The Olive Branch

LOVE OF THE GAME

There’s an unspoken history we have with the card game Spades. Its foundation dates back to the pastime practices of enslaved Americans, yet rumors of its birth point towards the Great Migration, with lore of Pullman Porters traveling across the Mason-Dixon Line. On the surface, it’s a simple game of card suits and numerical values, with the namesake Spades at the top of the pecking order and the Ace of Spades its lonely apex (in traditional play). Beneath the basics, there’s a world of house rules, game strategy, natural instincts, teamwork, and shit-talking. (Purist might say the shit-talking is the most important part; and yes, I’m a purist). Unlike most card games, traditional Spades requires a partner, meaning your success is largely dependent on the play of someone else.

As a child, during weekly family get-togethers, I had observed countless games without truly realizing. That was back in the days of quarter dollar Pitty-Pat hands, saying hello to everyone when you entered the house, and all you can eat pecans from grandma’s fruitful tree. When family traditions were routine practice instead of special occasion. The good old days. 

I didn’t fall in love with Spades until much later on my own. Beginning between college roommates, it spawned a revolving door of new players, an evergreen invitation to culture and hospitality. We created our own tradition with every book made, every hand shook, drink poured, meal shared. Deep bonds meticulously forged, in celebration of another day sustained, another week survived. Another opportunity to come together for therapeutic bragging rights and displays of our most authentic selves.

“I need you to go get that,” became code for my hand sucks and I need you to win it for us. It comes from the golden rule of “Make your books” – meaning if you can win a hand, win it; don’t let weaker cards walk. This was considered a mild version of “talking” across the table - completely fair or foul, depending on house rules. The beautiful and agonizing part about Spades is house rules. Every game is governed by household, subject-to-change on the whims of the host and their player circle.

Our house rules called for my favorite variation Joker-Joker-Deuce-Deuce. Instead of the Ace of Spades being the ultimate draw, it was humbled by the Big Joker, Little Joker, Two of Diamonds, Two of Spades. After these wild cards, then came the Ace of Spades, the King, the Queen, so on and so forth straight down the line. This variation amplifies game difficulty, calling for heightened focus to track previous cards already played.

As a good listener and skilled communicator, it was my responsibility to train newcomers at our table, a duty I approached with utmost respect and consideration. Over the years I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve ushered beginners into the world of Spades, this heritage of its own design. If the game is to be learned, and to be learned from my own instruction, I feel bound to approach with care, in hopes that this rich legacy continues to thrive in the hands of those after us. One of our true cultural birthrights.

VANDALIZING THE TEMPLE

It was my introduction to the concept of Friendsgiving. This was my second year in New York City and the first time away from family during the Thanksgiving holiday. A dear friend went through the labor of opening her apartment to a dozen strangers worthy enough to share a decent meal. In New Orleans we’d have seafood gumbo, stuffed bell peppers, candied yams, baked mac-and-cheese, turkey & ham, plus all the fixings, refreshments and music you’d need. On this particular menu was vegan casseroles, fresh imitation meat, gourmet cheese blends, and many other robust spreads very unfamiliar to me. 

Between the nouveau cuisine and ice breaker conversations, ever the opportunist, I gathered a small cluster that actually knew how to play Spades. I had not played since moving North and empty handed, I was eager to offer this one-of-a-kind delicacy to our Bohemian troupe. We were shy a person for the necessary quartet, when an eavesdropping plus-one left the sofa for our oriental rug.

“I want to learn,” Jeff said, “Teach me how to play.”

Jeff was not Bohemian by any means, he was a suit. Based in the D.C. metro area, he worked as a lobbyist or defense contractor, but I could be mistaken. Although I prefer to face seasoned players who already understand the competitive nuances of the game, I didn’t mind taking on dual role as teacher and competitor. Considering my experience, the request appeared harmless enough. Besides, what an olive branch to teach my first white guy how to play Spades. The story was writing itself.

