Commentary: There’s no Level 0 in competitive bridge match

I’ve read that bridge is a better strategy game than chess.

Cool! I consider myself a pretty good bridge player.

I remember how upset the Times readers were when the bridge column was removed from the paper. I wrote my thanks to the editor of the Daily Pilot for continuing to print a bridge column. After awhile, the Times put its bridge column back, and the Pilot took its out — my point being that enough readers care enough about bridge that Times’ subscribers get a bridge column six days a week.

Bridge can be played on several planes, so long as the plane you and your partner are playing on is at about the same altitude as your opponents’.

Otherwise, you will annoy them. And lose badly.

I play women’s duplicate bridge in Encore (“old-comers” formerly Newcomers). One woman I became friends with asked if I’d like to be her partner for a duplicate group in which she competes. It seemed like a nice opportunity for us to play as partners.

Lillian is still my friend, despite my humiliating myself and embarrassing her among her peers.

We arrived at about 1 p.m. The playing area was as big as Madison Square Garden. The bridge tables looked like a computerized quantity projected into infinity.

My confidence turned on its heel and left.

From the look of terror on my face, and the fact that I was immobilized, Lillian sensed my disorientation. She has little patience with what’s unreasonable to her.

“Oh, come on, Liz,” she said. “We don’t play all these people. We play in just a small group of them.”

That enabled me to follow her to the table in the group to which we’d been assigned.

Duplicate bridge is called duplicate because all the players in a group play the same hands. A rotation system moves players and cards. If you and your partner play your hands better than the others who played them, you win.

Our group consisted of about 20 tables. In Encore, we play five tables over the course of a few hours. I looked at my watch and thought about how much I hate riding around in strange areas after bedtime.

In addition to bid boxes (you select your bid from a box that holds all possible bids), an electronic contraption is set on the table. A player enters the bid and outcome into it, and it computes and tallies the scores. And it has a timer for play.

Lillian offered it to me to use for our team.

My fingers received jolts as if I were reaching for the ruby slippers. And I probably looked as green as the Wicked Witch of the West. Lillian took charge.

I was on the wrong plane — in the stratosphere, without oxygen.

I remember parts of conversations, like “I’m not going to be able to do this” and Lillian saying, “Yes, you are.”

Playing bridge with Lee for nearly 50 years is the antithesis of playing with a new partner at the competitive level. Lillian’s and my play were out of whack.

“I don’t understand your bidding!” I moaned. “And I am generally quite good at defense!”

“It’s OK if you don’t play as well as usual, Liz,” Lillian said. “You’re entered as a Level 1 player.”

“Is there a ‘Level 0’?”

She ignored me.

Even the bridge gods ignored me.

And that darn timer! Hurrying is not my strong suit.

“I hate this!” I said.

“Get a grip, Liz. It’s just like playing in a small group. Only bigger.”

Not as I saw it.

The opponents wore green visors and dark glasses and smoked cigars, men and women alike. They came for Master Points.

“Lillian, I am totally out of my comfort zone here.”

“You’ll get used to it,” she said.

As we moved from table to table, I held back tears. I tend to cry when lost or in danger or down the rabbit hole.

“Can’t we just leave?”

“Of course we can’t just leave!”

I said, “Lillian, when this is over, if I jump into your car and say ‘That was fun. Let’s do it again,’ I want you to drive me directly to the psych ward.”

One of our women opponents said, “You know, dear, some good bridge players just never become good bridge partners.”

Her compassion saw me through.

When it was finally over, I couldn’t believe it was still daylight.

Lillian went to check where we’d placed in the competition.

“Well?” I asked.

“Dead last,” she said.

On the way home, I apologized for not being able to adjust to the environment. Etc.

“I get it, Liz,” Lillian said. “It’s not for you. I won’t ask you again.”

I took a deep breath for the first time in hours.

Level 0 chess, anyone?

LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.