With oversized glasses and a head of straight silvery hair parted far to the right, Baron looks a little like Andy Warhol circa the Factory. A trace of Brooklyn still infects his speech, he has a big smile and a goofy, overeager laugh, and he sometimes breaks into a Three Stooges nyuk-nyuk-nyuk voice. When we meet, he is wearing a T-shirt that asks DOES ANAL RETENTIVE HAVE A HYPHEN? He’s never been a champion player himself, but Baron brought precise, clerical thinking to the game.
After completing his short-word lists, Baron moved Scrabble into analysis, examining sixteen games reprinted in the newsletter. The conclusion: While the twos, threes, and fours comprised just 5 percent of the dictionary, they accounted for 75 percent of all the words formed and nearly half of the total score. Bingos accounted for 6 percent of words formed and 28 percent of the total score. Or, twelve and a half short words appeared for every bingo played. “That was amazing,” Baron says. “That five percent of the dictionary would account for seventy-five percent of the words on the board only emphasized all the more the importance of learning the short words.”
In the games Mike analyzed, the winner outscored the loser by 414.5 to 338.5. The winner drew 4.3 more tiles than the loser. The winner went first more often than the loser. The winner played more of the eleven power tiles than the loser. And, most important, the winner outbingoed the loser two to one on average, with nearly 90 percent of the scoring differential attributable to bingos. “This was a breakthrough in sensitizing players to learn the short words,” Baron says, “but you’ve got to know your bingos.”
He felt his discoveries were just too good not to share: a loaf of bread and a fish that would feed the Scrabble multitudes. Baron soon discovered flaws in how players were being advised to learn bingos. The high-probability lists published in the newsletter offered only a few hundred words. And the bingo stems weren’t logical; for instance, it didn’t make sense to learn the bingos that could be formed from the letters in CLEARS—one of the top stems—because drawing the C was already a low-probability occurrence, and drawing it with, say, a V, was even less likely. You needed to learn the words that showed up a lot, not CARVELS or CLAVERS. And the way to do that was to learn the bingos that contained the most frequent tiles, those worth one or two points. Mike dubbed those letters—A, D, E, G, I, L, N, O, R, S, T, and U—“three percenters” because there are at least three of each of them among the hundred tiles. And they made about four thousand bingos.
But the “three-percent list” had no built-in mnemonic aids, the way the stems did, and it would take two years for Baron to compile it. In the meantime, he applied probability thinking to the stems. There was a basic flaw in determining which stems were most fruitful: The system didn’t consider the probability of the stem itself. For instance, the six letters in PAPERS and the six in AINERS* had nearly identical Bonus Power Ratings; you could make twenty-three bingos with seventy-eight usable tiles from the former and thirty-eight bingos with sixty-one usable tiles from the latter. But a player was fifty-four times more likely to draw AINERS out of a full bag than PAPERS.
So Baron created the Modified Power Rating, obtained by multiplying the probability of a stem by the number of tiles left in the bag that combined with it. (He assigned the SATINE stem a probability of 1.0 and adjusted accordingly based on the frequency of the letters in a stem.) It worked. RETINA, which was number eleven on the old list, rose to the top of the new list. SATINE came second and SATIRE third. CLEARS, which was fourth on the old list because it yielded so many bingos, plummeted because the probability of drawing the C was low.
Baron tinkered some more with his formula, because he realized that the letter S deserved greater weight since players hung onto it in order to develop bingo racks. In the summer of 1986, in a centerfold pullout as sexy to Scrabble players as any Playboy Playmate, Scrabble Players News published Baron’s “Top 100” bonus word stems, about twenty-five hundred seven-letter bingos in all. For good measure, the same issue contained four other Baron lists: JQXZ nonbingos, words consisting of 70 percent or more vowels, six-letter words containing four vowels, and words with multiple I’s or U’s.
All of those lists were generated by hand by Baron and Joseph Leonard. I asked Mike how he knew which letter combinations to inspect. “Once you know that SATINE is good,” he says, “let’s change the S to a D or an R. Let’s change RATINE to RADINE. Let’s change it to an L, RALINE or NAILER. Let’s change R-A-L-I-N-E to R-O-L-IN-E. I generated the top hundred by hand. Of the fifty-five thousand potential six-letter stems, I missed four of the top hundred.”
