it can't be taught but can be polished and perfected through study and practice.

Once I disabuse the inquirer of the notion that there's gambling involved in these games -- in fact, the fee for one session is three dollars, ten at tournaments -- their eyes glaze over with the unspoken question: just what are they all playing for? The answer is no less mystifying. Games sanctioned (or approved) by the American Contract Bridge League award master points to pairs finishing from first to tenth place depending on the number in play. As a person accumulates points, he moves up a scale of artificial rankings, the most coveted of which is Life Master, earned after his total reaches five hundred, including at least twenty-five won in sectional or regional tournaments.

Founded in 1937, the ACBL is the largest bridge organization in North America, serving over 130,000 members and supporting clubs and tournaments in the United States, Canada, and Bermuda. It determines internationally recognized rules of play and encourages participation at all levels of proficiency and experience. It sanctions over 3.5 million tables annually played in more than 2000 clubs and 750 regional and sectional tournaments plus one million played online. If you're willing to drive 200 miles, you can play in one of these tournaments every weekend of the year.                        

In March I traveled with my wife Barb to Memphis TN at the invitation of one my local partners to play in one of the three North American Bridge Tournaments held every year. If the truth be told, playing bridge ranked fifth on our list of activities, after, respectively, touring Graceland, attending a Memphis Grizzles professional basketball game, watching the late afternoon march of the ducks at the Peabody Hotel, and sampling the barbecue at Charlie Vergos' Rendezvous.

These tournaments last about eleven days, seven of which my partner and her husband (also a bridge player) are signed up for. I don't see how they (or the three thousand others in attendance) do it. Frankly, after four three-and-a-half sessions over two days, I am mentally and physically exhausted.

Just across the street from our hotel, the Renasant Convention Center consists of a 118,000 sq. ft. exhibit hall, two ballrooms, thirty meeting rooms, and the Cannon Center. I doubt all 300,000 sq. ft. of the complex is filled with bridge players, but it surely seems like it. The section stanchions run the gamut from A to Z; twenty-four tables per section equates to a total of 624 tables, which aligns with the announced number of tables for the tournament's duration: 6493. That's down about forty percent from the pre-covid days of duplicate bridge; the pandemic dealt a hand from which the game has not recovered.

My partner and I together have accumulated about 2500 master points, and we should be matched against players with similar records. But, hand after hand, the competition is brutal. At our friendly game back in Lynchburg, my partner and I usually finish in the top five out of twenty pairs; our opponents vary in skill from below average to above average, and we can always count on one or two egregious errors to help us out. Here there are no gifts. Both of us must play error-free if we intend to do well, and neither of us is that good. I would say that only twenty percent of the players in our club would be on par with the one hundred we encounter during two days of bridge. We don't score over fifty percent in any of our four sessions.

Even more depressing is learning that my partner's husband snagged a stranger at the partnership table and thrashed us. I'm not disappointed that from here we're headed to Arizona for some Spring Training Baseball and that I won't be picking up a bridge hand for at least a week.

One incidental attraction of a national tournament is the opportunity to catch sight of a bona fide bridge superstar, provided he or she is playing at another table. Two of the most notable are Bob Hamman and Jeff Meckstroth.

For two decades, stretching from 1985 to 2004, Bob Hamman was the number one ranked bridge player in the world. He discovered the game while a student at UCLA, from which he failed to graduate after indulging in marathon play from eight in the morning to eleven at night. "He entered his first national tournament in 1959 at the age of twenty-one. Three years later he won a national event. In five years, he was competing for the United States in the world championship." He went on to win twelve world championships and fifty North American championships. (McPherson, p. 69)

Many of Hamman's titles came as a member of the famous "Dallas Aces." Tired of America losing repeatedly in international competition to Italy's Blue Team, a 350-pound lapsed-Baptist bridge enthusiast and multimillionaire named Ira G. Corn Jr. decided to assemble the first full-time professional team just to beat the Italians. Hamman moved to Dallas and joined the team in January 1969, one year after its formation. (McPherson, pp. 69-70)

 

Practice was held at Corn's mansion -- which eventually acquired another wing -- sixty hours a week, aided by a $2 million SDS 940 computer that generated and analyzed the hands. Each session ended with an intense performance review that might include discussing every card in a hand. An Ace could be fined negligence at the table and punished for bad behavior away from it. After an evening of competition, there was a two-drink minimum that was vigorously enforced, as was a 2:00 am curfew. The team was outfitted in an array of matching blazers and tuxedos. A psychiatrist was recruited to resolve partnership disagreements. (McPherson, pp. 70-71)

The diligence paid off. The renamed Aces won the World Championship Bermuda Bowl in 1970, '71, and '77, and, one year after Corn's death, in 1983, after which they disbanded.

In 1986 Hamman founded SCA Promotions. Before the advent of prop betting and prediction markets, Hamman's company sold insurance on the likelihood of unusual outcomes, mainly in sport-spectator contests. If an organization like the Dallas Cowboys or Anheuser-Busch wanted to offer a high-dollar payout for a contestant kicking a thirty-five-yard field goal or draining a half-court basketball court or sinking a 175-yard hole-in-one, SCA would cover the potential loss -- for a price. Over time the company moved beyond sports to insure such bets as to whether a chocolate lover would find a Hersey Bar worth $500,000 or a farmer could grow a 1000-pound pumpkin between Labor Day and Halloween. 

In 2015 SCA sued Lance Armstrong to recover prize money it had paid him before he admitted to using performance-enhancing drugs. The case was settled for an undisclosed amount, probably around $5 million.

Hamman is famous for never sorting his hand. He picks up his cards in whatever order they're in and commences to bid and play. He sys he's not showing off or trying to intimidate his opponents; he does it "just because." He doesn't need to arrange the cards by suits or values, and by failing to do so, he's never in danger of giving away information. (McPherson, pp. 71-72)

Hamman's advice to novices is "Understand as much as you can reasonably absorb what the essence of the game is without totally draining your energy and time. And the essence of the game is . . . thinking, reasoning, computing . . . [and] recreations that keep you thinking . . . are good for you . . . Learn to play the game," he says. "It's a great competitive activity. Maybe you'll occasionally get a base hit off some good players. Chance are you'll get ground up and spit out -- but it doesn't have to be that way. That's my two cents." (McPherson, pp. 73-75)                                                                       

Bridge players worldwide would do well to adhere to Hamman's Law: "If you have a choice of reasonable bids, and one of them is Three No Trump, then bid it."

