Vartabedian: On Becoming a Backgammon Widower

In the time it takes to say “backgammon widower,” that’s how long it has taken for me to become one.

It never used to be that way. Meals were prepared on time. The wash was always done. The house had some semblance of order.

Best of all, I would have first crack at the computer each day, not for games but writing stories.

Now, I have competition, ever since she picked up the game of backgammon on her own and challenged the outside world online.

Yesterday, she played some opponent from Turkey. The day before, it was England. Tomorrow may be someone from Somalia. The other day in the midst of a snowstorm, with nothing better to do, she went bug-eyed matching wits with some player from Germany named Rudolf who’s a regular on cyberspace.

I thought she was playing a reindeer until I caught a glance of the screen.

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, waging a tooth-and-nail confrontation that lasted about an hour. The woman has become relentless, far from the Scrabble board she used to rule and another word game called Boggle.

Her penchant for solving crossword puzzles makes her a whiz in this category, too.

For years now, she’s beckoned me to teach her backgammon. For some reason—perhaps the fear of losing—we never connected. So she went online, read some rules, and lo! Off she went to the international arena.

Maybe I had it coming. For decades, my one and only had been a darkroom widow. Back when I was developing my own photos, I would spend hours in the inner sanctum of our home. Often, a knock would come, saying there was a sandwich and soda by the door.

It got so bad, we would talk on the intercom.

“Your baby just took his first steps,” I remember her saying once.

“Hold on. I’ll be right up to take his photo.”

Now, justice is being served—or injustice, depending on how you look at this new-found passion.

The other day found her boiled over with frustration. Seems her opponent was losing and bowed off, sending the woman into a tizzy.

“Chicken,” she yelled at the screen. “Goes to show, they don’t have decent backgammon players in Russia. Maybe they should just stick to chess.”

What my wife didn’t realize was the fact that I learned the game from a Soviet cousin who survived a concentration camp with backgammon. They would play for bread and he had an adroit hand when it came to throwing dice and moving chips over the board.

For those of you who don’t know the game, allow me to briefly explain. It’s usually found on the opposite side of a checkerboard, dates back centuries to the Egyptians, and is a game of skill and luck for all ages.

Armenians have their own word for it—tavlou—played at festivals where the aroma of barbecued lamb fills the air.

Some of the game boards are works of art with beautiful inlaid wood or mother-of-pearl. It is a custom to use tiny dies, so have a magnifying glass handy if your vision is faulty.

I won’t go into any further details but suffice it to say, competition is hot and tempers even hotter when two “diehards” get together.

I’m afraid my wife is leaning in that direction, that of a backgammon addict for which there is no cure. The day of an ice storm that knocked out power, also dowsed the online charade.

After mulling how to kill time, the challenge became inevitable.

“How about a game of backgammon?” she suggested. “Or are you afraid to take me on?”

I may have some issues but a superiority complex isn’t one of them. Maybe it was time to settle a score with someone who’s been my ally for 45 years.

So there we were, inside a powerless home, on a cold winter’s night, playing our first backgammon match by candlelight with a glass of Chablis by our side. We really didn’t need candles. The fire in her eyes provided its own illumination.

No contest. Not even close. She won the first four games, let one slip, and wrapped up the match without the least bit of concern. I thought I saw a smirk on her face, but again the house was dark.

As to the future, I’m taking a more positive view. The fact she’s behind a computer and not shopping fanatically inside a mall might save us a few bucks. Better yet, no need to drag me along.

Being a content homebody, no need to patronize boring house parties or visit long-lost relatives. I can watch sports on TV with the remote by my side or read a book uninterrupted.

And should the power ever go out again, they’ll always be a rematch.

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.