It was midway through the third quarter of a very interesting Nebraska-at-Oklahoma State football game this past Saturday when I received a phone call from my friend Brent.
“You’ll never believe what’s just happened,” he said, and I could tell from the excitement in his voice that, for once, it had nothing to do with women. “I just won 1,500 bucks.”
“What did you do,” I asked. “Buy a scratch-off lottery ticket?”
“No,” he replied. “There is no lottery in Mississippi. The Republicans would never allow it.”
I remembered at once that my friend had recently moved to a state controlled by some of the most wicked white men gathered in a single area since the fall of Nazi Germany.
“I was playing a trivia game at my new favorite bar,” he continued. “You know those machines that allow you to play against other people? Well, it turns out that on some of ’em, you can play against people in other bars, in other states. I got in a game that offered cash prizes and actually won.”
“OK,” I said slowly, trying to work it all out in my head. “How is that not gambling? Does the state of Mississippi not see the contradiction?”
“Of course not. These greed heads know how to run things. The politicians echo the religious right’s battle cry: Jesus hates lotteries. Especially any lottery that would help fund education. Hell, that’s how these people stay in power. Keep the population so stupid that they’ll vote for anyone who says “Jesus” in a reverential tone of voice. Anyhow, gambling itself isn’t illegal. There are casinos in this fine state.”
“Sure,” I said, “why not?” It made perfect sense. Brent is a Winner, a man blessed by whatever power it is that decides who shall Receive and who shall Pay. He is the rare individual who, by all accounts, has no bad luck. I should not have been surprised that on a Saturday afternoon trip to the watering hole, he had somehow managed to stumble upon a windfall.
He immediately bet the money on the upcoming Oklahoma State-at-Texas football contest, taking the Cowboys and getting 20 points.
“State looks tough,” he explained. “They are improving each week. The Reid kid can run and throw, and Texas has no secondary. They might not win, but they’ll cover that spread and make many a slick Texas oil jockey slip a turd in his trousers. A lot of money will be lost in the state of Texas next Saturday.”
After hanging up the phone I thought about what my friend had said. Twenty points? Could UT defend the pass? And was this the same OSU team I’d seen crumble in the waning seconds against Texas A&M?
When the game was over and the Cowboys had thrashed the same Nebraska team Texas had been extremely fortunate to beat only a week earlier, I did the only thing that made sense.
I threw on some shoes and went looking for a trivia game.
As far as bar games go, trivia has to be the simplest to play. There are no complicated rules. Know the answer, press the button. A monkey could play, provided the monkey knew something about music, history, sports, food, or sex. The hard part lies in knowing how to operate the machines.
They are handheld, with a stunning array of buttons. Letters, numbers, symbols – most of which are never used in the actual trivia contest. Contestants sit around the bar, watching the television monitors that are hooked into a vast trivia network, punching buttons ferociously as they try to answer the questions as fast as possible.
I wanted to find a game that offered a chance to play for money or other fabulous prizes. I began my search at the Bennigan’s on Barton Springs, mostly because I had a gnawing hunger that only a turkey sandwich could satisfy. Most of the televisions were tuned to various football games, which was not surprising, given that pigskin lust runs rampant in these parts this time of year.
There were two monitors, though, with a trivia game going, and it appeared that at least four people were playing. I sat at the bar, ordered a sandwich and beer, and observed the gaming action.
The key to a good trivia game lies in picking the right screen name. “Joe,” or “Susan,” or “Dave” will not do. It is much more appropriate to pick a name that instills fear in one’s opponents. “TechGeek” was clearly the most intimidating name onscreen at Bennigan’s, followed closely by “Bob27” and “G-Dawg.” “CuteGal” scared no one, and I knew it was no coincidence that at this particular point in the game she was in last place.
TechGeek was out to a solid lead through the first three rounds of play. As I entered my name into the computer – a none-too-easy task in itself – I knew I had some serious catching up to do. Satisfied that my screen name, “RocketSauce,” would carry me to victory, I began play in the fourth round.
Six rounds and almost as many beers later, the game ended with me in second place. Not bad but not a win, either. Clearly, getting in at the beginning of a game was of great importance. I had learned, though, thanks to TechGeek, that bars in Austin are not part of whatever trivia league offers cash and other fabulous prizes. It seems they are for fun only.
Granted, trivia games can offer a great deal of sporting suspense, especially if there are several people playing. Games can be very tight – it can all come down to whoever gets the last question correct. Or who is fastest with the buttons.
But what’s the fun of a bar game if you can’t win any money, I wondered. At least with most other bar games you can place bets under the table. Somehow, I couldn’t see betting TechGeek 20 bucks that I’d lay waste to him if we were to play again.
As good as it felt to flex the ol’ brain muscle, and as exciting as a big-time comeback was, against serious competitors such as TechGeek and G-Dawg no less, at the end of the day, I still preferred the more traditional bar games.
I paid my tab and headed for a shuffleboard table.
This article appears in Chris Bell.