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Dogmeat continued ?√ßP ?√ß his is the story that answers the m. question: Gan a man from a little mining town in the West find fame and fortune playing rubber bridge for big money? The answer is no. It began when a magazine editor and bush-league bridge player named Ray Cave collared me on a trip to New York and said, ?╟úHey, there?╟╓s a $20,000 rubber- bridge tournament in Las Vegas. Richest tournament in the history of bridge. Let?╟╓s you and me enter.?╟Ñ ?╟úWell, I would love to, Ray,?╟Ñ I said, ?╟úbut I have to play quarterback for the Packers. Bart?╟╓s not feeling so good.?╟Ñ As Cave slunk off, stung by my sar- casm, I wondered whether he was crack- ing up. A $20,000 bridge tournament in Las Vegas would attract every hotshot bridge player in the LLS., plus all the card cheats, big-time hustlers and Life Masters that could afford the fare. Where would Cave and I stand in a gathering of eagles like this? We were both what the experts de- scribe as ?╟údogmeat,?╟Ñ ?╟úbait?╟Ñ or ?╟úfish.?╟Ñ A once-a-month game with the neigh- bors was our milieu, and the neighbors aren?╟╓t named Goren. Of the two of us, Cave was the better. He had been play- ing for about 20 years and once amassed IVi master points in a serious fling at While the Masters polished their bidding, Olsen practiced keeping score. duplicate bridge. He figured to become a Life Master in his 17th or 18th incarna- tion, provided he could figure out a way to carry his points over. Myself, I held a grand total of zero master points. When I played, which was practically never, it was for a 10th of a cent a point and, if I didn?╟╓t show up, my opponents would send a cab for me. I usually referred to myself as the bridge champion of Gil- pin, Colo.?╟÷which sounds pretty good if you don?╟╓t know that Gilpin is a ghost town inhabited only by me, Earl Hoff- man and one or two itinerant gold pan- ners, none of whom plays bridge. A few evenings after Cave?╟╓s sugges- tion, I found myself whiling away an evening playing against three lovely la- dies, and the impossible happened: one of them played worse than I did! This sweet, white-haired lady, an executive of a big corporation and an exemplary person in all other regards, played and bid her cards like an inmate of a maxi- mum-security ward. She could not count trumps, or any other suit, she bid and led out of turn, she thought that a small slam was a slap in the face and that you became vulnerable by having overstrict parents. At the end of three agonizing hours of ?╟úbridge,?╟Ñ the sweet, white- haired lady was the only winner. She had totaled 3,600 points; everybody else was minus. She had held the right cards. At rubber bridge she was unbeatable. The next morning I sought out Cave. ?╟úPut on your sneakers,?╟Ñ I said. ?╟úWe?╟╓re going to Las Vegas.?╟Ñ Now we were standing in the lobby of the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas, world?╟╓s capital of gaucherie, blinking in the glare of sequined dresses and numbed by the noise of slot machines. Cave seemed ex- tra jumpy and so was I, and the pag- ing system did nothing to relieve our anxieties. ?╟  ?╟ Telephone call for Oswald Ja- coby,?╟╓?╟╓the voice would blare. ?╟úCall for Mr. Tobias Stone. Paging Mr. Howard Sehenken. . . . Harold Ogust. . . . Jim Jacoby. . . . Robert Nail. . . . Ivan Erdos... ?╟Ñ ?╟úDo they ever page anybody except international bridge champions??╟Ñ Cave asked. ;>?╟úYes,?╟Ñ I said. ?╟úA while ago I heard a page for Cliff Russell. He?╟╓s just a na- tional bridge champion.?╟Ñ : This was the day before we were sched- uled to play 48 hands of bridge against some of these people, and we both had the shakes. At dinner that night a spot of red showed up in my vichyssoise, and that?╟╓s how we found out my nose was bleeding. Cave was very intolerant about the whole thing. He had had his nosebleed at lunch. Lena Horne came onstage to entertain us?╟÷that was in- cluded in the $200 tournament fee?╟÷but I failed to hear a note. I was too busy worrying. What would happen in the morning when everybody found me out? How could I face my friends back in Gilpin, Colo, when the scandal was ex- posed? It wasn?╟╓t just that I was a bad player. I didn't know how to keep score! For 15 years I had been playing bridge and pushing the score sheet toward somebody else. But the rules of the Sands Hotel First Annual International Bridge Tournament clearly specified that ev- erybody had scoring responsibilities. I was certain to be found out. I noticed that Cave was barely pick- ing at his medaillons de boeuf. ?╟úWhat?╟╓s the matter with you??╟Ñ I whispered. ?╟úYou?╟╓re not paying any attention to Lena Stone.?╟Ñ ?╟úHorne,?╟Ñ he said. ?╟úAnd I can?╟╓t tell you what?╟╓s the matter with me. I?╟╓m too ashamed.?╟Ñ ?╟úYou?╟╓re gonna have another bloody nose??╟Ñ ?╟úWorse than that.?╟Ñ ?╟úWhat is it? You can tell me. I?╟╓m your partner.?╟Ñ Cave looked around to see if he could possibly be overheard. Then he whis- pered, ?╟úI can?╟╓t shuffle.?╟Ñ I jumped. ?╟úYou can?╟╓t shuffle??╟Ñ I said. ?╟úFor God?╟╓s sake, keep your voice down!?╟Ñ Cave said. ?╟úYou?╟╓ve got us into a $20,000 bridge tournament, and you can?╟╓t shuffle??╟Ñ Cave stared at his food. ?╟úLook,?╟Ñ I said, ?╟úlet?╟╓s talk this over.?╟Ñ continued 102