Kinsale Bridge Club

My first exposure to the game of bridge is a typical story that I’m sure you’ve heard before… Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa are all sitting around a card table: from the outside looking in, it appears to be quite a normal friendly evening game of cards. That couldn’t have been further from the truth. Bickering, shouting, arguing over bidding, declarer play, defence, scoring, closely followed by insults, tears, cards flying across the table — this was all par for the course on any given night. I often wondered, why do they bother to play this game? They can’t possibly be enjoying these evenings of conflict… Could they?

My father tried on numerous occasions to teach me the game. “He must be joking” I would silently reply. Why would I possibly want to subject myself to that criticism, judgments, ridicule and nit-picking? I successfully dodged any attempts he had at assimilating me into the wonderful world of bridge.

So why now, after almost 20 years, do I find myself strangely drawn to the game? I resisted for a long time, and it took a lot of exposure to steer me back into the positive. The comradery at University of my fellow Mathies always looking for a fourth wasn’t enough. My insane competitive nature and love of playing cards wasn’t enough. Marrying into a bridge playing family wasn’t enough. Not even the constant feeling of being left out of conversations over dinner starting with: “you hold… the auction thus far is… what do you bid?” was enough.

So what tipped the scale? I think the combination of all of the above, plus the added desire to restore my brain to its original liveliness and vigor after the mind-numbing haze of pregnancy and motherhood.

I have resisted for so long… but now I realize that resistance is futile. In spite of my past efforts to avoid it, I am becoming a bridge player. If I am going to learn the game, I might as well surrender completely and do it properly.

I guess the first question I need to answer is who will be my teacher?