Skip once said that Whist is Bridge for dopes and Hearts is Bridge for real dopes. You’ll get no argument from me, although that kind of misses the point. Hearts is fun, that’s the point, and when you play it for money — a nickel a point was the going rate on Chamberlain Three — it quickly becomes compulsive. The ideal number of players is four. All the cards are dealt out and then played in tricks. Each hand amounts to twenty-six total points: thirteen hearts at a point each, and the queen of spades (which we called The Bitch), worth thirteen points all by herself. The game ends when one of the four players tops a hundred points. The winner is the player with the lowest score.
In our marathons, each of the other three players would cough up based on the difference between his score and the winner’s score. If, for example, the difference between my score and Skip’s was twenty points at the end of the game, I had to pay him a dollar at the going rate of a nickel a point. Chump-change, you’d say now, but this was 1966, and a dollar wasn’t just change to the work-study chumps who lived on Chamberlain Three.#
3
I recall quite clearly when the Hearts epidemic started: the first weekend in October. I remember because the semester’s initial round of prelims had just ended and I had survived.
Survival was an actual issue for most of the boys on Chamberlain Three; we were at college thanks to a variety of scholarships, loans (most, including my own, courtesy of the National Education Defense Act), and work-study jobs. It was like riding in a Soapbox Derby car which had been put together with paste instead of nails, and while our arrangements varied —
mostly according to how crafty we were when it came to filling out forms and how diligently our high-school guidance counselors had worked for us — there was one hard fact of life. It was summed up by a sampler which hung in the third-floor lounge, where our marathon Hearts tournaments were played. Tony DeLucca’s mother made it, told him to hang it someplace where he’d see it every day, and sent him off to college with it. As the fall of 1966
wore out and winter replaced it, Mrs DeLucca’s sampler seemed to glare bigger and brighter with each passing hand, each fall of The Bitch, each night I rolled into bed with my textbooks unopened, my notes unstudied, my papers unwritten. Once or twice I even dreamed about it: 2.5.
That’s what the sampler said, in big red crocheted numerals. Mrs DeLucca understood what it meant, and so did we. If you lived in one of the ordinary dorms — Jacklin or Dunn or Pease or Chadbourne — you could keep your place in the Class of 1970 with a 1.6 average . . . if, that was, Daddy and Mummy continued to pay the bills. This was the state land-grant college,
remember; we are not talking about Harvard or Wellesley. For students trying to stagger through on scholarship-and-loan packages, however, 2.5 was the line drawn in the dust. Score below a 2.5 — drop from a C average to a C-minus, in other words — and your little soapbox racer was almost certain to fall apart. ‘Be in touch, baby, seeya,’ as Skip Kirk used to say.
I did okay on that first round of prelims, especially for a boy who was almost ill with homesickness (I had never been away from home in my life except for a single week at basketball camp, from which I returned with a sprained wrist and an odd fungal growth between my toes and under my testes). I was carrying five subjects and got B’s in everything except Freshman English. On that one I got an A. My instructor, who would later divorce his wife and wind up busking in Sproul Plaza on the Berkeley campus, wrote ‘Your example of onomatopoeia is actually quite brilliant’ beside one of my answers. I sent that test back home to my mother and father. My mother returned a postcard with one word — ‘Bravo!’ —