ACBL Spring Nationals - Nome, Alaska - 1989.

Paul Soloway went to sleep a man, but woke up a woman. He hadn't drunk any strange potions, visited any Swiss sex-change laboratories, nor recently reread Kafka's Metamorphosis. Still it had happened. Two breasts, one (you know), and yes, one less....

The point is that mentally Paul was the same person. Though one couldn't help but be a bit put off by the sight of a new sex in the mirror, Paul's mental capabilities were as acute as ever. His memory seemed intact, two and two were still four, and a compound squeeze still required at least one threat over the guarded suit. Physical appearance had never been a primary concern to Paul. But the unique ability to bid, defend, take more tricks than any other bridge player in the history of the game was his alone. He had thousands of masterpoints, a number of World Championships, respect of his peers, and commanded the largest salaries for professional services. Since he had achieved this success through the efforts of his mind, he did not foresee how a change in anatomy would make any difference. There was no stubble on his chin, but he shaved anyway. Then he took a closer perspective, went to the phone and called Kerri Shuman to borrow a bra.

He's a pervert. No he's not, he's just gay. He needs a good psychiatrist. Don't we all. These were a few of the printable comments Paul overheard as he (or should it be she?) rode the escalator to sub-basement 4 of the Nome Hilton, playing quarters for the Men's Pair Championships. Word had already gotten out from the morning game results where one astute director added an a to Soloway's first name on the computer score sheet. Paula Soloway and Selma Rich had a section second. Yet Selma couldn't help but feel if it had been PAUL they would have capped first.

Malcolm Brachman awaited Paula at the bottom of the moving stairs. He had been alerted to Soloway's predicament by three or four eager players ready to fill a vacant spot on Brachman's Vanderbilt team. Paul tried unsuccessfully to shake hands with Malcolm. Don't touch me. I bought the entry. They gave me a two-seed. Table nine, section B, you don't smoke now do you? Listen. I put 'Ms.' Soloway on the entry. I didn't know what you wanted. There's a rumor going 'round that they're not going to let us play. All the other Vanderbilt partnerships are playing, and we need the practice too. So try to make yourself inconspicuous, sit down at the table, and ... uh ... button that top button.

Paul was speechless. He/she had been eager to review defense to Flannery and reverse Drury, but suddenly that had to wait. It was as if he/she had allowed him/herself to be intimidated. What happened to his/her self-respect? This would not do, not at all, not for THE Paul Soloway. But Paula Soloway, was that not another story?

Unfortunately, all this thought-provoking conversation was less effective than swift action, for by the time Paula and Malcolm reached their table, not only were their seats occupied by two young boys (Brad and Andrew Moss, for the record) but the North American Men's Pairs Championship was five seconds into play, a technicality (at the discretion of the director, a pair not seated by game time...) that permitted the disqualification of our hero(ine) without raising the ticklish issue of sexual discrimination. (Upon research, it has been found that since the legal case of Blanchard and Co. versus the ACBL - still awaiting trial these four years at a cost to the League of four million dollars, but well worth the expense when viewed against the important issue of segregation of bridge events - the League had passed 43 at the discretion of somebody conditions of contest to circumvent any further legal suits.)

The fact that half the field was milling about didn't seem to disturb the director, who was reciting this clause to Paula and Malcolm. Malcolm took charge and made a futile attempt to argue logically. Paula was disturbed over the more realistic issue. Just a minute, she interrupted. How is it possible that these two little boys can play in an event that I can't? Snickering was heard from a nearby table. That's obvious, honey, called out a man's voice, You're a girl!

We've got wee-wees! We've got wee-wees! cried the two boys sitting in Soloway and Brachman's seats. Malcolm urged Paula not to make a scene. A walkie-talkie blared out. Ralph Cohen, League official emeritus, swooped into the picture to calm things down. Do me a favor, huh? Play today in the King Crab Pairs and we'll discuss the situation at the President's cocktail party after the evening session. Thanks, Ralph, said Malcolm.

Champagne glasses clinked. Shrimps in tangy red sauce. Steak tartar. The penthouse suite overlooked snow-capped peaks in the distant Alaskan skyline. Mrs. Norman Smith, the new ACBL President from --, greeted our heroine. We're quite concerned about the novices, Paula. Ralph Cohen swooped in. As did Gail Hart Greenberg of the Women's Forum and Jim Zimmerman of ACBL cocktail party fame. The average age of the League is 62 and rising."

Actually, Paula stammered, I'm here to speak on another issue. You know, the, uh...uh...wee-wee issue. Mrs. Smith gasped. The what?! cried Zimmerman. Let's discuss this later, suggested Ralph. That's my Brad and Andrew, smiled Gail. The wee-wee issue, continued Paula, has me confused. In barring me from the Men's Pairs, is it the manner in which I urinate that the League objects to, or is it my sexual capabilities? Mrs. Smith fainted.

