“Woke up this morning … saw the blue moon in your eyes.”

Sometimes you have to live in the basement. Not in a man cave, but the actual basement. Bunking and debunking with spiders and heating tanks. Broken TV but at least a stereo, old music discs, and a makeshift pantry of citrus fruits and apples. And plenty of beer.

When the food and the shelter needs are finally met, everyone retraces Maslow’s hierarchy, then the mindset rehab begins. Namely, backgammon.

New mindset. Become adaptable. Starting with four-three openings. Look around the basement. All is dusty and lifeless — except on your backgammon board. Plunked on the floor in the back corner under the heat vents, the coterie of checkers and dice and doubling cube clamors to begin the game, snorting and twitching like three-year-olds at the gates before the Kentucky derby. The backgammon board is embossed from overuse. The checkers corral, the doubling cube positions itself in the umpire’s chair. Loaded dice cups whirring with precision dice.

A hum of gambling in the air.

An epic session beckons.

Waiting for you.

Waiting for the chouette to begin. Nervous chatter dwindles. Quiet. Hardly on time, but happening?

Waiting for you to show up and join the ten-best-covid-buddies list? Each fortnight, a swab, the mean lifetime of an individual case.

Although now, someone needs to write software to manage a private chouette. A template to spawn a session, free to all backgammon lovers.

Any volunteers?

What is the minimum that needs doing?

A working board? An accounting snippet? An usher to promote the crew? Payment assurance? Daily and weekly invites? Money matters? History of your situations in the chouette? Security and subscription controls? And integrity.

Damn this pandemic.

the disease of the game

Any thoughts on the topic? You. Do You have any thoughts? Comment box below.

Thoughts about backgammon in the age of pandemic?

On living in a basement?

Score sheet in pocket.

Board in hand.

No Chouette.

Again.