Hamman's last tournament win was in 2019. Now 88, his ACBL match point of 39,416 ranks nineteenth. The current all-time match point leader is Jeff Meckstroth, who has accumulated over 100,000 and is now regarded the greatest bridge player of all time.  

As of 2017, Meckstroth had won nine world championships, sixty-one national championships, ACBL player of the year (for earning the most platinum points) three times, and the Barry Crane 500 (for earning the most master points) a record eleven times.

In 1971, at the age of fourteen, after his brother Dave implored their father to teach him bridge before he set off for college, Jeff decided to sit in on the lessons, borrowed a book -- Ernest Rovere's Contract Bridge Complete -- and, after a quick study, plunged into the game. On their third night out, the brothers won the local duplicate club's championship.   

Partnering with his father for the next three years, Jeff attained the rank of Life Master. He headed to Ohio University on a golf scholarship, but broke his elbow a week before the team tryouts and turned his attention to bridge. In 1975, he introduced his full-time partner, hippie Eric Rodwell, to his father while informing him that he was dropping out of college and embarking on a bridge career; his father promptly disowned him. Six years later Meckstroth and Rodwell won their first world championship, the 1981 Bermuda Bowl. (McPherson, pp. 304-305.

Their partnership became one of the most successful and influential in bridge history. Together they devised a innovative system -- dubbed Meckwell -- which featured aggressive opening bids, sophisticated relay structures, and daring defensive tactics. 

Meckstroth acknowledges that Rodwell is the brains behind their system, "sort of a mad scientist -- and a genius," he says. "We've learned so much from each other because we see the game so differently at times . . I'm more of a natural player, and he's more analytical . . . Mr. Rodwell is a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to bidding.  Obviously, I've been very involved in the development of our system, but he's probably done eighty percent of the work." (McPherson, p. 305)

But the heart of the Meckstroth-Rockwell partnership is the exceptional trust in each other that has evolved over the years; this trust is what allows them to attempt complex contracts others might forgo, understanding that the right line of play or defense will be deployed. 

Meckstroth says, "The most important thing in bridge is that you and your partner are on the same page -- that you know what the bids mean. What methods you play exactly aren't that critical . . . What [Eric and I] do is allow judgment to rule supreme. You are never forced to do this or that. You can judge. And that's what bridge is -- a game of judgment." (McPherson, p. 306)

The forty-five-year Meckstroth-Rockwell partnership came to an end in 2022 supposedly due to Rockwell's refusal to get the Covid-19 vaccination.

Technology has made its mark on duplicate bridge. Cards are shuffled and dealt into boards by a programmed machine which also prints out hand records which can be distributed and analyzed at the conclusion of the game. Scores at each table are entered into portable devices called Bridge-Mates, which tabulate one's result and ranking instantaneously while consigning traveling score sheets and the mathematical wizardry of the Fi Lonergans of the world to obsolescence.

Without moving to a distant community or a retirement complex, it's rare that a seventy-year-old should find himself immersed almost overnight in a novel social milieu. The Lynchburg Club is always looking for more members; aside from their shrinking life expectancy (I once joked that the first order of business is to give the hospital report), more players make for more interesting games. Thus I am welcomed with open arms, and within a matter of weeks have acquired a flock of new friends, as genuine, amiable, and good-humored as any I have met, that is until the boards are distributed, at which point ruthlessness trumps repartee. The reversal is of course short-lived, and, after the last hand is folded, harmony is swiftly restored among this congenial cast of characters:

Clough, his surname and, as I learned from a telephone call to his house, the appellation by which his wife summons him, as opposed to the proper one, which in his telling was miraculously recalled by Dr. Jerry Falwell when they crossed paths in a bank lobby three years after their one and only encounter in a grocery store;

 

Dave, a veteran of the fireman's corps and an inveterate quipster, whose habitual refrain is how boring our lives must be if bridge is the best we can come up with, who relishes semi-psyching opponents into impossible contracts, and who never passes on an opportunity to charm the ladies ("I haven't heard that sound in thirty years," he lamented when one moaned at a difficult hand.);

Phil (or Dr. Phil, as I like to call him), Prospect's most prominent citizen, a former mathematics professor now living his dream to spend his waning years as a "bridge bum," who enticed me to accompany him on a road trip to Danville, little knowing I would be shoehorned for three hours in the smallest of Smart Cars between him and the reams of sheet music he hauls around for his impromptu piano concerts;

 

Jo Ann, a kindred spirit in that she once operated a retail store and -- how shall I say this tactfully -- we've both had more than one spouse (although she's happily attached to Sam now), who performs the thankless job of helping players find partners (for bridge, that is) with aplomb and efficiency and to whose insistence that I accept a ten dollar reimbursement for driving her to a tournament in Williamsburg I reluctantly yielded after remembering her eloquent letter to the editor denouncing gun control; 

Ed, brewer of the obligatory coffee (regular and decaf), which, paired with a superfluous but tasty chex mix, keeps us fueled every Monday and Friday, who first flummoxes partners and opponents with audacious bidding, then rescues himself with dexterous play, and afterwards, like me, though at several decibels louder, feels compelled to resurrect every recently slain king, queen, and jack;

 

Jo, christened by my mother "the smartest woman she knows" for her proficiency at directing a three-table duplicate game, actually the product of her years in the classroom controlling restless students with theatrical sternness while imparting their lessons in a gentler, kinder manner, as was demonstrated just the other day when, after I made a defensive misplay, she almost whispered: "We needed to get a spade trick";

 

