When You Think You Can . . . . YOU CAN!
It was during my wee years. I must have witnessed some of the big guys, on some leisurely Sunday, out washing their cars. It looked good to me: standing out there in their shorts with shirts off; playing with water; making a dirty old car look clean and new again. It was a couple days later when Richie and I were out back, unsupervised for a short time while mom tended to something very important. There was a bucket with some kind of fabric soaking in it and nearby sat a dirty car that looked like it could use a wash. It never occurred to me that just a step the other way, over my head was a clothesline. I coaxed Richie to help me make someone happy by washing their car. We took our shirts off just like the big boys. The rags in the bucket were too long, so we tore them into smaller rags. (That was hard work, without a knife or scissors. Anyway, I wasn’t ever supposed to use a knife or scissors with my mother’s supervision.) We were doing a great job. The dirt melted off the car when we wiped it with the waterlogged rags. Richie and I were both so proud of the job we were doing.
That’s when it all hit the fan. Mrs. Sonny, our downstairs neighbor, was running in our direction shouting obscenities. I turned around and looked to see who she was yelling at. That’s when I realized that she was yelling at us. It seems as though our rags were the curtains from her living room. (And they weren’t even labeled . . but we couldn’t read yet anyway.)
In 1987, I experienced my first taste of competitive scrabble, NSA style. I was there due to a miscommunication in the local newspaper. It was advertised in the Singles Column. It was in fact a tryout competition to determine which local players would attend a regional event. I was fascinated. I had never seen scrabble played as a timed event. Some players had chess clocks while others used sand-timers. And the words that they played were undecipherable to me. Since I was there already, I paid my money and played. They treated me as if I was fresh meat in a den of lions. I moaned every time one of my opponents slapped down a bingo. I whimpered every time I challenged some word like ‘cwm’ and lost the challenge.
Strangely enough, I didn’t throw my hands up and walk away. Down deep, I knew that I could master this too and I had a sincere desire to at least give it a try. I joined a local club and went weekly, continuing to be slaughtered for months. I read the dictionary and word lists. I ask for and followed the advice of some of the best players in the club: Chuck Armstrong, Paul Epstein, Rod Nivison, Carol Koss, and others. Weeks later, my first win was delicious. I was hooked. In 1989 I attended my first NSA National Tournament in NYC. By then I had a rating of 1342. At that National Tournament I won a cash prize for the ‘Best Finish among with rating of less than 1400′.
When you think you can . . . YOU CAN!