SCRABBLE - The Last Word Newsletter

T H E N E R V O U S R A C KThe Nervous Rack: My Life in SCRABBLE®By Daiva MarkelisDaiva Markelis is a professor of English at Eastern Illinois University and theauthor of White Field, Black Sheep: A Lithuanian-American Life. She andher husband, expert Marty Gabriel, both play tournament SCRABBLE._____________________________________________________________Vegas(7/26/13) It seems odd to be in Las Vegas and not playing in the Nationals, to sleep in as myhusband rushes out the door for Day 1, to read a pleasurable novel about New Yorkers and theirdogs instead of studying my high probability six-to-make-eights.It feels strange to feel relaxedinstead of anxious.I made the decision not to play several months ago. I knew I had to write a paper for the BalticStudies conference in Estonia in June and that I wanted to spend time in Helsinki sightseeing aswell. I knew that my autumn semester would be busy: new classes, new committees, paper andessay deadlines. In between the conference and the beginning of school in mid-August, I washoping to accomplish the following: finish my memoir about love and SCRABBLE, continue walkingthree to five miles a day, get over my fear of flying through the process of systematicdesensitization, prepare for classes, clean out my closets, and learn Finnish.And because I take SCRABBLE seriously—last year I studied for the Nationals and did quite well—Idid not want to be put in the position of wondering whether OUTGNAW is valid (it is), whether HICtakes an s (it doesn’t), and what my mnemonic is for ORGIES (HOT MONOGLOT PORN.)I could have just stayed home in Charleston, but I get lonely without someone to argue with.Also, I haven’t been to Vegas since I was in sixth grade; I wanted to see how much it had changed. Iwas twelve when my parents decided to take a cross-country trip from Chicago to California. Mymemories of Sin City are vivid and glamorous. My parents chose to spring for a hotel room insteadof camping in our flimsy tent. The hotel room had a color television. My parents left my sister andme in the hotel room with the color television while they went out gambling. I remember jumping upand down on the big hotel bed the minute they left and then watching some forbidden show on thewonderful TV.I can visualize the Las Vegas of my sixth-grade trip: a long street with brightly colored lights formingpictures of palm trees, flamingos, and an Aladdin’s lamp. I see my father driving past the long streetwith brightly colored lights, my sister asking, “Dad, are you and mom going to see some strippers?”My father ignored the question.I walked down Las Vegas Boulevard yesterday. It seems the city has shifted in the past forty-fiveyears or so, though the hotel concierge reassured me that the “old town” still exists just a few milesaway. This “new” Las Vegas was frightening: monolithic buildings connected by walkways, peoplewalking around looking dazed or anxious or sad, huge billboards of Donnie and Marie. There weresmaller, sadder billboards for entertainers I thought were dead, such as Rich Little and Dion. 45