Julie, proud new Life Master, whose vow never to marry unless presented with a long-stemmed yellow rose was upended when her Match date Tito showed up flower in hand, who, having thus been swept off her feet, decided to tie the knot while floating over Poplar Forest in a hot air balloon, and who chose bridge with "a bunch of guys" at the Student Union at Montreat-Anderson Presbyterian School over Billy Graham's Sunday School class and now practices it faithfully if somewhat inconsistently;

 

Mike, a youthful minority of one in the Medicare ineligible category, who wandered in one Wednesday evening in search of social interaction and became a fixture, whose year-round short-sleeved attire leaves me shivering, and who packs a quiver of mediocre jokes, including the one about the eager fellow who sits down to dinner with his girl friend's parents and, determined to make a good impression, blurts out: "I'm here to talk about politics and religion";

Gloria and Ron, an atypical bridge couple, in that they will often split up, Gloria pairing herself with a partner more suited to her higher skill level, which Ron proudly acknowledges, then reunite for Gloria's ongoing tutelage, which seems to have had minimal effect over the years, as Ron has directed more of his attention to his flourishing hand-crafted birdhouse business;

Maureen and Magnus, another bridge couple, who, once they retired and decided is was time to abandon Minnesota's abominable snow seasons for the sunny south, sampled at least a dozen possible landing spots before settling on our fair city, where they found the players the friendliest and the venue the most pleasant, bringing with them thousands of master points, the expertise to direct (that is, organize the game and enforce the rules), a willingness to teach the finer points, and the desire to make the club more sociable, which they demonstrated immediately by hosting a Fourth of July cookout, the first non-bridge gathering in the Lynchburg Duplicate Bridge Club's long storied history;

 

And a host of others who shall remain anonymous, not from a lack of space, which has never restrained me before, but rather from my journalistic failure to observe or elicit from them any biographical quirk worth chronicling, for which most are probably grateful.

The onset of the pandemic in March and the ensuing closure of public facilities like the Templeton Center left bridge players around the world as bereft and desperate as substance abusers wracked by pangs of withdrawal -- at least those like me who are unwilling or unable to adapt to the virtual alternative. As restrictions began to ease, Ed preempted the moment, and opened negotiations with Ronnie, the Center's manager. Together they devised a safety protocol that would permit the resumption of a limited game: maximum of three tables (twelve players), each consisting of four card tables conjoined to maintain physical distancing, two placed at opposite ends of the large room, one in the side room; mask required; temperature check and Covid interrogation upon entry.

Hallelujah! We're back.

Today Jo and I, sitting South and North, will play five rounds of five boards each against five pairs of East-West opponents; our score will depend on our result compared to that of the other North-South pairs. Since each board is played only three times, the best one can record on a board is two, the worst is zero, and defeating one pair while losing to the other yields a one, or average.

Our first opponents are Ann and Jim, who appears clad in enough protective gear -- mask, shield, gloves, and boots -- to repel any and all virus, bacteria, radiation, and stray gunshots that might penetrate the premises. None of it slows him down, however, as he bursts from the gate with a cold top board, running a string of diamonds that forces me into a couple of erroneous discards and allows him to collect all thirteen tricks at a meager 1NT contract.

The tables are turned on the next hand, when their own club discard enables me to make an overtrick at 5H, where I have to abandon my slam attempt after Jo reveals that her opening bid is lacks even one ace. I'm certain I have doubled us into a zero on the third board when we cash only two Aces and Ann, holding an eight-card suit, wraps up 5D, but apparently I'm not alone; we get one point. On Board Four, I surrender a trick with a poor defensive play, but Ann promptly gives it back, making 3NT exactly when one other made four; we get one-and-a-half. She recovers beautifully on the last hand of the round by leading the only card -- a low spade from Jxx -- that defeats Jo's 3NT contract.

Our second set is against Gloria and Ron, two of the Club's best. On Board Six, however, Ron leaps into an ill-advised 3NT, which he is able to bring home only because of our poor defense: holding AQ87, I don't signal loudly enough for a heart return from Jo late in the play, thereby forfeiting the setting trick; we get zero.

But after that we run off four top boards. On Seven, opposite Jo's 1NT opener, holding six to the Ten with only five points, I transfer to 2H, which she makes. On Eight, after Ron's weak 2S opener, I overcall 3C with a four-card suit, and bid 3NT when Jo responds 3D; I make five when Jo lays down six of her suit and the defenders set up two spade tricks for me by cashing their AK. On Nine, the Flickers pass our 2S which Jo makes while the other two EW pairs push to 3H. On Ten, after Jo opens and jumps in diamonds, I gamble on 3NT, hoping my Jxxx will stand up against Ron's intervening heart overcall; I make five when Jo produces the singleton QH, and Ron inadvertently allows me to win a baby heart trick.

Another tough team, Ed and Jim, follows the Gloria and Ron, but we get lucky. Board Eleven features some contentious bidding. In response to Jo's 2D Flannery bid, showing a hand with four spades and five hearts, my five-card spade suit propels me to four spades. After two passes, Jim makes a bid he doesn't expect to make, but will prevent us from scoring game: 5C. Holding four clubs to the King, I should double; instead I compete to 5S, which in hindsight is destined to fail. Ed, however, decides to bid his own six-card suit, diamonds, at the six level, no less, which we double and set three tricks for a top.

We score well on three of the next four boards. On Twelve, Ed's ten tricks at 2D are one less than the other pairs'. On Thirteen, my Ace lead is trumped when Ed's dummy is void in hearts -- "That suit has two Aces," he says -- and Jim makes an extra trick, giving us only one-half point. On Fourteen, however, one overtrick at 3NT is not enough, and on Fifteen, Jo's coming up short in the bad 1S contract I leave her in turns out better than I expected. We get one-and-a-half on each board.

Despite their sweet demeanor, our next opponents, Frances and Andrea, have their knives sharpened and aimed for the jugular. On Board Sixteen, against a solid 3NT contract, I make my best lead, the top of a diamond sequence. As we approach the end position, my fourth diamond is established as the setting trick. Having cashed eight tricks and forced Jo and me to make some difficult discards, Andrea advances the QC; looking at three small clubs in the dummy and Kx in my hand and knowing that Andrea cannot have the Ace, I inexplicably put up the King; alas, it crashes under Jo's Ace, after which she must surrender the ninth trick. We get one-half.

