Only two aces left in the deck

The cribbage faceoffs with my dad continue. This week I took home the majority, 11-6. Dad registered one skunk, which decreased my lead and gave us even totals. Prior to Monday evening, I was up 7-3 in games. That evening, up three to one in games, we were playing our final game. The difference in the evening happened in game two. Dad had the advantage. He was dealing, which meant I counted first. I needed 15 points to win. I was dealt a hand of 10, 10, 7, 3, 2, 2. Assessing the situation, I realized I could get 14 if I were to keep the 10, 3, 2, 2 and cut an ace.

 

I did exactly that. Now I just needed to peg for a pair and I would come out on top. I led out a 2, hoping Dad would play another 2 or a facecard. He played a 6, making the count 8. I played my 10, making the count 18. He played his 8, making it 26. After some thought, I played my 3. He played an ace, which allowed me to play my final 2 for five points. As I am writing this, I realize my dad miscounted when he said 25 with his 8. The count should have been 26. I could not have played the way I did for five points. Meaning he would have played 31 for four points, leaving me a final peg for one. I don’t think he had enough with his crib so I would likely still have won, but the dramatic ending that I remember is now undone, since I realize we misplayed. 

 

When things like what I just described happen, we write down our complaints and will write a full letter to “Commissioner Bortle” with our list of grievances for him to rule on. Terry Bortle, of Waseca, is one of our longtime family friends, against whom we have both played thousands of games of cribbage. He will have the arduous precarious privilege of determining who is in the right in these situations. In this case, I should probably concede that dramatic win to my dad. But also, to cut one of only two remaining Aces in the deck and then peg five in order to win felt pretty cool.

 

In our supposed final game of the night, up 3-1 in games, my dad said it would be our last one. I said if he skunked me, then we would have to play a tie breaker, since skunks are worth two wins. He agreed.

 

This meant I was hoping he would skunk me because it would mean we would get to play another game. 

 

He did. 

 

The difference in that game happened on a hand in which I was dealt two face cards, a pair of fives and a pair of sevens. It was his crib, so ordinarily I would not have given him the huge advantage throwing the pair of sevens would lead to. 

 

But I wanted Dad to skunk me, so I threw them. The decision was defensible because I kept 10 points. However, I have learned playing a little more conservatively with my father leads to me winning more often. So I did the opposite of what my gut said to do.

 

The result was a 28 point swing. I cut a six, which would have given me 16 points had I kept it the way my gut told me. Instead I had 10 points and my dad had a 24-point crib as he threw a pair of eights to match up nicely with the sevens. 

 

I won the final game, which came down to the final hand. Had I not pulled up lame at the end, I could have skunked him back. 

 

In between games my dad stepped outside for a smoke break. I joined him and a wave of memories of playing ping pong washed over me. We played hundreds of games of ping pong throughout my teenage years–on our porch, at night, with lamps taped and strung up to light the deck. I hadn’t thought about those memories in years. Our neighbor Barb said she had to adjust to the noise of the ping pong ball hitting paddles. Once she did, though, she said it was hard to sleep without it.

 

My dad mentioned how, when we started playing, he could beat me while playing left-handed. But when we finally stopped playing, I was beating him playing left-handed. 

 

“We both got older,” I told him. 

 

I don’t actually like winning when I play cribbage with my dad. I worry when I do that he is losing his edge. Thankfully, it is really, really hard to beat him. I have to think about every single decision in the game and I can’t slack off at all. Many, many games come down to the final hand or even a single sequence of pegging in the game. When we play at night and I am particularly tired, I have noticed he has even more of an edge. Other nights, like tonight when he was tired, I had the advantage. 

 

I really am just spending as much quality time with my dad as I can. 

 

Farm and City Days was this past weekend. I wrote an entire column about it, but much of it was dominated by complaints of pain. My Splenic Flexure Disorder has flared up the past two weeks. Many of my recent life choices have centered around avoiding pain. This weekend was full of it. I was in and out of my apartment, icing and heating and massaging my side simply so I could go back outside and take photos and cover events. If I hadn’t hurt so badly, I would have felt terrible for cutting so many conversations short. All of that aside, I’m grateful the events were organized the way they were. It made attending every event very convenient. For those who worry, I reached out to my primary care provider to recommend another specialist. I am tired of the pain. 

 

For next year, New Richland’s 150th anniversary, I really want a carnival. We don’t need rides, but carnival games. And I dream of a big Ferris wheel, because I am helplessly sentimental in that regard. The idea of surveying my home town during a slow motion journey to the sky brings me joy. I am picturing something from the movies in terms of a setup–just lots of games and booths for people to walk around and play games, get their photos taken, shop, etc. The committee is looking for recommendations, so for anyone who has them, please contribute! 

 

This week’s updated cribbage tallies:

Dad 466 wins, 70 skunks

Eli 417 wins, 41 skunks, 1 double skunk

2026 totals, Eli 80 wins, 2 skunks; Dad 53 wins, 9 skunks