Game Night!

The glorious banner of Game Night has often been met with stiff opposition from monetary duty and household cleanliness. As endless nights pass with the constant hum of Infant-42’s flying overhead and the relentless bombardments of poopy diapers, our sanctums of colored mini cubed stratagem have often been blasted to rubble. Other tactics of priority and that most evil of enemies, a life too busy, have all but extinguished this candle of tradition. In my own life, for instance, the Pinochle games of my youth were interrupted by one of the game’s member’s relocation to Costa Rica. And even when he returned, our subsequent games of Hero Quest and Magic were halted by my own move to Mexico. This piercing of its jugular was nearly the end of it, as our members soon became scattered across the globe. Interspersed among long droughts, we occasionally had a game night that seemed more of a memorial than an actual event. But for those who believe, scrubbing the floors all night with a toothbrush is well worth the chance of only a few moments of late night gaming on the fourth Thursday in November. Hope conjures miracles. And this case was no different. Soon, a member of my gaming group was introduced to a little game involving the harvest of wheat, wool, grain, brick, and ore. This little beauty kindled in him a thirst for gaming that I feel cannot be quenched. Behind his leadership we had four years of Boise and Holiday peace. But peace never lasts, and the stenchy breath of war was breathing down our necks. The sinking ship of the S.S. Cookie Company required our fearless leader to jump ship for Africa and the abysmal distance of the Atlantic once again broke through our lines of defense. Fortunately, technology has improved since my youth to a point at which games can now be played over great distances. An advance which I believe has been fueled in no small part by the ranks of our cause. But I have been unable to participate. My Fuehrer CEO and his Third Reich of Upper Management have instructed its Secret Service IT department to snuff out anything with even a thread of hope or glimmer of amusement. Just as classic vinyl is broken for no other reason than having the same beat as a distress call, so too are the vast majority of internet sights blocked. I feel your pain Amadeus! (Or was it Wolfgang?) As in so many other instances, I once again am the weakest link. When all seemed lost, my broheim, the Patton of noble diversion and Montgomery of unassuming victory, rode in on his Sherman with a plan of attack that was clearly inspired by the subterranean procession of the United State’s internal conflict of the 1860’s. Indeed our cause is as encumbered as ever, but place two fingers on its neck and you will feel a slight pulse, one beating to the rhythm of our anthem, kept alive, if by nothing else than the memory of wind blowing across our fingers as we shuffle the cards. Maybe if I clap my hands and scream out it will bring this little guy back to life? Viva Game Night! Viva!