On Board Seventeen, a five-one spade break dooms Jo's 3NT contract, which she can make by saving a stopper in the suit and an entry to dummy and by playing on hearts to establish her ninth trick. Also, on Eighteen, it appears she can make 3C by drawing the two outstanding trumps -- which split three-three -- and thus avoiding losing each individually. We get two more halves.

 

On Nineteen, holding 1NT opening strength against Frances's 2H, I defend poorly, not leading my best suit . . . twice, and she makes it. It's good (or bad) enough for an average, one point, as is Jo making three overtricks at 3NT on Twenty, in which after passing I make a key 2C bid to show a stopper.

We need a strong close against Doris and BJ. On Board Twenty-One, I pick up a powerful playing hand, AKQxxx in hearts, Ax in clubs, 10xxxx in diamonds. When I get to 5H, which I can make, BJ sacrifices at 5S. I'm too gun shy now to double, but setting her three tricks earns us one-and-a-half. On Twenty-Two, we take advantage of two five-one splits (hearts and clubs) to hold her to nine tricks at 3NT, and score another one-and-a-half.

On the last three boards, we rack up three tops. On Twenty-Three (4S) and Twenty-Five (3S), Doris finds herself in two contracts that are impossible for her to make, regardless of her play or the defense. On Twenty-Four we hold BJ to ten tricks at 3NT when apparently others are making more.

I estimate an above average finish, and am pleasantly surprised when Jo announces we are first with thirty-two match points, a sixty-four percent game. When I sat down with my note pad, I resolved to report the outcome however the cards fell. Some days are just like that.

We put away our boards and bidding boxes, rise from our chairs, say farewell, and make our way to the parking lot, rejoicing in the knowledge that, whether we won or lost, there is no more satisfying form of entertainment or escape from the turmoil of a troubled world than a few hours spent with our friends at the Bridge Club.

REFERENCES

McPherson, Edward. The Backwash Squeeze & Other Improbable Feats: A Newcomer's Journey into the World of Bridge. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2007.

Owen, David. "Turning Tricks." The New Yorker, September 17, 2007.

Saraceno, Jon. "A Bridge to Brainpower." AARP Bulletin, 2015.

 

 

Eve of Destruction

When Barry McGuire sung those lyrics back in 1965, voracious firestorms and radioactive mushroom clouds loomed on the horizon, passive resistance had erupted into violence, and escalating body counts in Southeast Asia were signaling a prolonged agony.

A nuclear holocaust never materialized. The Civil Rights Movement was successful in dismantling the walls imprisoning many African-Americans in a second-class citizenship, although the promise of genuine equality remained unfulfilled. The Vietnam legacy of lives and treasure squandered in a futile attempt at nation-building never faded from the public consciousness.

The turmoil of that period, not to mention the Great Recession of 2008-2009, has been swiftly eclipsed by the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic to such an extent that, if McGuire's words resonated then, they sound an alarm now that is unrelenting and deafening.

In fact, Barry McGuire never knew what destruction really meant.

I fear for the future of America.

This sentiment stems not from the clinical aspects of the disease but from the concomitant shock waves that have shattered the foundations of civil order like a continental earthquake.

Granted, without the implementation of effective defensive measures, the death toll could be staggering. Case fatality rates -- the number of deaths attributed to the disease divided by the number of infections -- vary from as high as 13.4% in Italy to as low as 3.5% in Germany. Focusing on this calculation is problematic, however, since the true number of infections, the denominator, is unknown; many infected persons have not been diagnosed due to an absence of symptoms and a lack of testing. Also, the number of deaths, the numerator, is a function of the quality of care available to acutely ill patients, and will be inflated when Covid-19 is incorrectly reported as the cause of death, which may explain the aberrant statistics coming out of Italy.

Another factor to consider, according to British epidemiologist Neil Ferguson, is to what extent Covid-19 will increase deaths above the otherwise expected level. "By the end of the year . . . as much as half to two-thirds of the deaths we're seeing from Covid-19" might have occurred anyhow "as it's affecting people who are either at the end of their lives or in poor health."

Because of these variances, it might be more useful to measure deaths as a percent of total population rather than of total infections.

The most vicious pandemic of modern times was the outbreak of Spanish flu, which began in January 1918 and lasted until December 1920. The disease infected 500 million people (out of a world population of 1.8 billion), of whom 50 million died. Of 100 million living in the United States, twenty-five million fell ill, of whom about 675,000 died, an overall death rate of 0.675%, one-quarter of the worldwide figure.

A Europe devastated by World War I may account for some of the difference. Also, many cities in the United States were successful in controlling the disease by adopting non-pharmaceutical interventions similar to current public health measures though not nearly as stringent. Absent any federal or state mandates, those cities closed churches, theaters, schools, and places of public gathering. Restaurants, factories, and retail establishments were permitted to remain open as long as they prevented "patrons and employees from loitering or congregating in groups." (City of Cleveland Ordinance, 10/15/1918)

Interventions were deployed sporadically and inconsistently; cities which acted faster had better results. Philadelphia waited sixteen days, two weeks longer than St. Louis, and recorded a death rate at its peak five times higher. But Chicago's health commissioner refused to close businesses, saying, "It is our duty to keep the people from fear. Fear kills more people than the epidemic." (WSJ, March 21-22, 2020)

A lack of effectiveness can also be attributed to a health care system not only deficient by today's standards but compromised by a shortage of nurses, many of whom had been sent to the European war theater.

In contrast to the current upheaval, the economic repercussions were mild. In a 2006 paper for Canada's Department of Finance, two researchers found little change in international trade, retail sales, railroad passenger traffic, and stock prices. While factory employment dipped 18% when the flu peaked, annual output declined only 0.5%. (WSJ, March 21-22, 2020)

Applying the Spanish flu death rate of 0.675% to the current U.S. population of 325 million yields a mortality of 2.2 million citizens, which suggests to me that, considering comparable mitigation efforts, the 1918 disease was at least twice as virulent as today's scourge. Interestingly enough, using far more sophisticated models (or maybe not), that is the exact same number Professor Ferguson arrived at in his initial analysis of the impact of the coronavirus.

