Saturday, July 20, 2019

2014-Present - A Brief Recap - Why I Stopped Blogging

One inncocent prison Sunday, in late August 2014, I was going about my weekend activities - yoga, guitar playing, writing my next blog post on the RDAP prison rehab center I had just transferred to - when I heard a voice on the loudspeaker ordering me to the program director's office.

My heart did a pitter-pat. Being called to his office was never good news - this wasn't a benign rehab program like Betty Ford where you'd be overjoyed at the privilege of meeting the director - but being called in on a Sunday was extra unnerving. The programming staff didn't work weekends so this meant, what, he was interrupting his day of golf and relaxation to come talk with little ol me?

I quickly changed out of my weekend 'grays' into my formal 'greens' and hightailed it to his office, knocking on the closed door. "Come in," a voice intoned.

When I entered my heart fell to the floor - not only was the RDAP director sitting there staring at me with a frown on his face but so too was the camp warden, known by inmates as "The Shark." They didn't ask me to sit so I stood there warily glancing about the room as they exchanged glances. I could just see the director's computer screen from my position and, OMG, what was that he was looking at ----- my blog?

"You're quite a writer," the Shark told me with a sneer. I had heard this in my past life as a compliment but his tone and expression made clear he thought the opposite.

"We've been reading your blog," said the program director in a squeaky voice. "You're sure lucky you didn't say anything bad about my RDAP."

"But you said bad things about my camp!," said the warden. "I can't have this! You've gotta stop this immediately!"

I'd sort of half dreaded/half expected this moment, and had carefully researched my prison rights before coming to prison. The bottom line was that the Supreme Court had ruled in favor of inmate's freedom of expression, including writing and blogs, as long as it didn't endanger prison security.

"I'm sorry if there's something you don't like," I said, "It's just my perspective. I didn't mean to offend anyone but I have the right to write even as an inmate."

"The right to write?" the Shark yelled. "You're an inmate, you only have the rights I say you have. And I say you have none!"


"Including the right to only speak when I tell you too! You know what we could do to you? Do you have any idea? Take you out of RDAP for one, make you lose your year off, send you north where you'll be shoveling snow at 4am, send a guard over to turn your locker and bed every god damn morning and evening, put you on a BoP bus to nowhere, put you on a chain gang! Do you hear me?"

"Yes," I said. "I hear you."

"So what are you going to do?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"You don't know?" he yelled. "You don't know? Do I have to put the fucking words into your mouth? You're going to stop this god damn blogging, be a good, quiet inmate and do your time in silence. Got it?"

"Got it," I mumbled.

"Now get outa here."

As I walked out of the office the RDAP director called after me: "You're sure lucky  you didn't write anything bad about my RDAP program."

I went back to my "home" and flopped down on my bunk. Inmates swarmed, wanting to learn what happened so they could fuel the inmate gossip mill. I was too upset to talk. I think it was the unsubtle reminder of the pure powerlessness of being an inmate. What was I going to do, fight for my rights and lose the few little things I had left, the chance of seeing my kids? Losing the year off that RDAP dangled in front of me like a pot of gold at the end of the shitshow?

At the same time, blogging meant so much to me. It was my fragile connection to the outside world, the one-bit of normalcy in my life. Every morning I waited in anticipation for the few minutes I'd have at the e-mail computer to dash off my next missive to be posted by my mom and sister. It was also my therapy, my way to vent about life here and get the frustrations out of my system.

Still, the choice was clear - no more blogging.

Several days later, I was at my job in the chow hall slaving away over a huge pot of boiling hot dogs when the kitchen guard came up and said I'd been paged to the warden's office. What the fuck? I'd stopped blogging!!!

I trudged over to the van stop that would take me to South Camp where the warden's office was located my mind swirling. What happened? Is this about the blogging? Had he read a post he really didn't like? As I walked, lost in my worries, I didn't notice two prison guards walking toward me until they grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back. They then led me to a white, windowless van, threw me up against the side, put handcuffs on and then shoved me inside.

