| I'm seated in a room with 400 other people, staring down at a sheet of paper that prompts me for answers I'm largely unable to provide. The time remaining is being measured by a giant plastic clock at the front of the room. It's as though I'm back in university, taking the final exam for a class I haven't attended. The scene is familiar to me, but usually it takes place while I'm asleep, gripped by a particularly disturbing nightmare. This time I'm wide awake at the 25th annual American Crossword Puzzle Tournament in Stamford, Connecticut. |
| Among those attracted to this élite event is 33-year-old Peterborough resident Sean O'Keefe. Two weeks before the tournament, which is organized by Will Shortz, legendary crossword editor at the New York Times, I get a phone message from O'Keefe, offering to give me an overview of the weekend-long event. When I return the call, he's in the process of timing his completion of that day's New York Times crossword. "Under six minutes," he says after a pause. "Good. I'm on track." When I tell him I spent 35 minutes on the sample puzzle from the tournament Web site, the concern in his voice is obvious. Realizing I'm in trouble, I set a single target for myself -- to finish any place except last. Even this modest goal seems doubtful when I meet some of my fellow solvers at the wine and cheese reception the night before the competition. At some point, crosswords crossed the line from pastime to passion for these people, many of whom wear puzzle-patterned ties or sweaters. One schmoozing contestant forms an instant anagram of my first name, while another explains my name's historical significance. As a cryptic puzzle author, I have a facility with wordplay, but facts are usually things I have to double check. These contestants have a rare command of both. They're people who would beat you to the punch at every question on Jeopardy! then defeat you soundly at Scrabble. O'Keefe learned this the hard way last year as a tournament rookie. The factory supervisor, whose grandmother taught him all about Acrosses and Downs when he was five, finished 144th out of 322 contestants. "You can't make mistakes," he says. "I had one wrong letter on three puzzles in a row, and that basically sunk me. Last year, my goal was to come first. Now I just want to crack the top 100. There are monsters here." Perhaps the most intimidating monster is Ellen Ripstein. Dubbed the "Susan Lucci of crossword puzzles," Ripstein ranked between second and fifth 18 years in a row before taking home last year's top trophy. "I made the mistake of sitting next to her during last year's competition," says O'Keefe. "That was very deflating. This year, I went to the other side of the room. It turns out I'm sitting beside the guy who came third." I err in my seat selection as well, once the tournament gets under way Saturday morning. Though 10 minutes remain before the 11 o'clock start time, the ballroom of the Stamford Marriott is packed, with hardly a free seat in sight. Camera crews are setting up in every space not occupied by contestants. I find a chair at the end of a long row of tables, only to realize the pencil station is directly behind me. A noise like a dentist's drill adds to my anxiety as pencil after pencil is chewed by an electric sharpener. Soon all pencils are sharp and so is the tension. I spot O'Keefe putting on the puzzling gloves that will prevent his pencil from slipping through the sweaty palms underneath. Shortz, standing with a microphone at the front of the ballroom, explains the scoring system. In each of the seven puzzles before the final round on Sunday, 10 points will be awarded for every correct word. Another 25 points are added for each full minute remaining until the deadline upon completion. A bonus 150 points are awarded for a totally accurate grid. As Shortz fields final questions from contestants, the two dozen judges -- most of them well-known crossword constructors -- distribute the puzzles, to be laid face down on the table. |
| "On your mark, get set, go!" calls Shortz, once all papers are in place. More than 400 puzzles are flipped over in unison. I suffer another setback by glancing at the competitor across from me, Janet Bradlow, a 47-year-old financial planner from Manhattan. She's scribbling solutions before I've read the first clue. At least two minutes pass before I pencil in a tentative answer for the clue at One Across, "Whittle down." Were I at home on my sofa with a cup of tea, I would write the word "pare" with confidence, perhaps even in ink. Here, I'm second guessing even the easiest answers. My heart is pounding as the Downs and Acrosses begin blurring together. I'm further distracted by a large microphone at my left, positioned to pick up scratching sounds from my pencil. Over my shoulder, a TV camera is fixed on my paper. Before long, solvers around the room are raising their hands, indicating they've completed their puzzles. When I look up at the huge clock, the allotted 15 minutes has nearly elapsed, and I've entered fewer than a dozen answers. I scramble to fill my sparse grid with plausible words. Between each crossword, there is a 10- minute break. Some contestants use this time to agonize over answers in the hotel lobby, others head outside for a cigarette, while the hardcore solvers remain seated, pulling out their personal puzzle stashes to continue feeding their need for word crossing. I join the smokers outside the hotel entrance, where I find a sympathetic solver in Linda Hotchkiss, a thirtysomething marketing manager from East Meadow, New York. Like me, she has difficulty finishing some of the harder New York Times puzzles, often taking a week and teaming up with a friend to complete them. |
| "This is fun," she says, though her expression is unconvincing. "I knew I wouldn't compete for speed, so I was just here for fun, and see if I could do the puzzles in the first place." Even for contenders like five-time champion Jon Delfin, the appeal of the event is largely social. "It's about meeting people who share this. Crossword puzzling is such a solitary thing," says Delfin, a 47-year-old cabaret musician from New York City. "To find out that there are other people who like it too, and you all know the same people on the mastheads and the bylines... it becomes a social gathering." This is one of the main objectives for Shortz, who says the highest compliment a competitor can pay him is returning each year, regardless of ranking. |
| PUZZLED IN STAMFORD By Susannah Sears Originally published in The Ottawa Citizen March 31, 2002 |
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| At right: A competitor in the C' Division battles toward crossword completion |