A lot of people, particularly those serving up the nightly news, were horrified -- until Ferguson explained that his projection was based on the premise that "nothing is done to contain, suppress, or mitigate the epidemic." As the appropriate policies were phased in and the level of fatality, while still sobering, took on a more moderate pattern, the professor went back to his computer, and issued a revised estimate of 100,000.

The nasty novelty of this coronavirus is that it can plant itself undetected in innocent individuals who don't cough, develop a fever, lose their sense of taste or smell, become fatigued, or have difficulty breathing but who "without malice aforethought" can pass it to as many as three unsuspecting contacts who may have a much more severe reaction. So implausible was this rumor when it first surfaced back in January that no less an authority than Dr. Anthony Fauci, then merely the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Disease and not yet a media star, debunked it, saying that "in all the history of respiratory viruses, asymptomatic transmission has never been the driver of outbreaks."

When the blackness of the swan was indeed confirmed, the good doctor deftly pivoted to the Ferguson agenda.

Whether suppression and mitigation are subsets of containment or unique approaches is a matter of semantics, but for my purposes I prefer to define containment as the use of any available tools to prevent the spread of the disease beyond a specific geographical area. Effective containment would require the imposition of controls much more harsh than those now in use and not acceptable practically or legally in a democratic society.

The Trump administration's attempt to contain the virus on February 2nd by barring entry into the U.S. by foreign nationals who had traveled to China within the previous fourteen days was destined to fail because it excluded immediate family members of American citizens and permanent residents. Further, research has indicated that the infection in New York came from Europe, not China. Restricting all entry into the U.S. at a certain point in time was obviously unworkable, but it was the only recourse with any chance of success. Similarly, to contain the virus within a city, county, or state would encompass the closure of all land, water, and air borders.

The governors of several states -- Texas, Florida, Maryland, South Carolina, and Rhode Island -- are erecting their own barriers in self-defense. They have ordered all persons arriving from the New York area to self-quarantine for fourteen days upon arrival.

In an influential report ("Impact of  Non-Pharmaceutical Interventions to Reduce COVID-19 Deaths and Health Care Demand") issued on March 16th, the Imperial College London elucidated the two remaining strategies for attacking the disease.

Mitigation consists of confining suspect cases and members of their household to their residence and isolating those with a high risk of dying should they become ill, mainly the elderly. Its aim is to slow but not necessarily stop the spread of the disease (and thus foster the incubation of herd immunity), to ease the burden imposed on the health care system, and to protect the most vulnerable. The result should be reductions of one-third (from three to two) in the disease transmission rate (the secondary cases each infected person generates), of one-half (from 2.2 million to 1.1 million) in the number of deaths, and of two-thirds in the peak demand for critical care beds.

Recognizing that such a level of mortality was still intolerable, the Imperial College recommended  suppression as the preferred course of action. Its more extreme physical distancing (the correct terminology, in my opinion) would include shuttering schools and universities and directing the general population to "stay at home": to forgo unnecessary travel, to refrain from socializing with family and friends, and to avoid restaurants and bars. The goal of suppression is to reduce virus transmissions to under one per person and the death toll to less than 100,000.

While the Imperial College report did not address it, rigorous testing has been utilized successfully in several countries to suppress transmissions to near zero. Theoretically, when a potential infection is identified in specific macro or micro community -- a city, a workplace, a neighborhood -- the suspect case, his social contacts if they can be traced, and all other members of the community are tested. Positives are quarantined for fourteen days; negatives are permitted free movement, although they may be retested at a later date. Fast, reliable tests must be available in sufficient quantities at the outbreak of contagion for such a program to have any value -- essentially foreclosing it in the U.S.

The Imperial College did not advocate "a complete lock down" of businesses, factories, and offices. "Suppression," it cautioned, "carries with it enormous social and economic costs which may themselves have significant impact on health and well-being in the short and longer term." (Peter Smith, Quadrant Online, March 23, 2020)

Yet within hours, across the globe -- relying on incomplete and conflicting data, preferring to accept inevitable hardship and tragedy rather than reject speculative scenarios, exacerbating their constituents' state of fear, spurred by a media intent on sensationalism, and seduced by the temptation of unrestrained power -- government officials launched an unprecedented experiment in economic and social engineering. Never before in mankind's intermittent struggles with plague and epidemic had healthy persons been stigmatized and forbidden to cross their own thresholds. Never before in world history had civilized nations voluntarily orchestrated their own disintegration.

Our own administration's declaration of war was more frightening than reassuring, considering its predecessors' dismal track record: the aforementioned Vietnam War, which left in its wake 55,000 Americans and over 2.5 million Vietnamese dead, two presidencies undone, and the government's credibility in ruins; the War on Drugs, which bequeathed us rogue countries, exorbitant underground wealth creation, corrupted law enforcement, criminalization of the innocent, and mass minority incarceration; and the War on Terror, during which apparent victory hardly came cheap: billions scattered across the desert in a futile search for weapons of mass destruction, civil liberties surrendered for the sake of national security, and private movement and transactions subjected to scrutiny, surveillance, and investigation.

The collateral damage from today's novel warfare was immediate, predictable, and devastating: trillions of dollars of life savings and retirement accounts erased with the stroke of a pen; twenty million workers whose pride would have never allowed them to seek a handout suddenly without a job; thousands of entrepreneurs and small business owners compelled to shut down and stand by in shock while their hopes, dreams, and working capital dissolved; major retailers, manufacturers, and service providers brought to the brink of bankruptcy as their cash flow slowed to a trickle; lower-income and poverty-stricken multi-generational families ordered to shelter in walk-up apartments while politicians, talking heads, and scientists touted the benefits of bonding from their twelve-room mansions.

Like a placid river struck by a hurricane, the rising water rapidly overflowed its banks, and inundated all that lay before it, every individual and institution, until all one could see was a huge expanse of brown sludge, mirroring the vacant streetscape of New York City.

