...Lore and Lure

Aficionados like to refer to backgammon as "the king of games, the game of kings," conferring some loose nobility on what might otherwise be considered a rather common game of chance. Though tradition confirms the game's kingly associations (Nero played backgammon, as did the Romanoffs; and Caligula is said to have been an inveterate cheat), backgammon is more apt to be played these days by what used to be called the idle rich—and by what passes today for a kind of instant elite—the international film and money sets. It has always been a big-money game, and since it can be played almost any where, it has become the perfect portable parlor game of the well to do.

Traditionally, backgammon has been restricted to such select preserves as London's Clermont Club, The Travellers Club in Paris and New York's Racquet Club. But since biannual championship tournaments were set up by Prince Alexis Obolensky in 1964, the game has become increasingly popular. Today, a network of minitournaments rings the U. S.; a book on the subject was a surprising success; the Backgammon Association of America was recently organized; and last year in this country alone, more than $5,000,000 was spent on backgammon boards and tables. Almost overnight, the game has become as much a popular phenomenon as tennis— and the backgammon back (a spinal ache elicited from spending long hours hunched over a board) has become as widespread a malady as tennis elbow. Gambling is the game's principal enticement. Yet, outside Nevada, gambling is still illegal in America. In spite of this, large sums are won and lost each year in such games as poker, bridge, gin and backgammon. In New York, one of backgammon's headquarters is an Upper East Side bar, where three boards are permanently set up for late-night players. Having heard reports of gaming on the bar's premises, the local police department issued a summons last year. The bar's indignant owner rang up the precinct sergeant, hoping to circumvent the summons. The summons was issued, the sergeant explained, because he'd heard that a game of blackgammon was being played there. The owner said that the game was called back gammon, and the sergeant asked if it was coin operated. Certainly not, replied the owner. Did it make a lot of noise? No. Did it involve physical contact? No. Then what sort of game was it? Well, said the owner, kind of like Monopoly.

(continued on page 168)Backgammon Lore(continued from page 119)

"Oh," said the sergeant, "that's different. My daughter plays Monopoly, so it must be all right." And the summons was withdrawn.

While backgammon may not be popular among the masses, it is an obsession with those who play it seriously. At any of the tournaments now held around the world, or in any of the late-night backgammon haunts in London or New York (where most of the better players are usually to be found), the talk involves bottom lines, odds and possibilities. Tales are told of loss and gain, of fabulous stakes and fantastic coups. As with war correspondents who have shared a dozen battles, there is a camaraderie among backgammon players. They are an intimate society. During tournaments, there is an air of reunion, a feeling of freemasonry. They are the professionals, the money players; and since gambling is essential to backgammon (though the game can be played for fun), novices are advised to avoid them. Such advice is rarely heeded, however. Hence, the tales of incredible fortunes won and lost, the fond accounts of dupes and double sixes—the game's tycoonery.

Every backgammon player has a favorite story—of the time he fleeced a millionaire or fell among pigeons at some provincial country club. In a sense, the stories are always the same. They speak of gain (losses, if not forgotten, are seldom recounted), usually at the expense of some innocent who believed for a moment that he knew something about backgammon. Nonetheless, the best of them, like vintage fables, can be told again and again. One of the better ones, involving a not unusual expression of greed, began on the porch of the Palace Hotel in St.-Moritz. Two of the game's wilier players had been presented with a pigeon—a millionaire from Arkansas. They were told he was a middling player who liked to play for the highest stakes. The two hustlers were anxious to play immediately, but the millionaire was leaving St.-Moritz the next day and suggested that they play as his guest in Arkansas, or on some appropriate middle ground. It was finally agreed that they would meet aboard a yacht (which the hustlers claimed they could provide) in the south of France the following week. The hustlers were overjoyed. They calculated that should they get the millionaire aboard ship and out to sea, they could keep him there for weeks. That afternoon, they rented a small yacht, at $12,000 a week, stocked with a few cases of whiskey (they didn't drink, the millionaire did). They calculated that at stakes of $250 a point, the millionaire had to be worth a minimum of $75,000 a week. At that rate, they could pay for the boat in a day. Anticipating this good fortune, one of the two bought a sizable piece of real estate and the other bought 3000 more shares of his favorite stock. The three men met in St.-Tropez and set out to sea.