I started with face card hierarchy then worked our way through concepts such as “books”, “bidding”, “cutting”, “talking”, “bags” and the most dreaded “reneging.” To renege is to lie about, or casually forget, which cards you’ve played, and the opposing team exposes this truth. If called correct, the reneging squad typically suffers a 100-point deduction, but this is ultimately set by house rules. It’s not automatic defeat but a severe blow to overcome in a regular game to 300.

“I know this is a lot to remember,” I told Jeff, “But once you go through a few hands, you’ll pick up on it in no time.”

We allowed the first hand to bid itself, therefore no penalty for falling short of our proposed number of books. As we organized our cards high-to-low and played through the random draw, it all began to crystalize for Jeff. He was acclimating in real time, and through the first round, he and his girlfriend Mary-Ann led the points race. Their interracial, international dynamic was a modern snapshot of toppling cultural hurdles. She was from Jamaica, working in music education or graphic design, either I’m sure. Regardless, her demeanor was approachable and genuine, elevating the room with positive vibrations. And her Jeff was openly welcomed into our sacred cultural space, the sweetest dream of post-racial champions.

Although penalty free, the following round only generated four books between me and my partner, our gracious host Tierra. She was a fellow grad student, learning the subtle ways of crafting worthwhile literature and building networks of good people lured into the Arts. I did not anticipate us falling behind to kick things off, but many rounds laid ahead to right the ship, no need to sweat at all.

Mary-Ann and Tierra had a friendship with beginnings in their Northern California days. Bay Area sunshine and nature walks through towering redwoods, where birdsongs are the soundtrack of the lengthy trail. Throughout the years and distance that comes with adulthood they remained in touch, exuberant at the prospect of reconnecting each time they were apart. Bringing Jeff into the mix on such a special holiday was a considerable step, equal parts relationship security and need for closer evaluation by opinions she valued most.

“I think he has the hang of it,” I said, “Next round, we’re bidding.”

“Want to do one more practice round, babe?” Mary-Ann asked, “Just to be sure?”

“’Screw that,” he pumped, “I’m ready to play all out. Don’t hold back.”

This spunk granted license to unveil my own competitiveness. Now, the real fun would finally begin. It was Tierra’s turn to shuffle and deal, which worked in our favor. We bid to make 7 books, while our opponents settled for the remaining 6. As cards hit the table clockwise, it was clear the first book was coming our way. On the next hand, I threw out an Ace of Hearts expecting to seize the book this early into the game, gunning for a quick start. But when it was Jeff’s turn, he cut with a Five of Spades, stealing the book right from me. It’s not impossible to cut on the second hand (sometimes fate just doesn’t bless you with every suit) but it does put everyone else on notice.

“Wow okay,” I said, “We starting off early.”

I made a mental note pinning his lack of Hearts and carried on. The next round he threw out a King of Clubs, risky considering no one had yet threw out the Ace. I produced a forfeited Three, which was followed by Mary-Ann’s Ten, saving the winning Ace for Tierra to play. Books were even and Tierra began the next hand with an Eight of Hearts. In a surprising follow-up, Jeff threw out a Queen of Hearts.

From across the oriental rug, Tierra and I met eyes with a shared confused glaze. I had to place my cards face down.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware,” I said to Jeff, “But you just reneged.” 

Jeff scrunched his brows, stepping into the crosshairs of misunderstanding.

“What, I did something wrong?”

“Two hands ago, you threw out a Spade when the suit led with Hearts.”

“And now you just played a Heart,” Tierra added. “That’s reneging.”

“He didn’t mean to,” Mary-Ann assured, “Let’s start over.”

“No worries, it’s fine,” I stated, “This will be a warning but remember, whatever suit plays first must be played, unless you don’t have that suit.”

“Well geez, I’m having a slow moment. Okay buddy, I got it this time, thanks for explaining all these rules, again.”

With the air properly cleared, we continued to work through the round, a competitive momentum swinger that eventually had our books tied at six. This presented a ripe opportunity for team M.J. to set us back 70 points if successful in their final hand. We each revealed our last cards, which went to the highest remaining Spade on the table, a Jack from Jeff.