For me there were several significant markers.

The first was March 11th when Rudy Gobert of the Denver Nuggets tested positive for Covid-19, and the NBA suspended all games "until further notice," which of course has yet to be forthcoming. The next day Major League Baseball canceled Spring Training, and delayed indefinitely the opening of the 2020 season, a move greatly disappointing to me; Spring Training had long been on my bucket list, and I had planned a trip to Phoenix on March 20th to see my beloved Oakland A's take on the White Sox and the Cubs. Also on March 12th, after briefly considering playing before empty seats, the NCAA canceled all postseason tournaments, including Division I March Madness. In a curious footnote, the Big East suspended a quarterfinals conference tournament game between St. John's and Creighton at halftime, too late certainly to stifle any virus that may have been wafting through the arena.

Those sports commissioners had no doubt overlooked this sentence in the Imperial College report: "Stopping mass gatherings is predicted to have little impact because the contact time at such events is relatively small compared to the time spent at home, school, workplaces . . . bars, and restaurants."

The second marker was March 13th when Governor Ralph Northam closed Virginia schools for two weeks and ultimately, ten days later, for the remainder of the academic year. Because the school system is the cornerstone of contemporary society, this drastic step was a harbinger of further disruption, and had far-reaching implications. Working parents had to scramble to find caregivers for their children; with half of children receiving their only nutritional meal at school, arrangements had to made for continued distribution of food; a shift to online and home schooling became increasingly problematic with many households lacking adequate skills and technology. Numerous officials would subsequently question a policy that might bring at-risk older persons into close proximity to their grandchildren for extended periods of time.

The third marker was March 20th when, while driving to Orange, Va., I listened to New York Governor Andrew Cuomo announce a state shutdown and all that it entailed: banning all non-essential gatherings, requiring most employees to work from home, quarantining persons over the age of seventy. His dictatorial tone was a little unsettling, but when he ventured into the purely oratorical and proclaimed, "If everything we do saves just one life, I'll be happy," I was dumbfounded. The statement sounds noble, but is patently absurd and irresponsible. Governing involves weighing values and analyzing costs and benefits. Many lives could be saved if speed limits were reduced twenty percent, tobacco was outlawed, and all troops on foreign soil were recalled, but such acts would run counter to majority opinion and undermine national priorities.

From that point my personal markers were swamped in rapid succession: the Bridge Club (understandable, as at seventy-one, I'm one of the youngest members); the YMCA (debatable, as mental and physical well-being are just as critical to warding off a virus as quarantine); the library (incomprehensible, as some people still like to read books, and what are they and their children to do when their home supply is exhausted); and finally, the barbershop (incredible, no explanation necessary).

In this dystopian nightmare, ironies abound.

Farmers destroy millions of pounds of lettuce, tomatoes, and beans, and dump millions of gallons of milk as demand from schools and restaurants dries up while food pantries are overwhelmed by the homeless and hungry.

Ordered to stay at home, thousands of defiant citizens jam the streets of Lansing, Michigan to protest the directive that allows them to buy marijuana and lottery tickets but not furniture, plants, fertilizer, or paint.

Paper towels and toilet tissue vanish from supermarket shelves as panic-stricken shoppers stock up for the Apocalypse, intent on scrubbing all soil, stain, and vestige of virus from their bodies and habitats.

GE and Ford ramp up to manufacture 50,000 ventilators in one hundred days while physicians on the front lines report that, for many Covid-19 patients who exhibit altitude sickness rather than pneumonia symptoms, ventilator intubation may not be helpful and may even be harmful.

Liberty University, the poster child for online education and no stranger to controversy, summons two thousands residential students back to campus after Spring Break in the midst of the pandemic.

To conserve supplies of personal protection equipment and prepare for the onslaught of Covid-19 patients, hospitals across the country halt elective surgeries and procedures, forcing them to layoff millions of health care workers and generating billions of dollars of losses.

Spousal abuse, child abuse, alcohol and drug abuse, and depression escalate alongside rising unemployment as millions locked in their homes succumb to emotional distress; if past statistics are any indication, as many as 50,000 could die from despair.

In stunning reversals of ideology, with moral hazard (high risk at little cost) the order of the day, rugged individualists salivate at the government trough; Medicare-for-all repudiators champion cash-for-all stimulus; laissez-faire capitalists embrace Sanders-style socialism.

Which brings me to the remedy.

Staring at an unfathomable economic collapse, Congress and the administration reacted with "all deliberate speed." Speed is the operative word here; deliberation was an afterthought.

When I envision Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell, Charles Schumer, Nancy Pelosi, and their 532 minions as the saviors of American civilization, I break out in a Covid-19 sweat. When the numbers on their blank check soar into the stratosphere, like virus victims doubling by the hour, my throat tightens up. When the president trumpets how "incredibly hard" they are all working to reach a deal, amusement and cynicism displace fear and trembling. Why is it so difficult to give away $2.2 trillion of other people's money? "Because," says my son, a former Capitol Hill reporter, "every favored cause and special interest group is crying foul and demanding recompense."

Which is how the invoice on a rescue edifice that broke ground at $1 trillion came in at over twice that amount. For legislators unchecked by budgetary constraints, negotiation was a matter of guaranteeing that a change order for the left would be matched by one for the right, and vice-versa.

Perhaps Representative James Clyburn (D., SC) said it best when he brazenly exhorted, "This is a tremendous opportunity to restructure things to fit our vision." One doesn't know whether to be outraged or complimentary; a politician rarely comes forth with such an honest, transparent statement. And couldn't one interpret the vociferous protests from the other side of the aisle as a distraction from its own culpability in stuffing the beast with a comparable ton of pork?

Some of the lesser-known appropriations in the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security (CARES) Act include, in addition to current funding, $25 billion for food stamps and child nutrition; $5 billion for Community Development Block Grants (one-and-a-half times their 2020 total); $4 billion for Homeless Assistance Grants; $30 billion for education, equally divided between K-12 schools and colleges (many of whom boast multi-billion-dollar endowments); $130 billion for struggling hospitals; and $40 billion for forgiveness (not deferment) of six months of student loan principal and interest.

