“We all ready to hit some issues?” Trish asks, still plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the seawall on Ellis Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much of a fight. Like baseball – you don’t vote against the good stuff.

My pager once again dances in my pocket. Like before, I read it under the table. 97, Harris’s message says.

I can’t believe they’re getting this far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game.

In fact, as Harris explained it when he first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on staff snuck the words dry cleaning into a draft of the Senator’s next speech:… although sometimes regarded as dry, cleaning our environment should clearly be a top priority... It was always meant to be a cheap gag – something that’d be taken out before the speech was given. Then one of the staffers dared the other to keep it in.

“I’ll do it,” the staffer threatened.

“No, you won’t,” his friend shot back.

“Wanna bet?”

Right there, the game was born. And that afternoon, the distinguished Senator strolled onto C-SPAN and told the entire nation about the importance of “dry, cleaning.”

In the beginning, they always kept it to small stuff: hidden phrases in an op-ed, an acronym in a commencement speech. Then it got bigger. A few years ago, on the Senate Floor, a Senator who was searching for his handkerchief reached into his jacket pocket and proceeded to wipe his forehead with a pair of women’s silk panties. He quickly laughed it off as an honest mistake made by his laundry service. But it wasn’t an accident.

That was the first time the game broke the envelope – and what caused the organizers to create the current rules. These days, it’s simple: The bills we bet on are ones where the outcome’s clearly decided. A few months back, the Clean Diamond Act passed by a vote of 408 to 6; last week, the Hurricane Shelters Act passed by 401 to 10; and today, the Baseball for America Act was expected to pass by approximately 300 to 100. A clear landslide. And the perfect bill to play on.

When I was in high school, we used to try to guess if Jennifer Luftig would be wearing a bra. In grad school, we made bingo cards with the names of the kids who talked the most, then waited for them to open their mouths. We’ve all played our games. Can you get twelve more votes? Can you get the Vermont Congressmen to vote against it? Can you get the nays up to 110, even when 100 is all that’s reasonably possible? Politics has always been called a game for grown-ups. So why is anyone surprised people would gamble on it?

Naturally, I was skeptical at first, but then I realized just how innocent it really was. We don’t change the laws, or pass bad legislation, or stroke our evil goatees and overthrow democracy as we know it. We play at the margins; that’s where it’s safe – and where it’s fun. It’s like sitting in a meeting and betting how many times the annoying guy in your office uses the word “I.” You can goad him and make your best attempts to alter it, but in the end, the results are pretty much the same. In the world of Capitol Hill, even though we’re split between Ds and Rs, 99 percent of our legislation is passed by overwhelming majorities. It’s only the few controversial bills that make the news. The result is a job that can easily lapse into a repetitive, monotonous grind – that is, unless you find a way to make it interesting.

My pager once again shudders in my fist. 103, Harris sends.

“Okay, what about the White House?” Trish asks, still working her list. This is the one she’s been saving for. In the House, we allocated seven million for structural improvements to the White House complex. The Senate – thanks to Trish’s boss – zeroed the program out.

“C’mon, Trish,” Ezra begs. “You can’t just give ’em goose egg.”

Trish raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see…”

It’s typical Senate. The only reason Trish’s boss is playing the jerk is because the President has been pushing for a settlement in a racial discrimination lawsuit against the Library of Congress. Trish’s boss, Senator Apelbaum, is one of the few people involved in the negotiation. This close to the elections, he’d rather stall, keep the lawsuit quiet, and keep it out of the press. This is the Senator’s way of pushing back. And from the smug look on Trish’s face, she’s loving every minute of it.

“Why don’t we just split the difference?” Ezra says, knowing our usual mode of compromise. “Give it three and a half million, and ask the President to bring his library card next time.”

“Listen closely…” Trish warns, leaning into the table. “He’s not getting a single muddy peso.”

107, it says on my pager.

I have to smile as it inches closer. Whoever the organizers are – or, as we call them, the dungeon-masters – these guys know what they’re doing. The bets can go from twice a week to once every few months, but when they identify an issue, they always set the game at the perfect level of difficulty. Two months ago, when the new Attorney General came to testify for the Senate Armed Services Committee, the bet was to get one of the Senators to ask the question, “How much of your success do you attribute to the support of your family?” A simple query for any witness, but when you add in the fact that a few days earlier, the Attorney General insisted that public figures should be able to keep their family lives private – well… now we had a horse race. Waiting for the words to be uttered, we watched that achingly boring Senate hearing as if it were the final round of Rocky. Today, I’m glued to a vote that was decided by a majority almost ten minutes ago. Even the baseball lobbyists have turned off their TVs. But I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s not the seventy-five dollars I’ve got riding on the outcome. It’s the challenge. When Harris and I put our money down, we figured they’d never get near 110 votes. Whoever’s on the other side obviously thinks they can. Right now they’re at 107. No doubt, impressive… but it’s the last three that are going to be like shoving a mountain.

108 blinks onto my pager.

A buzzer rings through the air. One more minute left on the official clock.

“So what’s the count at?” Trish asks, swiveling at the sound, back toward the TV.

“Can we please not change the subject?” Ezra begs.

Trish doesn’t care. She’s still scanning the screen.

“Hundred and eight,” I tell her as the C-SPAN number clicks into place.

“I’m impressed,” she admits. “I didn’t think they’d get this far.”

The grin on my face spreads even wider. Could Trish be playing? Six months ago, Harris invited me in – and one day, I’ll invite someone else. All you know are the two people you’re directly connected to: one above, one below. In truth, it’s purely for safety purposes – in case word gets out, you can’t finger someone if you don’t know who they are. Of course, it also brings new meaning to the term anybody’s game.

I look around the room. All three of my colleagues take subtle glances at C-SPAN. Georgia ’s too quiet to be a player. Ezra and Trish are a whole different story.

On TV, Congressman Virgil Witt from Louisiana strolls across the screen. Ezra’s boss. “There’s your guy,” Trish says.

“You’re really serious about this Library thing?” Ezra shoots back. He doesn’t care about seeing his boss on television. Around here, it happens every day.

109, my pager says.

On TV, Ezra’s boss once again rushes across the screen.