When I was a cub reporter, many many years ago, an editor assigned me a feature on bingo. I was familiar with the game, having learned it in elementary school as a way to identify numbers and letters. The women in my family would occasionally spend an evening together playing it (they even owned their own chips, which they stored in small travel cases). And, of course, I knew the song. But I had no idea what in the world I could possibly write that everyone didn’t already know. So, one Tuesday night, I headed out to the local bingo parlor.
The cavernous room held long tables, the kind used during lunch in school cafeterias. In the center of each table was a pad of bingo cards, colored daubers and a bin of small plastic chips. Most of the players were women over 50, which at the time seemed ancient to me. The air contained a cloud of smoke that slowly rose until it stuck to the ceiling and stained the paint. Yet it was the sounds inside that hall that remain in my memory to this day: the monotone call of the numbers, the eery silence that followed as a room filled with players searched their cards for matches, the delighted shout of “Bingo!” that was always followed by scattered groans, the crinkle of used paper cards and the rip of new ones leaving their pads as the players prepared for another round.
I observed several matches and wrote furiously in my reporter’s notebook. I marveled at the players who worked on up to nine cards at a time, scanning the numbers with sharp eyes and marking each correct spot. I recorded the various trinkets that players displayed on the table for good luck. And I coughed a lot as my eyes teared up from all that cigarette smoke.
When I informed the players at my table that I was writing an article about the game, they insisted that I had to play a few rounds. I admit I did hesitate at first, wanting to remain in observer mode. Then I figured, in for a penny…
Twenty dollars and two hours later, I was hooked. Even though I hadn’t won a single match, I found the process of playing — and the camaraderie formed with the other players during the game — positively invigorating. The article turned out to be just as much fun to write.
I’ve occasionally played bingo over the years: a few times with my best friend, many virtual rounds on Pogo.com, several memorable matches in Scotland on my honeymoon. And now that we’re midst of a pandemic and forced to remain at home, I’ve decided to start playing the game again. Since my friends and I are separated for safety, we’re going to conduct our bingo sessions via video. But I sense the sheer joy of playing — and yelling “Bingo!” — will overcome the distance we’re forced to observe.