One can argue that such grants are critical to their recipients' ability to "prevent, prepare for, and respond to the coronavius," but less convincing to me are $25 billion for transit systems, $11 billion for three African development funds, $60 million for NASA, $100 million for the Department of Energy, $37 million for the Forest Service, $75 million each for the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities (about one-half their annual budgets), and $25 million for the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (the same sum as its operating budget). The last expressed its gratitude for Congressional largess by promptly laying off 750 employees.

Three centerpieces of the CARES Act are designed to provide immediate assistance to persons harmed by the crisis. The $350 billion Paycheck Protection Program, through the Small Business Administration, makes loans of up to $10 million available to small businesses or nonprofits with fewer than 500 employees to cover two-and-a-half months of payroll costs. The loan is forgivable as long as the borrower avoids layoffs and uses 75% of the funds for payroll.

The program's popularity was only exceeded by its inherent flaws. Congress carved out an exception for hospitality and dining establishments which enabled them to count their employees by "physical location" rather than in the aggregate. Consequently, national chains like Ruth's Chris Steakhouse ($20 million through two subsidiaries), Potbelly Sandwich Shop ($10 million), and Kara Sushi USA ($6 million) raked in huge amounts of cash, leaving many independent restaurateurs who lacked banking relationships and financial expertise in a holding pattern while the funds were depleted.

Furthermore, lawmakers erred in trusting businessmen to abide by a self-policing honor system. The vague, unenforceable stipulation that borrowers must certify in good faith that "economic uncertainty makes the loan necessary to support ongoing operations" left the vault wide open for companies and organizations flush with assets, not impaired by the shutdown, and conducting business as usual at full staffing levels: law firms, accountants, investment advisers, consultants, physician offices, foundations, nonprofits, and colleges. One naive columnist warned that an ombudsman would be compiling a roster of greedy abusers for the purpose of exposing their audacity to the public.

Among those sinners certain to be on the list are Intellinetics ($800,000), which is using $300,000 of its loan to purchase a rival firm; AutoWeb ($1.4 million), which compensated its CEO $1.7 million in 2019; Manning & Napier ($6.7 million), which has $20 billion in assets under management and will pay a quarterly dividend this month; Escalade Sports ($5.6 million), which reported strong demand for its ping-pong tables and basketball hoops and a $50 million line of credit; and MiMedx Group ($10 million), which recently settled two lawsuits, one with the Department of Justice for overcharging the Department of Veterans Affairs, the other with the SEC for falsifying financial statements.

Having received their loan proceeds, owners hustling to recall laid-off workers may find themselves stymied by the CARES Act's $260 billion second centerpiece, which adds a federal weekly subsidy of $600 to any state unemployment stipend. In Virginia, where the July 1st minimum wage will be $9.75 an hour, a person drawing unemployment insurance will be able to take home the equivalent of $20 an hour for the next four months. Self-esteem and self-reliance are powerful motivators, but are they worth a fifty percent pay cut and giving up an extended vacation? When four Republican senators lobbied for an adjustment to the blatant disincentive, they were crucified by Speaker Pelosi and the New York Times for their cruelty and heartlessness.

The third relief component of the CARES Act is the $300 billion that is being distributed by direct deposit, cash, or debit card to individuals who earn less than $75,000 ($1200 each plus $500 per child under seventeen). Far be it from me to disparage what amounts to a tax rebate, but it's hard to see this one as nothing more than an illogical, superfluous, egregious vote-buying scheme concocted by a political cohort that once again has demonstrated its inability to see beyond the next election cycle. I won't deny that there are millions of folks in dire straits and in desperate need of this money to pay rent and utility bills and to purchase food. Send it to them, even more if necessary, but not to the millions who are either on a company payroll or receiving generous unemployment benefits.

In their rush to reelection, legislators forgot one of the fundamental facts of life: dead people can't vote (at least not until universal mail-in balloting becomes the law of the land). When my executive assistant, a woman of impeccable integrity, received a check addressed to her deceased mother, she inquired (by way of the omniscient Google) how to go about returning it. "Don't bother," she was told. "Just cash it; heirs are entitled to the money."

With that said, in full disclosure, I must acknowledge that all this stimulus has been an unexpected boon to Schewels Home, an essential seller of appliances, electronics, outdoor power equipment, and consumer financing. Too big for the small business bailout and too small for the big business bailout, we were cursing our calamity when the payoff slipped in through the back door. With most restaurants and clothing stores under lock down, frenzied shoppers with limited options made a beeline to our showrooms, and in two weeks converted a precipitous sales decline to break even. In an embarrassing display of self-interest, I told one of my buyers that I'm rooting for this abominable situation to last at least two more months, provided our suppliers can reopen and replenish our warehouses.

I know I'm an outlier, but my deep-seated aversion to debt makes me wonder where all the money is coming from. Fiscal discipline went the way of all flesh in the first decade of the millennium when George W. Bush slashed taxes and invaded Afghanistan and Iraq. Deficits breached the $1 trillion mark each year of Obama's first presidency as the government grappled with the Great Recession, and then retreated briefly as the recovery gained strength. Regrettably, while prosperity bloomed, the Trump administration, abetted by a compliant Congress, threw conservatism and foresightedness to the wind, combined further tax cuts with increased defense and entitlement spending, and piled on two more trillion dollar shortfalls.

Apparently the government's appetite for borrowing is insatiable, and the market's capacity for lending is unlimited. This month's emergency legislation will quadruple the annual deficit to $3.8 trillion, and increase the federal debt to $24 trillion, 108% of GDP, a level that hasn't been reached since World War II. And yet, contrary to what used to be the conventional wisdom, even with the Federal Reserve purchasing $4 trillion of its own bonds and essentially printing money, interest rates hover at zero and inflation is non-existent. One would think that at some point down the road the bill will come due, perhaps when investors flee bonds because of low returns or the risk of default and trigger a spike in interest rates and inflation. But it's pure fantasy to conceive of any circumstance in the foreseeable future which would impel our cowardly leadership, red or blue, to address the issue as disinterested statesmen and entertain an increase in taxes or a reduction in spending. Which is why I had to smirk at Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin who, when a reporter broached the unmentionable, blithely assured him, "In different times, we'll fix the deficit."

