The Best of the Worst

See?

Let’s just say that ‘gambler’ wasn’t in the cards for him.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was game night at the Tolleys.

Something that happened . . . often.

The night’s game of choice? Spoons. A fairly uncomplicated game ideal for the large family.
Which we were.

One reduces the deck of cards to one set of four for each person playing. Thus, if eight of you are playing, the deck consists of eight sets of four cards. Or 32.

Oh, and there are spoons in the middle of the table (hence, the name) numbering one less than the persons playing. Why this is so will become clear.

Later.

The cards are shuffled and dealt. Four to a player. The idea is to then pass them one at a time (and in unison) to whoever is seated to your left, keeping only those cards you wish to ‘collect’.

The goal is to be the first to get all four cards the same.

And to then grab one of the spoons placed temptingly in the center of the table.

As soon as that first player grabs a spoon, everyone else at the table then does likewise, trying to not be the one who misses out.

A-ha! Now the reason for the one less spoon become apparent.

Because the person who doesn't manage to grab a spoon receives a letter.

In our family, the letters received eventually spelled out ‘horse’.

And woe be unto anyone who collected all five.

Because you were then ‘out’.

Whatever that meant.

No one in our household ever achieved that landmark.

And now on to my story. You must have realized that all this was leading somewhere . . .

Sooo . . . game night.

And Spoons.

Middle son, Duffy, was getting into the game. He had already collected a couple of letters and was trying his best to not further his losing streak.

Someone snatched a spoon.

Everyone followed madly behind.

And a letter was ‘rewarded’.

There was some laughter and the spoons were replaced and the cards re-shuffled.

Then eldest daughter suddenly pointed to the center of the table. “There’s one spoon missing!” she said.

True enough. There were only six when there should have been seven.

A short search was initiated.

Duffy pointed across the table. “You should probably lo . . .” That was as far as he got.

Because the missing spoon slid out of his sleeve to land with an incriminating little ‘click’ on the polished tabletop.

“Erm . . .”

Remember that part where I predicted he’d never become a gambler?

Now you know why.