First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Catherine Chan
Shortly after I met my Sicilian husband 12 years ago, he taught me how to play a card game called Scopa. A favourite pastime in many Italian households, Scopa is centuries-old, fast-paced and fun, a true balance of luck and strategy.
When we began dating, he was happy to learn that I liked playing games – of the board and card sort. What I didn’t know at the time was just how competitive he was. And what he didn’t know was that I always played to win. But that’s what getting to know each other is all about, right?
I grew up playing card and board games with my sister and my mum. It was a cheap source of entertainment when money was tight, which was all the time. My mother, being Anglo-Indian, was raised on a variety of British “parlour games” back in Hyderabad, but once in Canada, she learned new ones, Gin Rummy and Scrabble becoming her favourites. She was a savvy, serious player, gracious in victory or defeat, who took no satisfaction in cheating or throwing a game – and we learned by example. A fierce opponent, she never once uttered the consoling words, “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” In our little family, winning fair and square was definitely the point.
On the face of it, Scopa is straightforward and simpler than Italy’s other popular card games, Briscola and Tressette. Points are awarded after each hand for the highest number of cards collected, the majority of diamonds held and something called primiera, a strange calculation of the highest value per suit. The prize card is the seven of diamonds, or settebello, which earns an instant point, but the action really happens when you grab all the face-up cards on the table with one in your hand. This is called a “Scopa,” which literally means “sweep.” It can result in a succession of Scopas, making the game suddenly exciting and a tad aggressive.
I’ve learned to slap my winning card down and not only shout “Scopa!” when I get lucky but also to make forceful Italian grunts and gestures that loosely mean “So there!” “Take that!” or “Now, who’s laughing?!” And I’ve learned cutting expressions – from my elderly in-laws no less – for outraged replies when on the losing end. These translate, quite literally, to “Go shoot yourself!” or “Go become a nun!” Sometimes it gets worse than that. My husband calls this “passion,” but I’ve come to know it as fist-thumping fury.
I have to say my Italian has improved playing Scopa over the years, but so has my score. I play by the gut while my husband plays strategically, paying attention to the cards and quickly assessing the repercussions of every move. He’s been at it a lot longer than I have – 50 years to be exact – so it’s bred in the bone, but I still win my fair share of matches.
We always carry a Scopa deck on our adventures together, for a quick game on a park bench or in a café when the mood strikes. We’ve had riveting matches on the Halifax waterfront, the Ramblas, the banks of the Seine, but there’s nothing like playing – and watching – Scopa in Italy.
Last year, we travelled to Europe and made our way from Rome through Umbria and down to Sicily. We played countless games in our own lengthy tournament but also stood in piazzas watching intense ones under way in local bars, admiring elderly but razor-sharp players who’ve been honing their skills for a lifetime. We always left feeling grateful to be part of that tradition.
We’ve taught our children to play – I more recently than my husband, of course – and they, in turn, have introduced Scopa to their partners and friends. I like to think about how many people in our extended circles have bonded over this game, how many hours have been spent lingering at a table after a good meal, starting a quick game before dessert and sambuca or grappa shots are served, and continuing into the night. But I also think about the many times in our marriage that a round of Scopa has broken an impasse, even mended a fight. It’s often been a place to find common ground, an easy source of fun and laughter. After all, it’s hard to stay mad while desperately trying to outwit your partner or being impressed by a killer move.
I’m glad I got the chance to play Scopa many times with my father-in-law and to watch him win one last hand against his son just before he died, the familiar sparkle in his eyes still there. Had my mum been alive today, I know my husband would’ve taught her to play, too, and she would’ve given him a run for his money. She’d also have loved him and been delighted to know I’d met and married such a good man.
As we prepare to return to Europe for our 10th wedding anniversary, we’ll pack our Scopa deck and play over a cocktail or an espresso whenever we need a sightseeing break. This frequently piques the interest of passersby, who are drawn in by the bright, unfamiliar symbols on the cards and our lively exchange. I’m ever-hopeful that they’ll go get one of the ubiquitous decks on sale in Italian coffee shops around the world and give the game a try.
My husband may always be better at Scopa than I am because it’s been in his blood forever. I’ve made my peace with that, yet I hope to best him some day. Till then, I’ll celebrate the wins when they come, learn from the losses without resentment and get out the Scrabble board whenever I want the upper hand.
Shirley Phillips lives in Toronto.