I'm writing a book about Oh Hell

The aim, among other things, is to make a billion dollars

I am endeavoring this year to complete a book about the card game Oh Hell.

All of this mock cover/title is negotiable, except for the Lizard King. He stays.

I have five motivation for doing this:

(1) I play a ton of competitive Oh Hell, both online and with a local group of about 15 members that play for low-stakes, and I feel like I know a ton about the game;

(2) I’m convinced Oh Hell is the best card game ever invented. I wish everyone could know what it feels like to be down the rabbit hole of this game, but you don’t have to be anywhere near that to appreciate how Oh Hell’s peculiar attributes make it the perfect card game, either as a casual endeavor or a competitive one.

(3) I cannot find a single book in existence on it, despite it being a widely-known variant of Whist. There's are dozens of books on spades and Bid Whist and hundreds on poker and of course more books on bridge than every other card game put together. But none on Oh Hell;

(4) I like writing and it's just plain fun to write about something other than politics. And I'm decent at writing about card games.

(5) The guys in my Oh Hell club like to joke that someday we are going to make this the most popular card game in the world, find a way to monetize it, and make a billion dollars.¹ They like to talk about it; I decided to do something about it, LOL.

But, like, what’s the book about?

Someone should write a book about this. I heard that dozens of times in my basement before I ever took the idea seriously. And it was never exactly clear to what this even referred. A strategy book about Oh Hell? A book about our club? A book about how it feels to get knuckled in the three round by Chaney with the money on the line? A book about what it feels like to love a card game?

Good question.

I guess all of the above? Anyway, the book is intended to be a high-level Oh Hell strategy as well as a culture narrative of the game as it was played in my family growing up and is currently played in my neighborhood club, both of which lean much more toward the trash-talking world of Bid Whist than the buttoned-up propriety of Bridge.

Speaking of trash talk, check out who’s on top of the season standings in my club so far this year:

The only downside is that Chaney is in the green

The idea (for now) is to alternate about 10 strategy chapters with about 10 narrative cultural chapters.

Here’s an outline of where I’m headed, with links to some draft chapters. The prologue also appears at the end of this post, in it’s entirety.

• PROLOGUE - I HATE THIS FUCKING GAME

• THE WORLD’S BEST CARD GAME

• PROSCIUTTO / MATT

• BASIC BIDDING AND PLAY STRATEGY

• THE BIDDING CHIP / RANDY

• A TAXONOMY OF THE CARDS IN YOUR HAND

• THE SCORESHEET / BAGLEY

• THE PLAY OF THE HAND

• BOURBON / DENNIS

• POSITION 

• THE BUST BELL / GEOFFREY 

• BIDDING 

• RECRUITMENT / NOOBS

• THE SMALL ROUNDS

• TILT / CHANEY

• AFTER SOMEONE BUSTS 

• SPITE / JIM

• BUST OUT OH HELL

• PROWLING / EVERYONE

• DISCARDS

• CASUAL GAMES / WIVES

• PLAYING IT PERFECTLY 

• APPENDIX A - GLOSSARY

• APPENDIX B- HOW TO PROPERLY STOCK A LOSERS’ LOUNGE

Why are you telling me this?

A few reasons.

First, I need to hold myself publicly accountable to actually write the damn book. I’m at the awful phase (for me) of any project, where the whole thing is in my head, but almost none of it is on paper. If I can spit out a full draft—almost no matter how bad it is—I’ll almost certainly get to something I’m happy with, eventually. But until then it is going to be a struggle. So I’m looking for a commitment device. Letting people I know about my plans has been effective for me in the past as such a device.

I’m confident I can write a great Oh Hell strategy guide, especially with the help of my club friends and additional crowd-sourced feedback. But I have no idea if I have the capacity/skill to write the narrative half of the book. I’ve had some success with the limited narrative writing I’ve done about poker. But one short story is very different than what I’m theoretically aiming at here.

Second, I would love to have feedback on any and all of this, everything from copyediting all the way up to rethinking how to go about structuring the project to telling me this is the dumbest fucking thig I could ever do. It’s all fair game. So please have at it, in any manner you think is appropriate.

Even if you have never played Oh Hell, or only played casually with your family 25 years ago. I'm aiming to hit a wide audience with this, so feedback from a wide variety of knowledge and experience levels will be helpful.

Finally, this is also a motivation for me to get back into a habit of daily writing. Not just about Oh Hell. About anything. And everything. Congress. Card Games. Rugby. Kids. Ever since the pandemic, I’ve struggled to put pen to paper in a very odd way. I also think my concentration has been ruined somewhat by social media, particularly twitter. And, as mentioned above, I’ve never loved the writing process; until I have a first draft I’m just a miserable, miserable writer.

But I do love the end products. With the exception of playing well in a card game, almost nothing makes me feel more electric than publishing something I’m proud of and pushing it out into the world.

So I hope you’ll be hearing a lot more from this substack in the coming months. I’ll let you decide whether that’s good news or bad news.

