The game’s coming to an end. Quit watching that silly sport. My grandfather loved poker. He hated anything distracting me from the game, especially when it was getting late and the Sixers were on. Two dollars, he said. My grandfather had something. He never bluffed. His hands were folded over his cards. He held an even stronger hand than I’d thought. He seemed very comfortable. Five. But after thirteen years, I had developed strategies of my own. He swirled the aged wine he was drinking, peering at the fading piece of felt we were playing on. Pondering. Trapped in thought. He never takes this long, I thought to myself. Call. Whaddayagot? I lived for these moments. Four Queens. He grins from ear to ear, turning over four prestigious Jacks. Nice hand. I taught you well, young whippersnapper. He lived for these moments.
Dean, give me a call. You’re tied for the lead in the pool. Get your picks in. Alright? Alright. Make sure you get them in. And the only night I can play cards is Friday. So long. I always forgot about our family football pool. I started when I was four years old, the same age I started playing poker. Being the only grandson, my grandfather, who had five daughters, seized this opportunity to indulge his interests in me. He helped me catch my first sunny at five years old, in the Neshaminy creek. I was terrified of its sticky, prickly exterior but fascinated by the sunset reflected on its skin. My brain was a sponge back then, and everything this man said to me was vacuumed by my ears. As I grew older, helping my grandfather around the house and getting my picks in became a chore for me. This little, weightless aggravation never overcame the respect I had for this man. I still took care of his property whenever he asked, any day of the week. Except Fridays.
I haven’t bluffed yet. I remember my grandfather told me only to bluff once a couple hours. I’m all in. No, he said. This was against the rules of poker and contradicting the rules of poker is foreign to our matured game. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. If I lost, then he would have all my money. The night would be over for me. He clearly had a better hand than me. My bluff would not prevail. After checking my black, crumbly Bicycle cards, I looked up. His eyes peered deep into my soul. I didn’t see the sunshine of the sunnies anymore. He didn’t want me to go all in. I settled. Call.
Dean Hanson will be graduating in May 2019 with a mechanical engineering degree. He has always enjoyed writing and had a knack for it, but he started honing his abilities when he came to Penn State. Most of his writing goes into lyricism now. He enjoys outdoor activities and exercise and music.