It's not a physiological issue, explained Gail. It's sociological. Bridge is a social game, and the players are entitled to social preferences. That's right, Jim added. Paula shook her head. What about me? I prefer the company of men. I'm sure other women also do. Isn't there any way we could have a choice?

Do you have a choice in Professional Football? asked someone who shall remain nameless. Ralph tried to make the issue clear. It's what the members want. We've taken numerous polls, and the popular choice is to run men's and women's events. Separate events, but equal in stature. Separate but equal, someone repeated. Paula threw up her hands in frustration. Somehow she would have to find an answer to that argument. For now she knew only one thing: It wasn't fair.

Zimmerman took Paula aside. Don't be a fool. This is an opportunity for you to play Women's bridge. I might be able to arrange a spot for you on the team I coach. It has to be a professional situation, said Paula, because that's the way I make my living. Jim whispered, You'll get your expenses paid. I can almost guarantee it.

Edgar Kaplan approached, smiling. Well Paul, it's nice to have one more good player out of the way. You wouldn't think it's funny if it happened to you, Paula answered. Kathie Wei joined the pair. If Edgar were a woman it would be OK. He's skinny. But you, Paul. Now that you're a woman you better watch your diet. Thank you, Kathie, Edgar bowed.

The next morning Paula woke up to find it had not been a nightmare, but in fact, she was a woman. She had yet to investigate how it had happened or how it might be changed back. The truth is she was busy as a bridge pro at the start of a week long tournament, and this was her first concern. Pity, everybody else's concern was her sex. The phone rang. It was Bobby Goldman. There's a crisis down here with our Vanderbilt entry. Spider insists your seeding points are invalid. You better hurry.

I'm not going to explain it again, the director said, slamming his fist on the table. These points were won by 'Paul' Soloway. This here is 'Paula' Soloway. You're lucky this isn't the Spingold where you need a hundred master points to enter. Goldman tried to console Paula. It's not the worst thing that could happen. What is? asked Paula. Bobby cleared his throat. Well, to tell you the truth, the team took a vote this morning, and well, they want to ask you politely to withdraw for this tournament ... no hard feelings you understand. Paula was silent for some time. Bobby detected a single tear drop beginning to roll down her left cheek. He looked away, ashamed. Listen, Paula finally said. All this is not my fault. I am whatever G-d made me, whether from birth or later. I don't think it affects my bridge ability. She wiped away the tear and added, We still have a date for the National 'Open' Pairs, don't we? Bobby forced a smile. Of course we do.

On her way through the hotel lobby, a light bulb flashed in her face. It was a reporter from the National Enquirer sent to investigate the phenomena. Paula was in no mood to chat, but with bitterness building inside her she lashed out at the ACBL's policies. Men's pairs, women's pairs, why not a black and white pairs? It would make just as much sense. And if it's sexual segregation they want, why not a gay pairs? Or a lesbian event? Wait. I know a lot of players would like this one: 'The Neuter Pairs. What our readers would like to know most, Ms. Soloway, the reporter asked, is do you intend to continue as a bridge professional? Or, now that you're a woman, have your thoughts turned towards raising a family?

Paula raced to her room and slammed the door. She had to get a grip on herself. People were acting ridiculous. Why were they torturing her with these stupidities? She took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. First things first. The Vanderbilt was starting tomorrow and she was without a professional arrangement. For ten years she had been the top pro in the country. No problem. She went to the phone.

Hello Buddy? Paula here. I happen to be available this week. Paula? Ha, ha.... You're not my type, Paula. I wasn't talking about sex, I was talk-- Click. Hello, George? Soloway here. Heard there's an opening on your team. Listen to me. I don't mind hiring a bridge player who plays better than I do. But now that you're a woman, won't you admit I'm the better player? Click. Hello Mike. It's uh ... me. Heard you and your wife are looking for an extra for the Vanderbilt. Is this you Paula? G-d, I heard the news! Anything I can do for you, just ask. But you know as far as the team game goes, wasn't it you who told me once that one woman was more than enough weight to carry on a team? Click.

She had made a dreadful error. If they had wanted to hire her, they would have called first. Her services were not in demand; she had to face that fact. Then an idea struck her: She would play on an all-expert team without pay. Sacrilege, yes, but she would show these sponsors who she was; she would win the Vanderbilt, then, ha ha, double her rates. Determined, Paula set forth to the elevators.

The hotel lobby was filling up with players of high caliber arriving at the last possible moment (Nome, Alaska not being a town to dawdle in). Despite the usual discreet decorum of the bridge community, word had seeped out even to these late-comers from far off cities. Have you been taking hormones, asked Solodar. You can borrow my dark glasses, offered Mitchell. Only Billy Eisenberg had the composure to maintain a straight face at first sight of Paula. No matter who you are, he said, your soul and mine will float in the same stratosphere.

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