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The game itself is deceptively simple. Each player arranges 15 checker-like counters on four of the 24 triangular "points" that line two opposite edges of the rectangular board. The players take turns moving their counters from point to point according to the throw of dice—white going one way, black the other. When a player has collected all of his counters on his "home" points, he can begin to "bear off" (remove his pieces); the first to remove all his pieces wins. He is awarded a single game, a double game ("gammon") or a triple game ("backgammon"), depending upon the position of his opponent's counters at the end of the game.
But there is also a provision that makes backgammon especially enticing to gamblers, so much so that playing without money takes the competitive edge off the game. At any stage, a player who feels he is likely to win can immediately double the stakes, leaving his opponent with two options: to concede immediately or to accept the double, and perhaps redouble later if his own position improves. Because there is no limit to the number of times the stakes can be doubled, losers of high $200-a-point games can sometimes drop $10,000 in an evening.
The prospects of winning such huge amounts are luring a growing number of professional players into the game. Among them are several bridge champions such as Tobias Stone and Jacoby. There is also a young mathematics professor from New Jersey named Paul Magriel who makes calculations so quickly that his opponents have dubbed him "the Computer." In the past two years he has won over $40,000 in tournament prizes—and far more in private games. The intrusion of these professional players into what before Obolensky's promotion was strictly a genteel, upper-crust diversion has proven upsetting to some members of the old-school backgammon establishment. "Gammon is supposed to be fun," says Lewis Deyong, a London businessman who is one of the world's top-ranked players. "But with all these bridge types in the game it has become kind of a war of nerves." One common complaint is that the bridge players take too long to make their moves in what is supposed to be a fast and lively game.
But the war of nerves is not the only thing backgammon buffs have to watch out for. There is also a new breed of hustler lurking: the backgammon shark. Charming and sociable, sharp-minded and able to drink heavily without impairing their skills, they haunt the fashionable resorts and hope to get into a game with a wealthy pigeon like the notorious European buff who has reputedly dropped $500,000 or so in the past three years at the backgammon board. "You can make $1,000 to $1,500 a week by playing these people," says one hustler who tries to remain anonymous to keep out of trouble with the Internal Revenue Service. "Your real problems develop when you try to figure some way to make a tax return. I have no legitimate job. All I do is play backgammon. What do you declare?"
Most of the pigeons, of course, are wealthy enough to take their losses in stride. Indeed, says another hustler, one of the rules of the trade is "never take money from people who cannot afford it. That can give the game a bad name."