Just how much is $6 trillion, which is the total spent (or invested) by the Federal Reserve and the U. S. Treasury in response to the pandemic? Schewel Furniture Company's annual gross revenues are approximately $100 million. In order to accumulate $6 trillion in sales, we would have to stay in business for 60,000 years through 2400 generations.

Here's another analogy. If one assumes that the draconian measures now paralyzing society will save (or extend, since no one escapes the grim reaper) one million lives, the government will have placed a price of $6 million on each of those rescues. I'm not making a judgment as to the relative value of the figures; I'm only presenting the mathematics.

The discomfort of such a conversation, not to mention the pervasive fear engendered by the disease, writes Zachary Karabell in Newsweek (April 21, 2020), is indicative of a culture that is fixated on denial and has "forgotten that death is a natural part of the life cycle . . .Treating death as the ultimate tragedy serves none of us," and makes the discussion of how much risk we are willing to tolerate in the interest of safety so excruciating. Thinking of death in less grim terms, as a condition of being human, can assuage much of our anxiety, and foster the resilience we may need in the days ahead.

Dr. Michael Osterholm, founder of the University of Minnesota's Center for Infectious Disease and Research Policy, suspects that there could "easily be sixteen to eighteen months of substantial activity of this virus around the world, coming and going, wave after wave." Sixty to seventy percent of population will have to be infected, he says, to produce a major reduction in transmission.

Testing is not a real solution because, according to Osterholm, "We don't have adequate international manufacturing capacity and supply chains for reagents, the chemicals needed to run the tests . . . and we can't build those manufacturing facilities overnight."

This leaves three strategies, two of which Osterholm reject as too destructive: a Wuhan-like lock down of society and our economy or the opposite -- making no effort to prevent the virus from circulating freely through the population, killing millions and decimating the health care system.

The third and only viable option, he says, is to "open our economy and everyday life in a way that is capable of rapidly detecting new waves of infection" and then to employ physical distancing to limit the spread. We must allow our younger, more resistant demographic to return to work, to socialize, to shop, to dine out, while asking the more vulnerable among us to be attentive to their risk and to self-quarantine. Even so, Osterholm projects an overall infection rate of 50% (160 million people) and a potential mortality of 800,000 to 1.5 million.

We're back to where we started. Many readers will find that number unconscionable. But I believe we have no other choice. To continue along the current path is sheer madness. The obstacle we face -- and I don't know if can we overcome it -- is that the media and our political leadership are perversely allied in sending us two misleading messages that are counterproductive. The media's message is that victory can be declared only when infections and fatalities revert to zero. Our leadership's message is that physical distancing and widespread testing are effectively suppressing infections and fatalities to zero. They are both wrong.

Americans need to be told the truth. The virus is not leaving us anytime soon. If people intend to resume any semblance of normal life, they will have to accept that many are going to get sick and some are going to die.

APPENDIX

A MESSAGE TO THE SCHEWELS HOME TEAM

Next month Schewel Furniture Company will celebrate its 123rd anniversary under the same family ownership and management. Most companies don't make it past the second generation, yet by perseverance, stubbornness, or just plain good luck, this one is in the process of transitioning to the fifth.

There's no denying that civil order as we understand it has been shaken to its very foundation by the Covid-19 pandemic. But if anyone is prepared to weather this storm and pass this enterprise to a budding sixth generation, we are.

We have talented, resourceful, and inspirational leadership at every level, from the corporate office to our store and credit managers. We have a skilled, dedicated, and hard-working team providing exceptional service in all our communities. We have a loyal, diverse customer base that will continually desire and have the capacity to purchase our products. We have sizable cash reserves and accounts receivable that will enable us to meet our obligations for many months. And we have a long history of success when confronted by hard times.

Our founder, Elias Schewel, fleeing an oppressive regime in czarist Russia, came to Lynchburg as a religious scholar and teacher with little more than the clothes on his back. To supplement his income he began selling household goods from a horse and buggy. He was able to save enough money to set up a shop on Main Street and to book passage on a trans-Atlantic ship for his wife and three firstborn children.

Thirty years later his three sons, Abe, Ben, and Ike, were running the store when a disease even more deadly than Covid-19, the Spanish flu, swept through the United States. They survived, but their eighteen-year-old sister, Selma, became one of the country's 675,000 victims.

In 1929 the nation's economy collapsed under the weight of the Great Depression, leaving 25% of the workforce without jobs, causing thousands of banks and businesses to fail, and impoverishing farmers in every region. While the devastation was to linger on until World War II, the decade of the 1930's was actually a period of growth for Schewels. The owners seized opportunities where there were vacancies, and opened their first satellite stores in Altavista, Danville, and Harrisonburg.

In September 2005 a disgruntled employee ignited two sofas in our Distribution Center. The efficient deployment of the sprinkler system and a swift response by the fire department contained the blaze although the entire contents were deemed unsaleable due to smoke damage. A tremendous effort by buyers, suppliers, clean-up crews, truckers, and inside workers had new merchandise back in stock and flowing to stores and customers in three weeks. Thirty days to pay for it and full reimbursement by our insurance company generated significant cash, and enabled the company to reduce its bank debt substantially.

Three years later the Great Recession struck the company with a vengeance, shrinking sales 18% and slicing profits in half. The new reality required a paradigm shift from expansion and investment to retrenchment and frugality. All departments responded with courage, composure, and alacrity, particularly credit, which never compromised its standards, maintained steady collections, and produced a positive cash flow during the downturn. The company emerged trimmer, leaner, and smarter.

In a world that is in a constant state of flux, in which the future is measured in hours, days, and weeks, in which we are all seeking an emotional anchor, I can offer you one certainty. When the turmoil recedes, Schewels Home will be standing strong, poised for prosperity.