Dominoes at the Reunion

Every August, my family has a reunion at the park by the lake. There are about a hundred of us. There's barbecue, potato salad, a cake from my Aunt Pearl and a cutthroat game of dominoes that has been running, in one form or another, since 1974.

The domino table is sacred. It's where the uncles sit. You don't sit there until you're invited. They slam the tiles down on the folding table so hard it shakes, and they talk trash the whole time.

This year, my Uncle Ray, who is eighty-one, waved me over. "Sit down, nephew," he said. "It's time." I'm thirty-four. I've been waiting my whole life.

I lost the first three games badly. Uncle Ray explained, loudly, everything I'd done wrong. Then, in the fourth game, I counted the tiles carefully, held back my double six and dominoed. The whole table went quiet. Then the uncles erupted.

Uncle Ray stood up, shook my hand and said, "You're one of us now." Then he beat me twice in a row to make sure I didn't get a big head.