The Weasel

by Francis Townshend, adapted from Bridge My Way by Zia Mahmud

("Simply the best Bridge book ever written" — Omar Sharif)

Paul Trent, affectionately known as The Weasel, is a tough professional bridge player from New York. With his small frame and his sharp features, he does look a lot like a weasel. He plays his cards with incredible speed, dexterously slipping in and out of dangerous contracts.

One day at a restaurant in Atlantic City during a tournament, The Weasel's companions were intrigued to know why the Tournament Director was at the table. By eating a spicy beef dish, The Weasel was certainly breaking the diet his doctor had ordered but I thought he might not live to have a heart attack because it was more probable that he would burst a blood vessel before he finished the story he was excitedly telling us.

"Who says these players are experts?" he screamed. "They're fools, they're beginners. Even my daughter could play better." The Weasel had the attention of the table.

"I'm playing with a lady whom I've never seen before and hope I never see again. I've been nice to her and agreed to play all the bidding conventions she wants, even though most of them aren't fit for discussion, let alone playing. In return for playing her way, I tell her all I want her to do is to try not to revoke (play the wrong suit) and to follow my signals. If I play a high card, she should continue; if I play low, she should switch to another suit. Isn't that really simple?" Immediately I thought if it had been really simple, we wouldn't have been hearing this story but, like the others, I nodded agreement, eager to hear the end of the tale.

"We end up playing in four hearts. She leads the King of Spades. I play the Two, hoping for a Club switch. She continues with another Spade. Declarer plays a Diamond, which she wins with the Ace. I play the Two, begging for a Club switch but she continues a Diamond. When she got in again with a Trump, she still wouldn't play a Club, allowing Declarer to make this impossible contract."

The Weasel was turning a strange shade of purple and, worried about his blood pressure, I made him take a drink of water to calm him down. Someone else took over the story. "Suddenly everybody started yelling for the police, claiming that The Weasel had gone berserk. He had torn his cards into pieces and had thrown them away."

The Tournament Director asked The Weasel if it was true that he had torn up his card and if he had anything to say in his defence. The Weasel tried to look innocent. "Oh no," he said, "I dropped them on the floor and they broke."

At this, everyone broke into peals of laughter and even The Weasel recovered enough to grin.


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