At the end of the first week, the hustlers were $100,000 ahead. One evening, the two of them stood out on deck, laughing over the adventure, proposing further schemes and trips and possibilities. Their dreams were real and grandiose. But on the following day, just after lunch, a remarkable about-face occurred. The millionaire, who until then had been unable to win, suddenly won 27 games in a row. By the next evening, despite his drunkenness, he was ahead by over $75,000. That night, the two hustlers stood sullenly on deck, cursing the man's luck. Next day, they set to work with new resolve. At the end of three days, by playing cautiously, they managed to recoup their losses and get ahead enough to cover the rental of the yacht. Closing the board with relief, they returned to St.-Tropez. It was not until much later that they learned the millionaire was one of America's ranking players. He had set them up as a pleasant diversion.

Backgammon is filled with such ruses. Dr. Daniel E. Schneider, a neuropsychiatrist and psychoanalyst who has studied the psychology of game playing, believes that if one is to win any game, he must first understand the specific skills and traps involved. If one has mastered neither the skills nor the traps, and still insists on entering the game, he is throwing "a boomerang sword that will ultimately cut off his own head." Backgammon is deceptively simple; perhaps for this reason it has been called the cruelest game.

The boomerang psychology is illustrated time and again. During a recent game in London, six men had been playing through the night, at stakes of $100 a point. One of the players was a young man named Harrison. Though not as competent as his opponents, he was having a good run. At sunrise, he was about $2500 ahead. At that point, he found himself playing alone against the five other players, in what is called a chouette, a method of playing backgammon that allows more than two people to participate in a game simultaneously. As his opponents were better players, Harrison took the precaution of asking one of them to be his partner. (This is advisable, since, if you win, you win from each of your opponents, but if you lose, you have to pay each of them. By taking a partner, you reduce your potential loss, and gain the advice of a partner.) The game went back and forth, with the stakes doubled and redoubled, up to 32—$3200 a player. At the end, the game was very close. The four men had to throw doubles to win. If they did not, Harrison and his partner would win. 16400 apiece. At that point, Harrison's partner stopped the play in order to offer the opponents a settlement. The chances of throwing any double are one in six. In games in which the odds are that slight and the stakes that high, it is customary to ask for a settlement—that is, to inquire if the opponents would be willing to give up lesser stakes before they throw their dice, instead of the actual amount they would have to surrender should they not throw doubles. In this case, Harrison's partner asked for 24 points, or $2400 from each of the four opponents. They agreed, but Harrison, since the odds were in his favor, insisted that he would go for the full amount. His partner, who had already settled for a sure victory of 24 points, advised him to do the same, but Harrison would not be persuaded. Whereupon his opponents threw double fives, to win the game. Instead of gaining $4800, Harrison lost $6400.

Given the odds, he was unlucky. Even so, backgammon is not a game in which luck should be considered seriously—though most players do. Such players forget that although they are gambling, the experts are not. And that is one of the reasons backgammon is so popular today. It has much to do with a contemporary ethic. It is a game that is easy to learn but difficult to perfect. Few players comprehend its intricate formalities, while the rest play with a kind of inspired self-indulgence. The lure of money, the possibility of getting something for nothing, is an exquisite siren song. One sees it in the eyes of the players as they sit down to play—promises of paradise, dreams of Avalon. This, coupled with the inherent glamor of the gamble, has attracted the star, the sharpie, the socialite and the upstarts who aspire to similar stations. Given that, backgammon has become as popular as paranoia. It is both a game and a sign of the times.