No rest for the wicket

With its sprawling layout, creaky pine floorboards, and dining room featuring five wrought-iron chandeliers and a somewhat terrifying oversize terra-cotta fireplace decorated with gargoyle heads, the Lenox Club seems less like a country club and more like the country mansion of an eccentric billionaire who, upon serving you dinner, will announce that at midnight someone in the room will be murdered. Instead, a man with a white beard stands up to give a toast. Dressed in a coat and tie with flushed cheeks that suggest cocktails have been served, he glances around at the 30 or so others sitting in the dining room and begins pointing out various members of the crowd. Finally his gaze falls upon a man with a salt-and-pepper goatee seated right in front. “Jim Turner,” the man says, “is one of our bicoastal players.” He pauses, either for effect or to rein in a wayward thought. “And he is just killing everyone.” It’s true. Turner, who lives in the San Francisco Bay area and spends summers on Martha’s Vineyard, is playing extremely well and will be the number one seed going into the final day. That may explain why another top player, David Ekstrom, shouts out, “Well, that’s why we need to break his thumbs!” And though the crowd roars with laughter, it’s kind of hard to tell – aside from a small, wry smile – whether Ekstrom is joking.