Matt

Prologue — I Hate this Fucking Game

I hate this fucking game.

It’s 12:43am on a Wednesday morning and I’m staring at the King and deuce of spades, the only two cards left in my hand. I have to get up for work in 5 hours, so you could forgive me if I was in a rush. But I’ve been sitting here in Bagley’s basement staring at these two cards for more than a minute. And I still have no idea which one to play. 

I look back down at the cards on the table. They haven’t changed. The trump three of spades Bagley led is there, as are the diamond eight and club six Geoffrey and Randy discarded. I turn left and look at Chaney and his shit-eating grin. He can’t see my cards, but he can tell what’s going on. 

“The King and a baby, huh. Always a tough call.”

Fuck him. He’s exactly right. And he knows it. And he knows I know he knows it. Normally I’d pretend otherwise, but after this long in the tank, I’m wearing it on my forehead. 

“Hold on, that means you started empty in diamonds, Matty?” He’s not even trying to hide his glee. “Shame they were never led.”  Really twisting the knife.

“Fuck me,” I blurt out as I flop my hands down on the table and lean back in my chair. They can barely contain their laughter. One goddam diamond lead I think to myself and this whole thing would have been over.

I take a deep breath and try to shut Chaney and the laughter and the time and the score and the bourbon out of my head as I review the situation once again. It’s the four round, spades trump. Randy bid zero under the gun I looked down at this in second seat:

With spades trump, it’s a textbook 1 bid. With any luck Randy will lead a diamond, I’ll ruff high with the spade king, exit with the trump deuce, and start counting my 11 points. Nothing to it. I toss a single bidding chip in front of me.

Chaney doesn’t think long behind me, also bidding one. But Bagley goes deep into the tank before emerging with a really hesitant two bid. That produces a gallows laugh from Geoffrey in the dealer seat, who is now barred from bidding zero. He sighs and tosses in his forced one bid. Overbid by 1. It’s gonna be a fight for tricks—and my hand would have played a lot better underbid—but I’m still in great shape holding King-X of trump. Diamond lead, one time. 

Randy leads a small heart, and Geoffrey looks like he just robbed a candy store when we all follow suit around to his Ace. Good grief. I haven’t successfully cashed a side-suit Ace overbid in the four-round of a five-handed game in like three years. I have a moment of terror when I realize he might exit with a spade right through my King with the bidders behind me, but instead he throws a club on the table. I’m relieved but annoyed. Where the fuck are the diamonds.

Bagley takes the trick with his Ace of clubs-–another fucking Ace cashes for these monkeys, come on—and exits with a baby trump, and, well, now you’re all caught up and I still have no idea what to do.

You can go through every scenario and all the percentages, but this one boils down to a simple question: where is the Ace of Spades? If Bagley has it, I need to fly up with the King right now. If Chaney has it singleton, I need to duck. If it’s in the deck, I can’t go wrong. If Chaney has it guarded, he’ll get to choose whether to bust me or Bagley. 

And he’s gonna choose me. 

I glance up at the scoreboard on the TV over the bar. What a debacle. I’ve busted three hands in a row, completely pissing away the sizable lead I built in the early rounds. Three busts in a row is enough to put anyone on tilt, but we’ve got six players tonight so we’re playing Bust Out, meaning I’ve sat out a hand after each of those busts. I’ve spent more time at the snack table than the card table over the last half hour. I don’t even want to see the graph.

Twenty-nine chances to excel. Up and down and up and down from 3 to 10. And it wasn’t luck this time. I made some sick plays. An endplay to bust two people in the first 9 round, a daring zero at the top for 15 points. And I knuckled Randy twice in a row about an hour ago. 

But you don’t get the money for playing the first 21 brilliantly and the last eight like dogfood.  

I haven’t made my bid since the 9 round going up. One bust was legitimately just bad luck, a forced one-bid in the dealer seat when I was completely empty in the 6 round. But I misbid the second ten round and misplayed a three-card ending in the eight round on a bad read I should have gotten right. And just like that, my confidence is completely shot along with my score. Every hand looks impossible now.

Even worse, if I bust this hand, I’ll be sitting out for the final hand of the night—the 3 round—and those 182 points I have on the board will be my final score. Chaney won’t even have to make his bid next round, he’ll catch me right here if he makes his 1-bid and puts up an 11. Fuck him.

Suddenly, from behind the table, I hear Dennis. “This is great. I love it. Matty, I wish you could see all the cards. So good.” He pauses briefly for effect. “I’m sure you’ll play it perfectly.” 

This genre of trash talk—Dennis busted last hand, so he’s sitting out the 4-round and working a classic prowler patter as he circles the table like a vulture—is something I pride myself in and very much appreciate when it’s not me in the blender. But right now I’m about 3 seconds from grabbing that Blanton’s he’s drinking and dumping it all over his tracksuit.

