I saw that American Legion Post 452, New Alsace, is having a Euchre Tournament this Sunday. You can get all the details HERE.
That got me thinking about the game. And I have a theory to share with you… if you want to understand Indiana, don’t read a history book.
Sit down at a folding table.
Someone will deal. Someone will sigh. Someone will say, “I ain’t ordering that.”
That’s euchre.
Euchre is not just a card game here. It’s a social contract. A personality test. A quiet referendum on whether you trust your partner or just tolerate them until dessert.
First of all, the deck makes no sense. We throw out most of the cards like they offended us. Nines through aces only. Why? Because we said so. That’s Indiana in miniature: practical, selective, and not interested in explaining itself.
Then there’s trump. Someone has to order it up. Not because it’s perfect — but because somebody has to decide. Indiana respects that. We admire confidence even when it’s misplaced. Especially when it’s misplaced. Ordering thin and hoping your partner bails you out is basically a state tradition.
And the bowers?
The jacks that suddenly outrank everything else?
That’s hierarchy with a twist. Power here is situational. Today you’re king. Tomorrow you’re just another card someone forgot they played.
Euchre is a partnership game, which is important. Indiana doesn’t love lone wolves. We prefer pairs. Teams. People who show up together and quietly keep score. If you mess up, nobody yells. They just remember. Forever.
Also: euchre is deeply judgmental — but politely so.
If you trump your partner’s ace, no one says a word.
They don’t have to.
The game moves fast. No long instructions. No dramatic pauses. You’re expected to know what’s happening, or at least pretend you do. That’s how a lot of things work around here. Learn by watching. Ask later. Or don’t.
Euchre is played in basements, legion halls, kitchens, firehouses, church fellowship rooms, and places that smell faintly like coffee that’s been warm too long. It is passed down, not taught. Explained just enough to be dangerous.
And when the game’s over?
Nobody celebrates much.
Nobody storms out.
They shuffle again.
Because in Indiana, winning is nice — but showing up again matters more.
So if you really want to understand this place — the patience, the quiet pride, the mild stubbornness, the teamwork mixed with silent resentment — forget the slogans.
Grab a chair.
We’ll deal you in.