However disappointing (and trust, I was) I brushed it off as a little rust and a lot of beginner’s luck. Down by over 100 points, now, it was time to lock in and get us back in the game. It was Jeff’s turn to shuffle and deal, and my turn to cut the deck. We decided to bid 7 again, but this time, instead rounding out the bids to 13, our opponents decided to raise the ante, matching our 7-book bet.

“You sure y’all want to do that?” I asked, “Only one team will make it.”

“Oh really, that’s something,” Mary-Ann said, “We can go 6 again, right honey?”

“Now wait a sec,” Jeff said, “If we bet more books, we get more points, right? Look, I’m here to win, buddy.”

Mary-Ann looked at Jeff, who was focused on my response. I received an agreeable head nod from Tierra, and said, “You got it, may the best team win.”

After a well-played start, Tierra and I were only a couple books short from making our proposed total, ready to set back team M.J. They were playing sloppy, losing very winnable books and mistakenly cutting each other when a seldom hand went their way. This was good. We had them right on their heels. Then, Tierra starts the next hand with a low rank Diamond, a losing prospect considering the highest Diamond I held was a 10. Jeff threw out a low Spade, signaling to everyone he was now empty of Diamonds. They finally halted our 5-book run, allowing Jeff to foolishly begin the next hand with a Three of Diamonds, producing our second record-scratch moment of the eventful night.

“Yo, man,” I said-

“You reneged again,” Tierra finished.

“It’s true honey,” Mary-Ann added, “You have to be more careful.”

Perhaps feeling piled on, perhaps unable to hide his true form, Jeff scathed.

“My God, who cares? It’s some stupid game, all these fucking rules.”

“Hey! No need to get upset,” Tierra said.

“Shit, I’m not upset. Get off my back, fucks sake.”

At this point, I knew escalation would only make things worse, but what could be worse than leaving this unhinged behavior unchecked?

“Look Jeff,” I began, “You being disrespectful. Don’t curse at Tierra, you a guest in her house, man.”

“That’s so?” he said, “Okay, you’re right, I’m a guest. A very happy guest. So so sorry.”

The looming tension could cover the room in fog.

“Should we continue?” he bantered on.

“You good?” I said.

“All good. Let’s do it.”

“You sure? You seem pretty upset.” Tierra challenged.

“Look, I’ll be on my best behavior. No need to worry guys.”

“Promise me, babe.” Mary-Ann begged. “No more outbursts.”

“Promise you. We’re good.”

The unease was palpable but we decided to continue. Spades is known to bring out high emotions and occasional conflict even during friendly matches, and especially with money involved and self-control abandoned. Thank God nothing of material value was on the line for this game, just our own pride. However escalated, it did not cross any irredeemable threshold. Delicate strings remained in play to keep our Friendsgiving amicable. Yet with each passing moment this underlying nature reared its ugly head.

I led the next round with a Queen of Clubs, and as the cards were played, I monitored if Jeff would play honest or continue down this nasty path of reneging. Mary-Ann followed with a 10 of Clubs, and Tierra a 7. When it came to Jeff, he was hesitant, although last to throw for this hand. Eventually he coughed up a 9 of Spades. This would be a normal play for anyone else, but now that my antennas were all the way up, I didn’t trust anything coming from Jeff.

I did not want to interrupt the game with another buzz-killing accusation, but when three hands later he threw out a 10 of Clubs, I had no choice. At this point, was it a genuine mistake because of so many of these so-called rules, or was he purposely throwing the game to send a different message altogether?

“I hate to do this,” I said, “But you’re reneging again. Remember we led with Clubs a few hands ago and you took the book with a Spade?”

“Exactly!” Tierra added, “By now, you should know we’re not letting any reneging slide, it really ruins the game.”

Before I could even check their books, Jeff glanced at his dwindling hand and then at me, clearly caught. Tierra could see it as well, her gaze piercing through his preemptive lies and excuses. The only person surprised was Mary-Ann, still holding onto unseen qualities that come from being deeply invested in someone else. 

“Honey?”

“Fuck this stupid game.” Jeff tossed down his entire hand, “I quit.”

