I walk inside the clubhouse, where several people are eating lunch and awaiting their next game, and strike up a conversation with a man wearing a visor emblazoned with an American flag. His name is Dave Minnich, a nationally ranked Master's player, member of the Shuffleboard Hall of Fame, and recent president of the Florida Shuffleboard Association, which boasts 10,000 members. "There is no question where the best shufflers in the world are," Minnich says. "That's Florida. No question about it. Florida is shuffleboard." Minnich tells me that his story is similar to many competitive shufflers. He and his wife had moved down to Florida from Allentown, Pennsylvania when they retired. They were living in a mobile home park, sitting by the pool, when they heard the discs on the shuffleboard court. After trying their hand , they were immediately hooked.
Minnich's name is called over the intercom and he excuses himself to go play the next round.
Pinellas Park shuffleboarder Stan Budin.
(Kyoko Hamada)
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When I walk outside, someone hurries over to introduce me to the feared Hall of Famer Mickey Henson. With his crisp wide-billed baseball hat, shorts and sneakers, the barrel-chested Henson looks like every gym teacher I ever had in school. So I'm not surprised when Henson tells me he spent 25 years in Melvindale, Michigan as a basketball coach. Now, he winters in Pinellas Park, but in the summertime, he moves north to play the summer shuffle schedule in Hendersonville, North Carolina. "A lot of people have the misconception that this game is for old people," Henson says, repeating a now-familiar refrain. "It's just not true."
I ask him what kind of money a pro shuffler can make, and he laughs. In shuffleboard, "pro" is a skill level, not a financial designation. Maybe once a year in Florida there is a purse worth $500. And the purses in North Carolina are consistently $300. But more common is what Henson made when he won the national doubles championship -- he split $80 with his partner.
All the competition around the club has fired me up. I see Joyce Linna practicing on one of the empty courts, and challenge her to a rematch. I use some of the strategy I've observed today. I play more in control. I clear her blocks. I try to score on every hammer. I stay out of the kitchen. After a dozen frames, I've got a lead of 74 to 59. I only need one more score of any type to win. Then, almost as if on cue, Linna knocks me into the kitchen on three successive frames. After being so so close, I end up losing 75 to 34.
Both Bud Maloney and Wayne Engell were knocked out of the Jules Beaupre tournament and won't be playing in the finals on Friday. Instead, they invite me up to Clearwater to see their club.
At the Clearwater Shuffleboard Club, I pull into a parking spot next to a huge Mercury that displays two shuffleboard trophies in the rear window. The sign at the club entrance has two cues crossed like pirate sabers.
Maloney and Engell greet me and offer a tour. "You know Bud was playing shuffleboard when I was still in kindergarten," Engell says.
There are 26 bright green courts outside and small bleacher seats. Fishing line criss-crosses above the courts to keep the seagulls away. "You take these off and you'd have bird crap everywhere," Maloney says. The big difference between Clearwater and St. Petersburg is that there are another 26 courts inside. "We can play here in a rainstorm," he says.
Bud and Wayne tell me that a couple was once married on Court 40. There's even a plaque that commemorates the event: "Mary Lou & Richard Bueche. Married 3/1/92".
"I think it was wife number five for him," Wayne says.
"Are they still together?" Bud asks.
"Well," Wayne says, "She's in a nursing home now."
After touring the courts, Engell and Maloney take me into the National Shuffleboard Hall of Fame. The Hall of Fame used to be at the St. Petersburg Club, but the buildings have deteriorated so badly that a group of shufflers got together and decided that Clearwater would be a better home.
Inside, there are examples of old wooden cues and discs from the early part of the 20th century through the present. There are wooden plaques commemorating past presidents of shuffleboard associations around the country. And there are curious pieces of shuffleboard technology, such as the Merz Cue Tester, a contraption designed to make sure your cue wasn't bent. "Does anyone still use this?" Maloney asks Engell, nodding at the Merz Cue Tester.