A few minutes later we pulled up to the maximum security prison, a dark, scary, barred prison straight out of central casting. Guards rushed out, dragged me inside and slammed me into a cell. A few minutes later they shoved an orange paper jumpsuit through the slat in the door ordering me to dress. The jumpsuit was marked on the back with two big black letters - SU.

Though I didn't know why, I knew what SU meant. Segregation Unit.

I was being put into Solitary Confinement.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

One Year Down

Thinking of Freedom

After a long, partially self-imposed silence, I decided to write this overdo post in honor of May 5, otherwise known as Leigh Sprague Incarceration Day. No, it’s not a national holiday (at least not yet), but rather the anniversary of that awful day exactly one-year ago when I “checked myself” in to Lompoc Prison Camp for a 50-month, all-expense paid stay. In honor of the big day, a friend of mine here ‘inside’ brought me (unbidden, I might add) a can of Diet Coke together with half a lime that he happened to stumble across.
Ahh, the simple pleasures I once took for granted.
Seriously, though, I’m not sure if this is an anniversary to be celebrated or mourned. But either way it means a lot to me. Most importantly, it means that half of my sentence, after being adjusted for good time and drug treatment (RDAP) time off, has passed. The 50% mark. As one old-timer told me: “It’s all downhill from here.” Some days another year seems like an eternity. But when I think about how quickly the first year passed, release seems so close that I can almost taste it. Can’t let my mind go there too often thought or it starts to play tricks on me.
This has been an eventful year to say the least. A year to remember. A year that will go down in infamy. Sorry, I realize that I’m getting over-dramatic. But I shudder to think back to that first day, how scared I was, how disoriented, how depressed. Over time, though, I’ve gradually adjusted, adapted, acclimated. For better or for worse, this life of mine here in prison has become more-or-less normal….
Or maybe better to say not entirely abnormal.
I have my bunk, I have my locker, I have my things. I have my acquaintances and I have my schedule. I walk 10-miles a day around the prison track and look forward to taco day in the Chow Hall. In that way life is normal; I guess you could say I’m a teeny-tiny bit institutionalized. Many of the things that caused me stress in the real world – job and taxes and bills and shopping – are no longer a part of my life. But I still think about my kids and family constantly, missing them every minute of every day. I still gaze out at the road that passes within feet of the track, enviously watching free people freely driving free cars down the free street. I picture myself behind the wheel, maybe going nowhere but, at the same time, going everywhere.
I want that person to be me.
I want to be free.
My prison experience has benefitted from my 9 months’ here at RDAP, the residential drug treatment and behavioral modification program that, once I complete it next month, will shave one-year off my sentence. At first I suffered in the program, bucking at all the rules and resenting it’s focus on group-work and change. 

But in comparison to many inmates’ prison experiences – which for the most part consist of wasting time in front of the TV and on the weight pile – I’ve gained a lot from the program. I recognized the errors in my thinking that made me a criminal just as much as my drug-dealer bunkie. I’m glad to be at the finish line but feel like a much better person now than the broken man that walked through RDAP’s doors last July. The ‘new improved’ me. All thanks to the kind-ol’ BoP.
So that’s all for now. I’ve had some issues with freedom of expression so can’t promise when I’ll write next other than to say that it will be before my next anniversary: that day when I walk once-and-for-all through these doors to the Greyhound station in nearby Santa Maria. 
Until then, keep well and keep in touch. And promise me not to take for granted that most special of gifts: freedom; freedom to be with your loved ones, freedom to go where you want, freedom to say and be and do whatever you happen to choose. I once took those freedoms for granted. But I never will again.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Russia, do I Miss You?

Let Me Count The Ways...

I've been teaching Russian to a fellow inmate, a big, burly, lumberjack of a guy with a thick brown beard whom I'll call Paul. We've started, fittingly enough, with that most important category - swearwords - so the experience has been as useful for him as for me, dredging up as it has certain long-dormant words that were at one time crucial to my survival in rough-and-tumble Moscow. 

More seriously, it's been interesting for me to view Russia through Paul's eyes. You see, Paul plans to move to Russia the second after he's released from prison and the travel strictures of probation. He views Russia as a magical place free of America's more onerous societal and social mores. He dreams of vodka. And of pretty young Slavic girls unspoiled by American feminism. And of freedom from onerous taxation and pervasive surveillance. Of being able to think and act in a decidedly non-PC way.

