This story is part of an occasional KCUR series called The Regulars, about Kansas City’s neighborhood hangouts and the customers who bring them to life.
Nearly 80 people, mostly seniors, fill the tables of a large room at the Kansas City Bridge Studio in Overland Park, Kansas. The light slapping of cards and a smattering of chatter ripple through the space.
“We don’t miss these Fridays,” says Don Stack, who’s been playing with his bridge partner, Donald Brooker, every week since 1966.
Back then, the studio was located on the Missouri side above a post office on Prospect Avenue. But Stack says the studio’s beginnings as a gathering spot for Kansas City bridge players likely date back several decades earlier. The group eventually moved into its current space at 95th and Metcalf in the early 2000s.
The best of the best come to play on Friday afternoons, making it “the highlight of the week as far as bridge players are concerned,” Brooker explains. “It’s TGIF,” Stack says.
The classic card game tends to be associated with older generations, who learned to play near the height of its popularity. In the 1940s, bridge was played in almost half of American homes, often socially between couples. But it’s become more rare in the digital age, while a steep learning curve does it no favors.
Yet, bridge’s basic object is straightforward: two pairs compete to win “tricks” by playing the strongest cards. (The bridge studio holds introductory lessons if you want more specifics.)
Partnerships like Stack and Brooker’s are the foundation of any successful (or unsuccessful) day of bridge. Pairs have to work together to play the winning combination of cards, usually without knowing what’s in their partner’s hand.
For those without a partner, not to worry — Shawn Tate, who runs the Friday game, will play matchmaker if you reach out in advance.
“I try to set them up where I think their skill level is at least,” Tate says, noting that the best partnerships are similarly experienced. “Sometimes they surprise me.”
These days, Stack and Brooker sport complimentary blue and red pullovers, playing the part of a bridge-themed yin and yang. But originally, they were randomly paired up.
“I hit the jackpot,” Brooker says.
Even that might be an understatement. In the bridge world, Stack is kind of a big deal. He won a national championship in 2007 and is the 34th highest masterpoint scorer of all time according to the American Contact Bridge League. Masterpoints are earned by winning competitive games, measuring both lifetime achievement and skill.
At the Kansas City Bridge Studio, many pairings have developed into decades-long friendships, and even, in a few cases, marriages.
“We’re all competitive or we wouldn’t be here,” says Liz Rhea, who holds court with her husband David Rhea towards the front of the room. The pair initially met at the studio, and played together as partners.
According to David, it’s only natural that bridge partnerships can turn romantic. Successful bridge pairings rely on mutual understandings and communication that borders on telepathy, he says.
“If there’s any kind of spark between the two, it’s going to evolve,” he explains.
A few tables over, the Urichs compete together, both decked out in Chiefs red. They met while playing bridge in 1980, although not as partners at first.
“She came into the bridge studio with a previous boyfriend, and I said to myself, ‘that’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’” Jim says.
The pair ran in different circles — until they didn’t. When Jim eventually asked Susan out, their first date was a backyard party at another bridge player’s house. They married in 2004.
The couple acknowledged that the intersection of married life and bridge can get complicated. While the Urichs have handled the combination well overall, Susan says she’s had to learn to calm down and let her partner’s mistakes go.
“I’m the one that kind of gets testy,” she says.
Bridge partnerships require the acceptance of your teammate’s actions, right or wrong, Jim explains. If they make a mistake, it’s best to discuss it in private, after the match is done.
“I guess that’s pretty much the same way with marriage,” he says with a laugh.
When the afternoon session concludes, a machine calculates the day’s scores, spitting out three pieces of paper. The players gather by the door, near a table of snacks, to check the final results. For a moment, the scene resembles a gaggle of theater kids straining to see who got the leading part in the school play.
There’s disappointment and triumph. Roughly three and a half hours’ worth of cardplay summed up in a few numbers. Then, murmurs of next week as people head for the door.
After a while, the studio space nearly empties, except for one lone pair sitting by themselves off to the side. Breaking the silence, they go over their hands together, figuring out what plays didn’t go their way and how to improve.
Preparation for the following Friday afternoon has already begun.
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