Illustration by Drew Shannon
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide. First Person – Euchre Tournament
When I was a twentysomething living with my husband in downtown Toronto, we were constantly on the hunt for cheap, quirky activities to entertain ourselves. In between club nights and outdoor festivals, euchre was an easy way to while away the time. We’d drink and laugh while calling trump and hoping for lone hands.
To amuse our friends, we dreamed up a euchre tournament that incorporated silly themes, kitschy prizes and a great big trophy. Two decades and 20 tournaments later (we skipped a few thanks to the pandemic), it’s become everyone’s favourite annual event, a way to turn back the clock for a few hours and reconnect with the people we wish we saw more often.
Euchre is a cultural tradition for me. Growing up in rural southwestern Ontario in the 1980s, it was a card game nearly everyone learned to play. At family get-togethers in Moore Township, card tables would be set up to play after dinner – bridge for the older folks, euchre for the younger ones.
For the uninitiated, euchre is a four-person game played with a 24-card deck. Players are paired to form two partnerships, who try to win hands by calling trump (ie, designating one suit to rank over the others), taking tricks and euchring (or defeating) opponents when they call trump. Once you’ve gotten the hang of the rules, it’s a game you can play while chatting, snacking, telling tall tales or trash talking.
I remember being nine or 10 when I learned the rules, desperate to play with my brother and big cousins. It was a grown-up pastime that I was determined to master, and I got a thrill out of being able to shuffle and deal like a croupier. In high school, we played endless rounds in the cafeteria during spare periods.
On the inaugural year of our tournament, we hosted it in our third-floor apartment with 16 people. As irony-loving Gen Xers, we were delighted to take part in such an old-timey activity, but I think we also legitimately liked the game and wanted to win, too. When my husband and I purchased a house, the tournament moved there, then to a Legion Hall across town when babies came into the picture and our group (now numbering 28) needed more room.
The tournament has procedures and rules both irreverent and deadly serious, like no table talk and no dill pickle chips. It’s round robin, with partners assigned randomly each round to avoid any cheating or collusion. We also give everyone a cheeky character assignment.
When player arrive, they pull a slip of paper out of a hat to reveal their character name, corresponding to that year’s theme. For example, in this year’s tournament (theme: famous redheads), Prince Harry and Ice Spice played against Lucille Ball and Carrot Top.
The characters are purely for laughs. We could have used a simple Player 1, Player 2, but where’s the fun in that? We take instant photos for the scoreboard and encourage everyone to pose like their character, providing the rare opportunity to act a fool in public.
The randomness of the game is a big part of its charm. At our tournament, friends from different worlds collide: An old friend might meet a new workmate. Players might get paired with a seasoned pro or a beginner. Players with the top scores at the end of the night get cash prizes (paid out via the $25 entry fee) and the winner gets to hoist a massive trophy. Those who fare less well might not go home empty-handed: Door prizes include the worst score, the player whose photo most resembles their character and the “sourpuss” award for the crankiest partner.
In between rounds, we catch up. It’s amazing what we’ve learned over 20 tournaments: Some friends are highly competitive. Some take wild risks. Some count cards. Some win. Some lose. I’ve won twice. Games can be incredibly exciting, like when it’s 9-9 with one round to go or there’s a dramatic come-from-behind victory.
I recently put 20 years of tournament snapshots in an album and it’s fascinating to flip through and see how we’ve changed – or not. It’s like a time-lapse video, capturing small variations as the same faces smile and mug for the camera. Pregnant bellies and ex-significant-others make cameos, along with short-lived beards and once-trendy fashion choices.
We’ve all gained so much through the years – children, homes, vocations – and suffered losses – chronic illness, divorce, death.
I’ve often wondered, can we keep this going for another two decades? Maybe more? Will we still be taking tricks when we’re all retired and pulling out photos of our grandchildren?
When I send out e-mails to float that year’s tournament date, my husband and I always wonder whether this is the year it will be met with a shrug. I hope not.
Euchre is a game that doesn’t require youth or physical prowess. The more you play, the better you get. I’d like to think we’ll still be taking tricks when we’re all retired and pulling out photos of our grandchildren.
There’s plenty of room for more winners’ names on the trophy, after all.
Shelley White lives in Toronto.