In short, he dreams of being able to cavort and drink and swear and act in a Don-Draper-goes-international manner in which middle-age Americans have long ceased to indulge. Unsatisfied and disillusioned with the US and what he thinks he's learned (as an inmate) of its very flawed democracy, he's latched onto an even more flawed kleptocracy as the answer to his prayers.

The experience is interesting for me because Paul's view, with its focus on freedoms, is the opposite of how I've long thought of Russia. It's just been such a long time that I've heard the word "Russia" associated with the words "free" and "freedom" that it got me to thinking whether I ever thought the same.

Upon reflection, I realized that, once upon a time, way back when I first moved to the place in 1995, I did, although my markers were different: not the ability to drink or stay up all night but the transformation of a totalitarian system into what I thought was a new burgeoning democracy. I saw a Russia transforming before my very eyes, a Russia becoming (or so I thought) free and democratic. 

How depressingly wrong I was. In terms of freedom and development and openness and optimism so much has since changed for the worse. Not that Paul accepts my protestations: he's made up his mind that in Russia he'll be free to do as he pleases. And maybe he will, if what he pleases is to drink vodka all night. Just goes to show, I suppose, that one man's idea of heaven can be another man's idea of hell. 

As those of you who know me know, by the time I fled Moscow at the tip of the oligarch's sword those several years ago, I was incredibly disillusioned with the place. Burned out. Fed up.

Admiration had long since turned to hatred: for the more sordid aspects of the culture, for what I saw as a harsh indifference to equality and democracy, freedom and enlightenment, as a result of my experiences working with its corrupt and crude elite, its billionaire oligarchs.

The collective ideal still held by the majority, the big-brother-in-the-Kremlin-knows-best mentality, the stuck-in-the-peasantry attitudes toward gender and child-rearing and politics, the barely hidden xenophobia and racism, all of those things had soured me on Russia, despite my near-assimilation and the country's rich and deep culture. While I loved many Russians, I really had come to hate their country. Since then, it's only gotten worse, with Putin's ascendancy to near Stalin-like power and near-Stalin like demeanor.
So despite the awful circumstances of my departure, and my fervent wish to be wherever my family happens to be (which for much of the past three years was Russia), my overwhelming feeling for these past years was: good bye and good riddance. But you know what? I do, in my own way, miss the place. Not enough to go back. Or to wish I could recreate the mistaken bourgeoisie life that I so crudely shredded with my theft. But the fact is, Russia was a major part of my life for many years - a domineering parent, an overbearing friend, a dysfunctional spouse - but a major part nonetheless. 

As I sit here, images of my lost life - what I do miss - flash through my mind: of our "dvor", or courtyard, where my kids and I spent countless hours playing on the slide and the swings; of my first new car ever, a tiny green Czech Skoda that strained to reach 50 mph; of skating with my kids on a frigid winter afternoon on the frozen pond at Chistye Prudy, taking breaks for swigs of hot chocolate from a thermos; of evenings at the kitchen table with friends and family, eating sushi and sipping Georgian wine; of our apartment and khachapuri and traffic jams and bums and weddings.

In short, of life.

Russia was my life. For a long time. And the jarring, violent way that it was torn from me, like a jilted lover from my arms, still stings. Russia, for me, has come to represent everything I have lost.

I don't expect to go back. Ever. Nor do I really want to. My family, thank God, is no longer there and, unlike Paul, who in his disillusionment with the US has
latched onto a distant shangri la that is little more than a mirage, I don't idealize the place.

Despite my tepid nostalgia, the bad in my mind still far outweighs the good. For me, after all my travels, the US is good enough for me, even if my version of the US happens for the moment to be a prison.

The fact is, I've seen worse. So unlike Paul, and many other prisoners, who've essentially been disenfranchised from the system and view their country and government with disillusion, if not derision, I've finally realized where I belong. And, sad to say, it's not Russia, that failed kleptocracy across the sea. So until someone convinces me otherwise, or until I, like my inmate brothers become completely and totally disillusioned with this flawed old US of A, I guess I'll go on disliking the values and beliefs propounded by Putin and his ilk.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Blaming the Mailman...

