Just like Dr. Victor Frankenstein, I created a monster, though I call mine “Scrabblestein.”
I’m talking about my dad.
In 2011, I introduced Dad to Scrabble, my splendid addiction.
It was a weak moment. My usual competition was unavailable that fateful Sunday. I was in dire need of a game. I was irritable and itchy, like Ray Charles in the throes of heroin. That’s why I asked him to play, to get my Scrabble fix. It was selfish, I know. He didn’t have a prayer. It was the junkie in me.
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
Before that, the closest he had ever been to a Scrabble board was when he watched from the outer fringes of the kitchen table while my grandma, uncle, aunts, and I waged word war. I imagined his awe as he watched his cleverest relations, we wonderful word freaks with fidgety fingers, juxtapose our letters on the tile rack, lost in the silent alchemy of word creation, while striving to use all seven letters in one turn – a feat in Scrabble lingo called Bingo (a 50-point bonus).
We never asked Dad to play. We loved the man, but not that much. No serious player wants to waste precious playing time teaching a newbie how to play Scrabble.
But on that aforementioned Sunday, I made an exception.
The itchiness, remember?
Dad seemed pleased to be asked. Squaring off, he on one side of the deluxe rotating board and me on the other – what a mismatch in the making – was like Mike Tyson in the boxing ring with Don Knotts.
I schooled him, of course. I did so every game, weekend after weekend, month after month. I never let up, ever. I ran up the scores like those sadistic high school sports teams shamelessly scoring in triple digits to demonstrate their superiority over Podunk opponents.
My dad never gave up, ever. He started playing Scrabble on his computer, several games daily against Maven, the name of his computer opponent, gradually moving up in skill level. He needed a sparring partner, so he taught Mom to play. Mom!!! The Bride of Scrabblestein!!!
Confident, he began asking me to play – a lot. Scrabble had its hooks in him. My god, I thought. What have I done?
I shared all my tips, even allowed him to replay his turn for a better score, all for the sake of his learning.
I taught him the sacredness of the two blank tiles. Never ever waste a blank on a weak, low-scoring word. A blank is a gift from the Scrabble gods. Hoard it until it helps you form a Bingo word.
He learned the importance of using the double- and triple-point squares to his advantage, making sure they weren’t left open for me to take advantage of.
He learned the art of scoring many more points with just a Q or Z or J versus using six lesser-valued letters for a single word.
He caught on that Scrabble is just as much about defense as it is about offense, and that math skills are as important as spelling skills. His turns became strategic, blocking my opportunities for a Bingo, shutting me down. I helped him play his first seven-letter word. It didn’t take long for him to create his own. Rarely will a game go by when he won’t achieve a Bingo. For a man who has never read a novel in his life, my dad has a wealth of word knowledge. It helps that he has long been a daily practitioner of the newspaper crossword puzzle.
Our scores became closer until one day he beat me.
It was a hell freezes over moment in our father-son relationship.
Still, I wasn’t worried. I figured such a feat would be a rare repeat. It didn’t take long for his victory to morph into victories.
(Above left) Scott Saalman and Scrabblestein pose for a photo with the tools of their trade. (Above right) We are guessing it was Scrabblestein himself who put the smack down on Scott with this seven-letter beast! (Photos provided by Scott Saalman)
Today, it’s a toss-up on who will win. We play each other tightly, each patiently waiting for the other to crack in our father-son battle of wits. Seldom does a game end without it being a seesaw battle throughout. There’s no greater feeling than to chalk up a come-from-behind victory on the last turn with a seven-letter word. We’ve done that to each other more times than I can count. Neither of us gives up, ever. Just like me, it kills him to lose.
We both love the rattlesnake sound of a full bag of Scrabble tiles shaken at a game’s start, the gentle mixing of the alphabet, that audible elixir, then feel the first blindly drawn tile pinched between forefinger and thumb.
Long gone is the cocky certainty that I will beat Dad at Scrabble. Too often, I catch myself playing too tentatively against him. I have only myself to blame. He is my creation. But you know what? I love the challenge this competitor, my wonderful monster, consistently brings to the table.
Scrabblestein won the last time we played. Now, it’s my turn to win. I better give him a call, arrange a rematch.
This column appears in Scott’s new humor collection, Quietly Making Noise, available on Amazon. Contact Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.