’Twas the Night Before Duplicate’Twas the night before duplicate, when all through the club,Not a hand record was stirring, not even a snub.The bidding boxes sat stacked by the tables with care,In hopes that St. Partner soon would be there.The players were nestled, convention cards tight,Dreaming of slams bid boldly and leads that were right.When out on the parking lot there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.In rolled a small sleigh—well, a golf cart, to be fair—With a jolly old director adjusting her hair.She looked like Santa, if Santa wore glittery glasses,And muttered about slow play and unfilled cards.She called out the names as she passed through the room:“North! South! East! West! Please be ready—resume!”Her eyes how they twinkled, though slightly askew,From dealing Board 23 for the third time through.The players emerged, each clutching a pencil,Arguing calmly (that is, loudly) when.“The opponents psyched!” “No, mine revoked!”“Director!” they cried, as she quietly wept.One lady in red with a glare icy-coldDeclared, “I always make three no-trump, if truth be told.”Her partner just sighed and adjusted his seat,Having opened a hand with eleven—incomplete.The cookies were stale, the coffee was weak,But spirits were high—well, competitive-bleak.There were gifts on the table: a mug, socks, a book,And a laminated chart on “How Not to Miss Sort.”Santa—sorry, the director—called “One round to go!”And a groan swept the room, both high and low.Yet they played on bravely, through misfits and finesses,Through cold hands, bad breaks, and passive-aggressive glances.At last it was over, the scores entered fast,Someone won overall (they always do—alas).There were hugs, there were laughs, there were grudges on hold,Until next week, when stories grow vastly more bold.As they packed up their cards and returned their pencils,Goodwill briefly softened the competitive faces.And I heard the director exclaim, as she turned off the light:“Merry Christmas to all—and no table talk tonight!” 🎄♠️♥️
’Twas the night before duplicate, when all through the club,Not a hand record was stirring, not even a snub.The bidding boxes sat stacked by the tables with care,In hopes that St. Partner soon would be there.The players were nestled, convention cards tight,Dreaming of slams bid boldly and leads that were right.When out on the parking lot there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.In rolled a small sleigh—well, a golf cart, to be fair—With a jolly old director adjusting her hair.She looked like Santa, if Santa wore glittery glasses,And muttered about slow play and unfilled cards.She called out the names as she passed through the room:“North! South! East! West! Please be ready—resume!”Her eyes how they twinkled, though slightly askew,From dealing Board 23 for the third time through.The players emerged, each clutching a pencil,Arguing calmly (that is, loudly) when.“The opponents psyched!” “No, mine revoked!”“Director!” they cried, as she quietly wept.One lady in red with a glare icy-coldDeclared, “I always make three no-trump, if truth be told.”Her partner just sighed and adjusted his seat,Having opened a hand with eleven—incomplete.The cookies were stale, the coffee was weak,But spirits were high—well, competitive-bleak.There were gifts on the table: a mug, socks, a book,And a laminated chart on “How Not to Miss Sort.”Santa—sorry, the director—called “One round to go!”And a groan swept the room, both high and low.Yet they played on bravely, through misfits and finesses,Through cold hands, bad breaks, and passive-aggressive glances.At last it was over, the scores entered fast,Someone won overall (they always do—alas).There were hugs, there were laughs, there were grudges on hold,Until next week, when stories grow vastly more bold.As they packed up their cards and returned their pencils,Goodwill briefly softened the competitive faces.And I heard the director exclaim, as she turned off the light:“Merry Christmas to all—and no table talk tonight!” 🎄♠️♥️