Baron created separate lists of high-probability words that weren’t covered by the stems, like AGATOID and EROTICA. All of it, plus the five thousand eight-letter words that could be formed from the Top 100 stems, were published in the newsletter in 1987 under the headline “Seriously Folks, My Final Bingo Lists.” Baron put all of his lists together and published them in book form one year later.
On page 24, the bingos start.
1 SATINE
A ENTASIA
TAENIAS
B BANTIES
BASINET
C ACETINS
CINEAST
D DESTAIN
DETAINS
INSTEAD
SAINTED
STAINED
E ETESIAN
F FAINEST
All one hundred stems, from SATINE to OUTENS, are contained on four pages, eight columns to a page. Just four pages. It seems manageable, especially when I photocopy and stick them in my briefcase. Memorizing them is a different story. Starting with SATINE (pronounced sat-TEEN or sat-TINE), I tackle them as I did the threes: by staring at them. The threes, though, are short, simple letter strings. Words like DUI or VAV seem less like words than like groups of symbols that can be identified easily by their shape or pattern. The bingos are real words, long words, that need deeper context. I have to remember them, not just recognize them.
I cover up the additional letter in the stem, and can tell by the line spacing how many anagrams await. SATINE plus L. I count. Seven lines. I talk aloud, or just move my lips if I’m in public. “ELASTIN, ENTAILS.” Pause. “NAILSET” Longer pause. I know there are three starting with S. “SALIENT, SALTINE, SLAINTE.” And one more. “TENAILS.” Got ’em. Sometimes I singsong the answers, which ties the words together. “INSTATE-SATINET” They are forever linked. Oh, those ZANIEST ZEATINS. Whatever it takes.
What it takes is weeks. I move from reading to writing. I record the stem, then every letter it takes, and how many words for each letter. And then I try to fill in the blanks. I show off for friends who feign interest in my new obsession.
“Quiz me. Look at the second list, the one that starts with SATIRE. Now give me a letter.”
“Okay. R.”
“ARTSIER, TARRIES, TARSIER.” I sound like a snotty eight-year-old who can recite the names of the U.S. presidents in order.
“Wow. That’s great. That’s so interesting. I’ve got to get back to work now.”
It takes months before the words seem embedded, which only reinforces the feeling of hopelessness. There’s just too much to learn. SATINE and SATIRE are the C-major scale to a musician, the first block of stone in the Pyramids. I can’t conceive of making it to REGINA (No. 28) or STORED (No. 58) or AMINES (No. 95). Absorbing thousands of words seems like a fool’s errand. I have difficulty remembering names, images from my past, plots of novels, what I did last weekend. How can I, closing in on age thirty-five, start learning words? Where in my brain will I put them?
I tote my new study aids to a weekend tournament in the resort town of Port Jefferson, on Long Island. I have my photocopied lists, my Franklin, and a stack of index cards on which I have written three-, four-, and five-letter words containing J, Q, X, and Z and some mnemonic aids. For JOTA, a Spanish dance, I write “JO + TA,” which are acceptable two-letter words. For JIMP, I write “JUMP IMP.” For ZARF, I underline ARF. Sitting on the john in the inn where the tournament is being staged, reading my cards, I say aloud, �
�JAPAN is good,” using proper Scrabble lingo. I’m learning! And I’m in the third division of four! I’m moving up!
I casually win five of the first six games. It feels like Danbury all over again—especially when I lose five of the next six. It must go beyond knowing words, because my opponents can’t know many more than I do (except for an older gentleman with a 1330 rating who plays SEISING, which I challenge, en route to a rout; I’m psyched out by his rating). Maybe it’s my lack of tournament experience. Maybe it’s the typical novice inability to score when your tiles betray you—the inclination to take 5 or 10 points rather than exchange bad letters—or even when they don’t, playing off one or two tiles for a few points when larger “turnover” is called for. Maybe it’s not knowing which tiles to keep. Maybe the words aren’t sticking; in one game I can’t remember SATIRE plus an A (ARISTAE, ASTERIA, ATRESIA).
Maybe it’s physical. During my slump, Joe Edley, who has jumped out to a 10–2 record, asks if I’m tired. Well, I admit, I was up late hanging out with Marlon and playing some after-hours games, and up early because I was nervous.
