Bunco-Mania!

Oh, God.

I'm finally at that age when you and your friends think it's cool to throw "game night" parties. Tonight, we went to a Bunco party. For those of you who haven't played it before, the game involves switching partners (if this is all you know about the game, then you are going to be sorely disappointed) and throwing dice. You can have multiple tables playing, but there are four people to a table, with two teams to a table. The rules are as follows:

-- You score a point for each die rolled that matches the designated number/round (there are six rounds per game, corresponding to the numbers on the sides of the dice)
-- The roller keeps rolling until he/she doesn't roll the designated number for any die
-- Players next to each other must be on opposite teams
-- Rolling three of the same number that is not the designated number scores five points
-- Rolling three of the same number that matches the designated number scores 21 points, or a "Bunco"
-- A round continues until a designated head table signals it is time to end the round and switch tables. This happens as soon as either team at the head table scores 21 points. The winning team from each table advances to the next table, while the losers stay behind. The winners at the head table stay, while the losers move down to the tail table
-- On the next round, players can't be partners with the person they were partners with in the previous game
-- Each player must note on a piece of paper wins and losses for each round. Each player must also keep track of how many Buncos they have

We received the invitation for this party a few weeks ago, so I had some prior warning. I could have faked an illness or something. But no, dutiful husband that I am, I came along. When we go there, I found out the Seahawks game was going to be on TV. I'm no fan of pro sports, but at least watching the game would be more, uh, masculine. I wasn't the only one. A couple of my fellow male compatriots felt the same way.

But I had forgotten that we were playing for money. Earlier, each person playing paid five bucks. Money was going to be given to the person with the most wins, and to the one with the most losses. And a special prize would be given to the one with most Buncos. So it meant something. And as a competitive guy, I had to get that money.

It started out badly. In the first round, my team lost badly. But the table I was at least close to the TV.

The second round I lost as well. I got up and grabbed some food and some wine. Then it started turning around for me. I proceeded to win a few games until I made it to the head table. My trademark rolling (just grab 'em and drop 'em from high) scored plenty of points, and I even got a Bunco along the way.

I held the head table for six games, and I had the lead on wins. We were using a bell to signal the start and end of rounds, and I wielded it masterfully, like a clangy sword. And I was even better with the dice. I got plenty of fives, and I even rolled Buncos in two consecutive games. On fire. In the zone. That prize money was mine. Players at other tables were even emulating my roll, to Lisa's chagrin.

Then Paul, the host, abled the table. He sat down across from me, meaning he had chosen to team up with me. I grinned at him, but inside, my heart sank. If there's anybody I know who reeks of suckiness at parlor games, it's Paul. No offense to Paul. He's a great guy. Really nice and friendly. But he's got bad luck. You can smell it on him. He got on enough of a roll (no pun intended) to make it to the head table, but when he sat down, I knew his luck -- and mine -- was about to run out.

And I was right. In that next round, the other team scored plenty of points before we scored one. I don't remember Paul getting more than five points, and I didn't do much better. He was anchor tied to my leg, and there was nothing I could do about it. No amount of wine left could dull the pain. When the other team scored their 21st point, I sighed and looked at the bell mournfully. And then I rang it one last time.

And on to the tail table I went. Or the "ass's" end of the game, to me. I believe other players called it the cave, because it was in the living room that had no lights. The players there seemed like trolls, trapped in the dark, put in dour moods because of their incompetence and bad luck with the dice. And damn if the bad luck for me didn't continue. By rules, Paul and I had to be on different teams this time around. Thankfully. I was glad to be rid of him. But his team proceeded to whoop my team's ass.

For six more games, it continued. Trapped in the abyss of the cave, I soldiered on, piling up losses like the Mariner pitching staff. And I think I was even getting more troll-like (is that a hump and snaggle tooth I'm growing?) with every loss. I kissed that money goodbye. And I even lost my Bunco lead.

My only salvation came from the one person with even less luck than Paul. It was his wife, Amy. It started out really well for her. She scored ten points before my team had one. She even Buncoed (sp?). But fortunately for my team, the head table hadn't declared a winner yet. My teammate had huge runs of ten and eleven points (I contributed a little), and we eventually beat Amy (she was currently partnered with the floating filler/"spacer" player due to get an even number of players) by one point. We were the only ones to beat a Bunco. No small feat.

But I wasn't able to savor that win for long. Soon after that round, it was time to quit. The remaining couples who brought their kids had to leave (the ones who left before play started were wise to do so). And the game was called, with me batting .500 in wins and losses. I had done so well that I couldn't even qualify for most losses to get consolation money. The price of mediocrity.

We left, and I had to admit I had fun, even if grudgingly. I see nights of Cranium, Trivial Pursuit, and Charades in front of me. The slide to Bridge night at the retirement home has begun.