Our Best Game

By Barry Mulholland

A few months ago, I was playing at a table where a young man was admiring the jewelry of another player. "Now, that's style," he said, pointing to the man's watch. The remark prompted an interesting exchange. "It's just a watch," the man said, "and style's a lot more than a watch." "OK," the kid replied, "define style." "That's easy," the man said: "Substance." The kid looked puzzled. "I thought style was the opposite of substance." At this, the man with the fancy watch smiled. "Real style is substance," he said. "All the rest is just flash."

I thought of that conversation the other day while listening to the radio. Someone was telling the story of a good Samaritan who, after hearing of the tragedy on Sept. 11, went out the next morning and sold his Rolex. He took a hundred bucks from the sale and bought another watch, and then donated the rest of the money – more than $2,000 – to the Red Cross. For a moment, I found myself wondering what impression the young man at the poker table might draw from that watch – the new, inexpensive one, I mean. In the absence of any other information, how might that modest timepiece figure in his assessment of that player, were he ever to sit at his table? There's no way of knowing, of course, if that generous stranger even plays poker, or knows the difference between a flush and a full house. It doesn't matter. Even if he never sits down at a card table, we know what his "A" game looks like.

I'm writing this column from Manhattan. It's been nine days since the twin towers of the World Trade Center went down, and I've got to tell you, there are an awful lot of people with "A" games in this town. When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and nobody's tougher than a New Yorker. But even the tough are human, and their strength can wane. In times like this, we all need something to draw on, something to bolster and prop us up, something to carry us through the dark hours. We need the fuel of inspiration. Last week in New York City, that fuel was available free of charge on almost every corner. Everywhere you looked, courage and kindness were on display: in the tireless, heroic efforts of the police, firemen, and rescue workers … in the long lines outside hospitals, where people waited for hours to donate blood … and in the spontaneous candlelight vigils where people gathered to remember and honor their countrymen. It was there in the generosity of all the women and men who donated food, clothes, and money, and it was evidenced by the patriotism and courage of those who spoke up and rallied to defend their Arab-American neighbors when they were targeted by mindless, undiscriminating vigilantes.

Of course, this outpouring of humanity was hardly confined to New York. From Maine to San Diego, people were asking: What can I do? How can I help? "Cool" was out, compassion was in. From coast to coast, people proudly wore their hearts on their sleeves. Grown men shed public tears, and no one thought any less of them for it. Handshakes became firmer, and parents everywhere squeezed their children a little tighter. Professional sports were put on hold, as personal reflection and the thoughtful assessment of values and priorities became the new national pastime. The essence of this rethinking was touchingly illustrated in the story of a popular New York Yankee who, while visiting Ground Zero to offer moral support to the rescue workers, was asked by a fireman for his autograph. The gracious ballplayer gave voice to the sentiments of a nation when he humbly observed that it should have been the other way around – that it was he who should have been asking the fireman for his.

Who could read about such a moment and not be moved? For many Americans, the kindness and courage of their neighbors served not only as a source of comfort, but a call to action. Thousands of volunteers poured into New York, and people of all colors, backgrounds, and callings, looking to help in any way they could, rolled up their sleeves and pulled together, working side by side in a common cause. Even as the nation mourned its dead, a newborn sense of communal purpose sprang forth to offer hope to the living. A lot of people are making their New Year's resolutions early this year. The most popular one seems to be this: People just plain want to be better – to live lives that are more generous and full, as if every day might be the last. But questions arise: How do we make such resolution endure? How do we keep all this goodwill from fading? I wish I knew the answer. I write this column with the awareness that by the time it appears in print, the attacks of Sept. 11 will be several weeks behind us, and the sense of unity and fellowship could already have begun to fade. I hope that's not the case, because we've got a lot of work and rebuilding to do. And one of the biggest challenges we face is to make sure that this newfound sense of community and purpose has legs.

It's a sad fact that New Year's resolutions are rarely kept for long. More often than not, they're abandoned or forgotten by February. We would do ourselves proud to buck that trend and make sure that the resolutions we're making a little early this year are ones that we'll stick to – so that the flame of goodwill, ignited by the tragedy of 2001, is not soon extinguished, but burns brightly into 2002, 2003, and many years beyond.

Sounds pretty lofty, but how exactly does the average Jane or Joe go about it? Maybe the answer lies – or begins, at least – with a piece of advice offered many times in the pages of this magazine. How many times have we been urged to "play our best game all the time"? Even if it's not an attainable goal, it's an ideal worth striving for. And if we expand it to embrace more than just poker – if we apply it to our lives in full – I can think of no better piece of advice. There's never been a better time to make a new beginning. Let's join together and commit to playing our best game all the time – every day, in every way, both in and out of the poker room.