“Your body needs rest,” he says. Scrabble is a game of physical as well as mental stamina. Edley doesn’t play after-hours games, doesn’t partake of late-night beers (in fact, he’s never touched a drop of alcohol in his life). He is there to win and nothing more. Edley tries not to be rude; in every tournament he plays, he also functions as a de facto NSA representative. But the social niceties can wait. If his opponents don’t understand, tough.
Edley wins the expert division with a 12–3 mark. I take two of the last three games for an 8–7 finish, sixth place out of sixteen. I had been seeded fifteenth in the division, though. Because I’m still receiving acceleration points, and because ratings are calculated based on the strength of your opponents—the tougher the field, the more your rating increases, and vice versa—mine rises to 1155, a healthy 150-point jump.
My Deluxe Scrabble board and new white-on-navy plastic Protiles, which I ordered for $25, have a permanent spot on the living room floor, books and Franklin beside them. I play every night after work. (Alone.) With the Franklin, I check racks and record lists of new words and find obscure plays. SIGNIORS, SORBENT, LATHERER, and PINIONED. CERVINE, COOTIE, and DOYLIES. RANI, ARECA, AERIED, EQUID, HYOID, LITAI. TABANID, WAUR, EQUITES, TOGAE, BETH, LAURA.
When I let the Scrabble lovers on CGP, the e-mail forum, know that a reporter-player is lurking, one of them welcomes me by posting a quiz: Find all of the bingos in STEFAN? and FATSIS? I reply privately that I’m flattered and rattle off the few bingos I do see (I’m at work; the Franklin is at home): FASTENs, FAScIST, FAiNEST (SATINE plus F). He sends back the rest: FANjETS, FATNESs, FATtENS, SATISFy, FIeSTAS, FISSATe. A week later, playing solitaire, I draw AEFNST?, and play rEFASTEN.
I bag my first expert at the club, Joel’s brother, Larry. The same day, I score a record (for me) 522 points in a game. In my notebook, I scribble “Turning Point” because I’m proud that I’ve played some Scrabble words, including the vowel dumps TAENIAE, AECIA, and AWEE.
I map out a schedule. Three weeks after Port Jefferson is the Seventeenth Boston Area Scrabble Tournament, the one with the premier division, in Waltham. Three weeks after that, a weekender in the Catskills. A week after that—and every month!—another one-day event at the motel by Exit 48 of the Long Island Expressway.
I’m planning my life around Scrabble.
“I’ve seen this before,” John Williams says when I tell him about my schedule. “We have a twelve-step program. When your personal hygiene starts to take a beating, we’ll really know.”
Something changes in Waltham. I give away the first two games with panicky strategic misplays. I learn a lesson about the importance of high-probability racks when I try SALINED* where SNAILED is the correct move, and with a chance to bingo out and win I play OUTRISE* instead of STOURIE, which is the only word in that rack (and means “dusty”). I lose a game on time. I lose to two blue-hairs. I play scads of phonies. How low I sink: During my last, losing game, the woman at the next table, seeing CUPID on the board, says, “Oh, that’s a cute word.”
In Danbury, I was upset because of the losses. Other than YER*, though, I didn’t analyze, game by game, why I lost. In Waltham, the specific mistakes, the tactical errors, linger. For the first time, I make a list of my flubs: “Didn’t block X spot up by 42.” “Opened a doubleword score for a Q play for 44 in end.” “Played a phony when down 30 with good rack midgame.” “Opened a triple late. Should have passed.”
In Danbury, I exited disappointed and embarrassed. In Waltham, with a 5–7 record, I leave angry. I can’t even say I had fun. For the first time, my rating falls, to 1078.
The pretense of attending tournaments for reportorial purposes is gone. I have stopped asking opponents their age and occupation—just in case, I had told them, I wanted to include them in whatever I would write. Now, I want good company at events, and settle on my Scrabble homeys: Matt and Marlon; Dominic and Martin, the twenty-somethings who were replaying their games at Danbury; Eric Chaikin, the word-obsessed Brown graduate and former Wall Street computer guy.
