OCTOBER 27, 2021 – On paper, as it were, I should be a decent Scrabble player. I like words and etymology; I like to read and write. But in my family, when it comes to playing the game, I’ll never be more than an amateur—this despite my use of the word “qat,” my familiarity with two-letter words, my knowledge of “winning strategies,” and my many years of Scrabble experience. The problem is that despite whatever prowess I’ve attained, “the competition” will always remain well ahead of me.
It all started with our grandmother, who, into her advanced 90s, could defeat me mercilessly at an otherwise “friendly” game of Scrabble.
Then came my oldest sister, Kristina, a veritable Scrabble maven, a high school spelling-bee champion, and a life-long wordsmith of the highest order. She used to maintain a three-ring binder containing not only her eye-popping game scores but the individual words corresponding to her scores. Over the years she’s mellowed, but if you’re in her company for more than an hour, she’ll suggest (disarmingly) a game of Scrabble, then defeat you roundly—humiliatingly so, if you thought you had a command of English.
Her late husband, Dean, followed quietly in her footsteps until he overtook her—and all others—at the game.
Well up the ranks is our son Byron, who attended college in close proximity to the aforementioned Scrabble champions of the world and became their protégé. He now “bingos” (puts down all seven tiles in a single turn) in nearly every game he plays.
Finally, there’s my wife—middle name: “Competitive”—who defeats me in four out of five Scrabble games. I sorta win by losing, because according to her rules, the winner has to clean up after the game.
Once upon a time, however, despite my permanent amateur status, I nearly scored an extraordinary bingo; most extraordinary because the grand slam of bingos occurred—or rather, nearly occurred—in a game against the family’s most notable amateur player: the creator of Lake Wobegon himself.
The setting was a casual round of Scrabble following an Easter dinner hosted by Garrison and my sister. At the board were my mother, herself no Scrabble slouch, and the Big Man. In the middle of the game, I found an opportunity to lay down all seven of my tiles with “w-o-b-e-g-o-n” . . . or was it “w-o-b-e-g-o-n-e” . . . or “w-o-e-b-e-g-o-n-e”?
I couldn’t believe my predicament. What was the probability, I wondered, that I’d find myself with such an opportunity in such circumstances, and not know the proper spelling of “woebegone”? Irrationally, I blamed Mr. Wobegon for my confusion. He, the ultimate “English major” (but truth be told, no match for my sister the Scrabble maven), had scrabbled—I mean scrambled—my amateur’s grasp of spelling.
After an excruciatingly long deliberation, during which I noticed the Big Man nodding off, I decided discretion was truly the better side of valor. I chickened out with “woe.”
If I remember correctly, my mother won the game—nonchalantly.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
