OF A GOLDEN AGE

Some time ago, I played in a charity hearts tournament and made it to the finals, where a mass of older gents — the target demographic of hearts — were shocked by my fluency in the game. “Here!” one of them said, foisting a business card on me. “Email me and I’ll add you to my list for when we have tournaments.”

The tournament is tomorrow, and I couldn’t be more excited. The reason I’m any good at hearts is because of my grandfather, a notorious Dirty-Mary-passer and poor-poker-face-wearer who loved the game and made me and my parents love it as well.

(THAT’S RIGHT: “Me and my parents,” not “my parents and I.” Get your facts straight, misinformed grammar nazis.)

This week’s Modern Love column is grandfather-centric and this, paired with my upcoming public hearts debut, has made me miss my grandfather even more than I do already, which is a lot.

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