My sister and I have made a habit of playing board games every Sunday at a little coffee shop downtown. It’s a happy little nook with lots of happy little board games, a sacred refuge in a world largely characterized by isolation and sadness these days. The future feels a little brighter when you’re laughing over a few rounds of Kittens in a Blender, even if you have to blend those kittens while you sit outside in the cold.
But the other day, as my sister, cousin and I were enjoying a round of Forbidden Island, my spirits suddenly fell. A young man, probably in his late 20s, had just walked into the shop and asked the store manager for some suggestions on what might be a good board game for him to buy. After the manager did a quick walk-through of the dozens of games that filled the shelves, presented one of his personal favorites and explained its premise, the young man’s eagerness quickly turned to disappointment as he uttered one of the saddest coupling of sentences I had heard all week.
“No thanks, man. I just don’t have the friend group for it right now.”
The store manager didn’t have a response for that one. You could tell he was searching for a few words that would comfort the young man, but nothing came. He just stood there silently, mouth agape. I couldn’t blame him. If the customer had been hesitant about the purchase for financial reasons, the manager could’ve come back with a discount price. Or, if the young man had been unsure about the quality of the product, the manager could’ve suggested a better option from one of the many shelves stocked with fantasy-themed adventures. Unfortunately, there’s not really a sufficient reply for, “My life is too sad to buy this board game right now.”
While I was fortunate enough to have a sister, roommate and board game buddy for some much-needed weekend escapism, I empathized with this man’s struggle. Just a few weeks into the pandemic, a full-blown pickleball set arrived at my door, courtesy of my mother, who figured this was a good way for my sister and I to deal with the unfolding travesty. But when my sister returned to work over the summer while I remained unemployed, I found myself riding solo with an unopened pickleball set and no one to play with. Not once had I ever explored this weird tennis knock-off, and I wasn’t about to enter the pickleball universe alone. That just felt like bad luck.
“Why don’t you go test it out on the roof?” my mother suggested over the phone. Seriously? And broadcast my desperation in front of the entire neighborhood like that? I’ll pass. You know people are taking to the rooftops every evening, right? Can you imagine how quickly “Hey guys, let’s go cheer for the nurses!” could have turned into, “Hey everyone, let’s go boo the pickleball guy on 81st Street! Maybe we’ll get to watch him start crying again!” iPhone videos make the rounds at a pretty insane pace these days, and I don’t even want to think about the theories my own community members would have cooked up. “Have you guys heard about the new symptom of COVID-19? Apparently it can get so bad that some people start playing mini-tennis with themselves on top of their own apartment buildings!”
So no, that wasn’t going to happen. At the very least, I was determined to drag a neighbor or friend into my first ever attempt at this tennis-badminton hybrid, which really wasn’t designed to be played by anyone under the age of 65. That never quite panned out, but I can’t say I didn’t try.
So here’s my advice, guy who “just doesn’t have the friend group for it right now.” Make the friend group. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the Legions of Light: Journey Into the Woodlands of Tomorrow rulebook that says you can’t play a few masked rounds with your neighbors. Yes, it’s going to take some work. Yes, it means hitting up Wade, who lives on the sixth and top floor of your apartment building. Yes, you’ll knock on the door without knowing exactly how to introduce yourself because you kind of need to do two things at once here: 1) apologize a second time for doing jumping jacks on the roof at 11 p.m. on Tuesday, Jan. 5 (even though you already apologized when he approached you in person at 11:07 p.m. that night and kindly asked you to stop, which at the time you “totally understood” but were also pretty pissed because you were mid-94th jumping jack, just six shy of your New Year’s resolution quota) and 2) ask him if he’d like to play a fun, fully-masked round of Legions of Light: Journey Into the Woodlands of Tomorrow with you a few friends (none of whom currently exist).
Yes, it means hitting up Ava, owner of the formal wear shop on the ground floor of your apartment building. Sure, she’ll probably be too busy breaking up fights between customers in the store, because that’s just how things are now. She’s seen more evil in the eyes of New Yorkers over the last month than the Legions of Light ever will. That might play to your advantage, it might not. The only way to find out is to ask. If she says no, you can always head down the street and ask Sebastian at the corner dry cleaner if he’d like to play. If he says he’s only game if you buy two packs of those edibles he’s been hawking, just buy them! I’m sure they’ll make the Woodlands of Tomorrow a little more Woodlands of Tomorrow-ish for both of you.
Of course, if none of those options pan out, you might just have to play Legions of Light alone, buddy. I know it isn’t ideal. But hey, try leaning into it. Just not in public. You don’t want to be inspiring rooftop parties for all the wrong reasons.
This is too good. You’re doing great with that comedy, bud!