Jeff removed himself from the makeshift game mat and retreated into the kitchen. 

Our Bohemian troupe, minus one, was left bewildered and wondering what comes next.

“Really, really sorry about that guys,” Mary-Ann said, “I should go check on him.”

Mary-Ann reluctantly followed Jeff’s lead into the kitchen, to have a heart-to-heart or a coming-to-Jesus or whatever they deemed necessary to resolve their qualms.

Tierra had a million thoughts racing through her mind (none of them nice), showing in her disturbed expression.

“That was wild stuff,” I said. “How you feeling over there?”

“Actually, sick to my stomach. It’s about time to wrap all of this up.”

My olive branch was officially snapped in half & burned to bits. The goodbye between Tierra and Mary-Ann told me everything I needed to know about her future with Jeff. It did not look pretty. After this grand debacle, it was several years later the next time I played a true game of Spades.

NOSTALGIA

Lately, Spades have been a fond remnant of the past, not because of any disinterest, or bad taste. My community is just not like the old days. Friend groups become tighter, 50-plus hours per week become a bargaining chip for your survival, scheduling is a part-time job, while the concept of adulting and all responsibilities which fall under its glorious banner become priority. Rounding up a simple player’s circle becomes intricate orchestration.

There’s a curtain close without audience or applause, just a silent mirage and pestering urge to return back to times already lived, times that have no replica. I embrace this relic of joy that has preserved since Jim Crow, with a new appreciation. A bronze token of resistance. It makes the odd times when a game happens even more special, never knowing when the next one will come around. 

Lately I’ve taken pleasure in more manageable one-on-one matches. This rings especially true for newcomers unlearned in the ways of the game. It’s always a point of slight embarrassment when a black person has to admit they do not know how to play Spades. Unfairly, it puts into question someone’s black card, as if a card game could define who you are. This may be derived from assumptions that all of us magically know how to play, learned through mutual rites of passage. But honestly, many never cross this threshold or find someone with patience enough to teach them the intricate ins and outs. And as much as you may try to research and study, or partake in digital simulations, there’s nothing that can quite duplicate the experience of a proper player’s circle. Collaborating with your partner to bid the exact number of books you actually make. Nothing else that can quite duplicate understanding the habits of your opponents and tracking trump cards as they hit the table or remain a mystery within unknown hands. Nothing that can quite duplicate weaseling into the mind of the opposing team, making them doubt how to proceed from bid amounts to cards played. And though easier to organize, not even a one-on-one match can quite duplicate it. This is burning sand that must be crossed in its purest state to fully appreciate.

If I could put together the perfect game it would look like a scene from a Bond film (absent all the covert-op shenanigans and perfectly-timed assassinations). I imagine dimmed, moody lighting, fragrant aromas blessing the air, wood-smoked mezcal old-fashioneds, tight silks paired with quality linens as the garments of choice. I can see a clear skyline overlooking a blue body of water. I already taste the hors d’oeuvres—hot, savory and freshly spiced on standby. We jam to a balanced tracklist moving us from contemporary to classics to soul in all its forms. I have a partner I can fully trust sitting comfortably across from me, and competitors who cherish the game with utmost fidelity and enthusiasm.

The house rules would favor Joker-Joker-Deuce-Deuce and first team to reach 500 points would earn well-deserved bragging rights plus a tiny grand prize like a cherry on top. We’d count sandbags to prevent underbidding and offer blind bets as a last ditch for any team too far behind in the points race. I’d want the rounds to be a fierce power-struggle between worthy opponents, until pulling out a clutch victory in the final hand. The perfect storm of dramatic build-up, climatic point of no return, and gutsy close to end the day. No sloppy play, no lopsided advantages, no reneging, just pure skill, comradery and shit-talking at its finest. Where we get to share in the full essence of Spades minus sore losers and unneeded disrespect. Just a firm handshake, salute, or hug to the legacy of the game itself, and most importantly, to each other. Maybe one day I’ll indulge in this lofty, picturesque fantasy. But until then, I may dream.