I look back over at Bagley. He obviously has another trump in his hand, but is it the Ace? So far he’s shown up with the Ace of clubs, a baby heart, and this small trump he’s exiting with. That’s obviously consistent with having Big Daddy. But would he bid two and force it over holding Queen-four of trumps, the Ace of Clubs and a rag heart?  

Eh, he probably would. That’d be a terrible hand to play for 1 trick if it went underbid. And this is how he’d have to play it now, too. He can’t lead the Queen from Queen-small. If the Ace or King is out there singleton, he has to try to drop them while he saves the Queen. And if they are in the deck, he doesn’t want to knuckle himself and take both tricks. 

But he’s not  giving off anything. There’s just no read.

I turn my attention back to Chaney. One fucking seat over. God I wish I had that seat right now. Just put me there in position and playing last to this trick and this whole hand gets solved automatically and I’d wrap up the victory for the night and the winner’s bonus. At $1/point, we’re not talking serious money here—the difference between first and second maybe $30 or $40, more lunch money than real money-–but pride still means something in these basements.

Chaney hasn’t shown up with anything yet. Just the same rags in clubs and hearts that I’ve revealed. Doesn’t narrow down his range at all. He could have Big Daddy stiff. Or the Queen, stiff or guarded. Or two small trumps. Heck, he could have the Ace of diamonds and a rag trump. 

“You know what your problem is? You overthink these spots.” I don’t even look at Randy. Acknowledging this bit would be deadly. “You’re trying to figure out if Chaney has Big Daddy, working all the odds and probabilities. Thinking through all the scenarios. But you know what it is? It’s 50-50. It always is.”

I know exactly what’s coming. They’re already all laughing. I'm in hell.

“He either has it or he doesn’t.” 

Up or down, Mrs. Brown? The old bridge aphorism echoes through my head. But no one ever had to play Bridge under these conditions, five hyenas salivating at your dilemma, no partner in sight to offer a sympathetic smile or a pep talk when you screw up. I’m all alone. Up or down. 

I finally relent on trying to crack the puzzle. It’s just a guess. My last thought is the classic logic of cardplayer regret. Which error would make me feel dumber? I decide I’ll feel worse if I duck and Bagley has the Ace of Spades. Because of course he does why the fuck would he bid two and push it over if it doesn’t, which is surely what I’ll hear in the post-mortem if I’m wrong. Even if it isn’t really sound analysis.

I sigh as I wistfully launch the spade King two feet in the air and shake my head as it floats toward the table. It lands flush and spins like a top, before slowly coming to a stop staring directly at me, a sixth face in the crowd enjoying my pain.

Chaney was never going to not give me a full sweat here, but it just dawned on me he might stretch this out for a minute or more. Maybe even a speech. He’s smiling but not really giving anything away. I glance over at Bagley—if he has the Ace he knows for sure I’ve made the right decision—but he’s not giving anything away either. It feels like an eternity goes by, as I stand alone on the gallows.           

Chaney slowly begins to move a card toward the table. Ace or rag, Ace or rag. Time has ceased to exist. Ace….or….rag.

And then, without warning, he triumphantly reveals the Ace. The table explodes in laughter as Chaney pops out of his chairs and screams Fuck yeah, ring the bell and score it up. He tosses the diamond four toward Bagley, who slowly holds the spade Queen up in front of his face. Geoffrey hammers the bust bell as I slump my head into my hands and rub my eyes. Fuck me. 

As Chaney goes into some extended muscle poses, Randy leans in amid the chaos for the kill shot. “Sir, could you please get up from the table. We have another round to play here. Sir. Please.”

I hate this fucking game, and I hate all of these fucking people.

I slink away toward the bourbon and snacks, too dejected to even glance at the scoreboard while it updates, wrapping up the victory for Chaney. Still in a daze, I pour some Woodford over rocks in a fresh glass. They’re already dealing the three round, and I can hear Chaney crowing like a rooster from across the room. I lean back against the bar, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. 

Ugh. Could I have found the duck? Should I have found it? Am I going to find the duck if Randy’s opening lead is a trump? Is Chaney ever talking that sort of trash without the Ace? Is Bagley that quiet if he has it? And holy shit why can’t I get a diamond lead the one time I really need it. This hand is going to haunt me all week. Ugh.

Still, I can’t help but crack a wry smile. That was amazing. 

I take a rip of the Woodford and stare at the ceiling. I grab what’s left of the prosciutto and stuff it in my mouth. But then I instinctively start meandering back across the room, a grin starting to form on my face. Can't pass up one last chance to prowl. 

After all, these are my best friends. And this is the greatest card game ever invented.

Welcome to competitive Oh Hell. Grab a seat and buckle up. 

You’re gonna love it. 

1. We’re actually sorta serious about this. Not the billion. But putting together a box-set version of the game. Some of the innovations that my club has made over the past two decades—most notably the bidding chips and the bust bell—lend themselves nicely to a commercial version of the game.