Eric is abandoning his Manhattan apartment and retreating fulltime to his Catskills rental in the town of Margaretville. The house isn’t too far from the tournament that Joe Edley is directing at a resort in Rosendale, a mini-Woodstock, that artifact of sixties white counterculture, where natural-foods stores and vegan menus predominate. It’s a lovely, summer camp–like setting amid the woods on a glassine lake. In springtime, the place is virtually empty but for us Scrabblers. It’s shirtsleeves weather, there’s a light wind, birds are chirping. I stayed here once before and fell in love by the lake; I can’t believe I’m here again to play Scrabble.
Eric invites Matt, Marlon, and me to save the hotel costs by sleeping at his house, which turns out to be almost an hour away on the country roads. By the time the first night’s games have ended (I’m 30), we don’t make it back until after midnight. Anagrams pass the time. Matt dishes out TROUTMANIA*, which has two: MATURATION, NATATORIUM. “Someone give me one,” he commands, almost whiningly. “SHIRTSLEEVE,” Marlon offers. “THEIRSELVES,” Matt responds.
For Marlon, it’s like a Fresh Air Fund weekend. “I’m a city boy,” he says as he emerges from the car after the long climb up the dirt driveway. He gazes at the night sky crowded with stars. “Never seen stars like this. Can’t show me sky like that. Damn” The next morning, Matt picks up the theme. “There’s a waterfall for you to see, Marlon,” he says. “Why I need to see that?” Marlon replies. “Part of our community service,” Matt says.
Matt forgets his tracking sheets. Marlon forgets his shorts. Matt sports his uniform of jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and basketball sneakers, and he sort of ambles, hopping from one leg to the other, favoring his bad knee. Marlon looks like a fireplug with legs, dressed in an electric blue nylon tracksuit plastered with silver logos for a NASCAR racing team. When he walks, Marlon makes a whooshing sound. Eric and I laugh at the sight of the two Scrabble geniuses scampering back into the house.
In the car, Eric rehashes a particularly painful loss from the previous night when Matt suddenly interrupts. “I’ve got one,” he says.
“A-C-E-I-O-P-R-R-S-T-T.” Marlon says he has the answer: TETRASPORIC. Everyone hoots derisively. “TETRASPORIC is good!” Marlon insists. “TETRASPORIC is good!”
At the day’s end, I’m 7–3. Unfortunately, I’m one of the highest-rated players in the third and bottom division, so, statistically, I’m expected to perform well. Nonetheless, I’m feeling pretty Zen about my efforts, choosing to focus on my overall record and not my 4–3 performance of the day. With Edley around, I’m hyperconscious of my mental state. Joe encourages me to relax, to breathe deeply, stay positive, and not worry about winning or losing. It seems to be working, but thanks to the travel time to Eric’s I’m extra-tired. As we head back that night, I try to convince myself that the six hours of sleep I’ll be getting will be prepar
ation enough to win the five remaining games, and the tournament, on Sunday morning.
As I doze in the passenger seat, the background anagramming an effective soporific, periodically I hear Eric say that he’s not sure what road we’re on and that we don’t have much gas but should make it home. Deer flash in our headlights, and when we almost hit one Matt notes that the near collision was planned with the deer in advance for Marlon’s benefit. It’s cold. The car begins sputtering. We finally conk out on a desolate two-lane highway in deepest Delaware County.
Matt hums the theme from Deliverance. We wait for a car to pass, and Eric finally flags down a guy in a Trans Am who takes him to a gas station a half mile away. I open my eyes to see Marlon bathed in the car’s flashing emergency lights, a round mound of nylon facing the windshield, looking in his shiny outfit like Neil Armstrong on the moon. I can hear Matt riffing on the scene, imagining a local mistaking Marlon for an alien from a UFO. “He was in a blue space suit and his face was blacker than night. He came out of a flashing craft....” I laugh and try to fall asleep. Matt and Marlon do some more anagrams to pass the time. Eric returns with a canister of gas. This is not, I think, a situation that Edley would find himself in at a tournament.
We ran out of fuel a mile from home. We get there at 2:30.
Five hours later I hear Matt talking to Eric in the kitchen. “A-A-BD....” Predictably, we’re running late, and it’s doubtful we’ll make it to the hotel in time for the first game, which in all likelihood means our opponents will be instructed to start our clocks and we’ll have to play a shortened game or, if we show up twenty-five or more minutes late, forfeit. Eric is speeding and, naturally, a cop emerges from nowhere to pull us over.
Word Freak : Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitive Scrabble Players (9780547524313) Page 7
