My competitive family raised an entire generation of kids who won’t play board games. It began on every major holiday when my family would gather at my grandmother’s house. We’d have salad, some kind of German roast with vegetables, and dessert around lunch. Then, it was time for a marathon of games of the board and card variety. As soon as the dishes were clean, my aunt would proudly round the corner with an arm full of classic games: Yahtzee, Masterpiece, Sorry, and Clue. The game boxes were browned from years of tradition, the corners and seams cracked from use. 

Inside these boxes were disorganized game pieces, boards, and scorecards from games past intentionally left by the winners to celebrate their success all over again. These people were competitive to a fault. There was no such thing as being a good loser because it was not good to lose. I still remember the first time I ever beat my mom at Scrabble. She didn’t talk to me for days. 

Their competitiveness wore off on me. I would hide money under my butt during Monopoly games. “Savings account,” I would shout as I displayed the hidden money to other players as they ran out of funds. As much as I cared about things being fair (big Libra energy), I wanted to win and I would do whatever it took. When I won, there was a dance. I went all out for a W. 

My family’s favorite game of all was spades. All of the adults - my grandmother and her three children - were professional card players, at least that’s how they showed up to the table. The table had to be clean. Drinks on coasters so the cards didn’t get wet. They carefully picked pairs like a professional sports draft and people were getting their feelings hurt before the first hand was even dealt. Someone always left angry when they lost. They would cuss each other out and stay mad for days about how a hand went down. 

For some reason, I still wanted to play. As the oldest grandchild in this half of my family tree, I was excited the first time I was asked to join this elite players club. I was sitting on a long, leather bench seat at my grandmother’s kitchen table. I tried to bring a Christmas cookie to the table and was told to finish before I played to make sure my focus was on the game. Even playing my first hand, I was there to win. 

As the first child to be welcomed into the fold, there would be no gentleness offered. “Why the hell didn’t you play that two rounds ago,” my mom would shout when I played a 2 of spades too late for it to win the book. When I got better at the strategy and pace, they would jokingly ask impossible questions to see whose team I would be on. “Who do you love more,” my aunt would say as she stood behind my mom and quietly pointed her index finger at herself.

None of the grandchildren will play board games or cards anymore, or so I learned last week when I got the call that my aunt had passed. I told my uncle in our first conversation in over 18 years that I imagine she’s up in heaven with my grandmother playing games. I could hear his cry as he laughed. 

I laughed and cried with him as I was transported back to that leather bench seat anxiously awaiting my turn. I smell the stale cardboard box, and hear the clink of the dice as they’re placed in the red plastic cup. I could almost hear my aunt’s laughter as she yelled “YAHTZEE!” and I remember exactly why I don’t play board games.