At first glance it appears to be innocent enough, just a group of seniors gathered and tucked under rec room tables. But peel back the layers of blankets, ointment, and liver spots, and you’ll find they’re waging a silent war with the emotional arc of a Scorsese film—compete with grudges, glory, and arthritic grasps for the last chocolate bar.

It’s extreme.

It’s entertaining.

It’s nursing home Bingo.

A Game for the Ages: Bingo’s Surprisingly Long (and Global) History

 Who hasn’t played Bingo at some point in their life?

The game first came onto the scene in Italy way back in 1530 before being introduced to the U.S. by a New York toy salesman in 1929. Walk into any Bingo hall today and there are hundreds of cards, daubers, and good luck charms placed on the edge of tables with the obsessive reverence of followers placing gifts to the gods and deities they faithfully worship.

Numbers are called.

Cards are filled up.

Jackpots are won and dreams lost with each and every square.

It’s truly a game for the ages.

But have you ever played Bingo with 25 people over the age of 80 on the medical side of an assisted living facility? If you thought the Blake Lively drama was bad, try fending off Gertrude for a Twix bar. Here’s just what you’re missing.

Senior Rec Rooms Aren’t What You Think

Me, my mom, and my grandma were thick as thieves until we lost her in 2021—three generations of Polish snark not lacking authenticity or attitude—for better or for worse. Gram’s nursing home was half a mile from my house and we would visit a few times a week.

As her dementia got worse the “fun” times were few and far between. But there was a time when if we could plan it correctly, we would be there for the daily activity held in the (loosely-named) recreation room. My grandma was somewhat of a Bingo junkie—a hobby I choose to believe she picked up in her younger days as a way to get out of a house filled with six kids—and she always looked forward to Bingo day even in her later years.

And as it turns out, so did we.

Here’s how it often went down.

It was four people to a table, two cards to a person, one bowl of Bingo chips for each player. Wheelchairs were locked and they were ready to roll.

The Rules Are Simple. The Rivalries Are Not.

This seems innocent enough, but let’s get one thing straight. These people had been through wars, marriages, children, deaths, Depressions, and depressions. They no longer worried about recessions as much as they did if Gertrude next door stole the extra Nutter Butter from their snack tray last Thursday.

They had nothing to lose and they played for keeps. Or rather, they played for candy, which along with popcorn, is the geriatric equivalent of crack.

The activity director—a demure blonde girl with a huge heart and criminally small salary—would call out the numbers like an NFL quarterback calling a play.

“B 14,” the caller would say. “B one four.”

Someone would ask “before what?” while at least two others would mistake “B14” for something either in the “N” column or as a directive to complain about the fact that it was supposed to be beer and popcorn night.

More numbers would be called and silence—save for a few rogue coughs or bodily functions—would blanket the room. This was either due to the fact that concentration was required for placing each chip, or that half of them had forgotten what they were doing.

The next number would be called and Madge, sitting right next to the caller, would ask her what was said. This was repeated after every number called, annoying Gram who would passive-aggressively express this annoyance with a Morse Code of exasperated sighs and Polish cursing.

I would have to remind her that Madge was 100 years old, to which Gram would reply that after 100 years, she should know her way around a damn Bingo card.

Leona would win twice in a row, pretty much guaranteeing evil glares and a public shunning by the women until she repents in some way—throwing a game or throwing a hip—to get herself back in good graces.

I’m convinced that if Only Murders in the Building ever visits a nursing home, it’ll start with a rigged Bingo game and end with Leona’s alibi falling apart under cross-examination.

But remember: There’s chocolate on the line.

Chocolate, Pudding Cups, and the Power of the Prize

After each triumphant “Bingo!” was called, my mom would distribute that candy by prancing around the room with a tray like an old-fashioned cigarette girl in a bar. (With the exception of June, who would be given a pudding cup if she’s fortunate enough to win, as she was unfortunately on a puree diet.)

The winner would go one of two ways—either directly for the junk food jugular by grabbing their favorite chocolate-covered treats, arthritis and oxygen tank be damned, or the less manic route, pondering this decision as if a Twix was the last thing they would ever eat in their life.

Which, to be fair, just might have been true.

After everyone was told that their cards must be cleared, the next round of play would begin.

Lessons from the Rec Room: Love, Laughter, and Lowering Your Standards

 “G 55,” the caller said. “G five five.”

Out of nowhere Richard asked where the beer and popcorn were and where the waitress went.

I remarked that a beer sounded good, at which point Gram not-so-gently reminded me that if I wasn’t so picky, I could be out drinking beer with a nice man like Richard or the maintenance man who hung the shelf in her room last week.

I not-so-gently reminded her that Richard was likely around when Bingo was introduced in 1530 and the maintenance man was actually a very butch woman, to which Gram replied that at this point in my life, I should lower my standards.

“O66,” the caller said. “O six six.”

Oh, but then I would’ve missed all the fun.

And I do miss that fun we all had. But while Gram might be gone, the lessons she taught me live on: Show up, play hard, curse creatively … and never let Leona win twice in a row.

Have you witnessed—or survived—an epic Bingo battle? Share your Bingo war stories—or the priceless family moments you’ll never forget—in the comments.