...For Bad Financial News

Most evenings I anxiously await mail call in the hope that I'll receive a letter from friends or family. Barring that, I'll settle for the latest issue of New Yorker or Vanity Fair, the two magazines I subscribe to. This week, however, the mailman has been the bearer of little but bad news. Bad financial news, to be exact. It's not, to be sure, that I was expecting good financial news: haven't had much of that in quite some time. But this news truly takes the cake. 

On Monday, I received a notice from the IRS that I owe an additional $20,000 in back taxes. In my previous life, even before I stole money from the oligarch, this would have been little more than a pittance, a mild nuisance to be cured by sending a check the next day.

Not any more. In my current situation, $20,000 might as well be $20 million. Both are equally out of reach.

Then on Wednesday, just as I was recovering from the shock of the IRS bill, I received a notice from the Justice Department. This notice was formatted the same as a typical bill, just like the one you might get from the gas or phone company.

We've all seen them: a sheet of paper with a perforated section at the bottom to be detached and enclosed in the provided envelope together with a check for the requested amount. Even the language was the same: please pay this amount in full immediately, and in any event not later than the indicated date.

The only thing that set it apart from the typical utility bill was the amount. Instead of the usual gas or electricity bill of $50 or $80 or maybe even $100 in a particularly bad month, this bill was in the amount of $1,416,360.85.

I couldn't help but laugh. Then cry.

First, I should state right up front that no, this is not a typo; no misplaced comma or period here (unfortunately). This is the amount I owe in restitution, the difference between what I stole from the oligarch and what I returned to him; the amount our considerate federal government intends to collect from me over time and return to that billionaire Russian, sanctions notwithstanding. So the amount itself - though large and depressing - was not a surprise. I fully expected to have this humongous debt, this constant reminder of my crimes, hanging over me for the foreseeable future (if not the rest of my life). 

What surprised me was the unequivocal nature of the request itself: please pay NOW! As if I have that amount sitting in my bank account. As if the government doesn't already know of my dire financial straits. As if a repayment plan hasn't already been arranged.

While in prison, I pay $25/month toward restitution, an amount almost (but not quite) covered by my generous kitchen salary. At this rate of repayment, I've calculated, it will take me only about 4,000 years to repay the full amount. Unlike the restitution invoice, at least the IRS notice took account of reality: the response has a box that can be checked stating that I am currently unable to pay.

Unfortunately, not only do I not have any money in my checking account but I don't even have a checking account. Or a savings account. Or any account at all. You see, my actions and my incarceration have left me more-or-less destitute: much more in the red than in the black. 

The funny thing is that in prison it's not that much of an issue. There are many here worse off than me and my basic necessities - a roof over my head, food on my plate - are provided free of charge by our kindly government. And the extras - e-mail, phone, commissary treats - while not exactly cheap, are covered by considerate relatives.  

But what comes next - my eventual return, penniless, to the real world - is an endless cause for concern, despite the fact that it's still almost two years away. While I dream of little else of rejoining my family, rejoining the world, I can't help but stay up the occasional night worrying about how I'll support myself and my kids.

The depressing thing is that when I tell people here on the inside what I did - and I'm forced to do that nearly every day here in the treatment program - they can't believe I'm broke.

"Where's the money?," they ask. "Where'd you hide it?"

Many of them seem to seriously believe that I have a few million buried somewhere in a hole in the ground. Or a Swiss bank account. Either that, or they believe my protestations that I'm completely broke and consider me the biggest idiot in the history of the universe. Inmates tend to be a money-obsessed lot, and the vast sums that passed through my greedy hands are an endless source of fascination for many of them. 

That, however, is a topic for further exploration in some future post. As for now, I can't wait to see what comes in the mail next week.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Dancing Behind Bars

Not Exactly Dancing with the Stars

I tried to prepare myself for life behind bars before surrendering to prison: the lack of freedom, the bad food, the many rules, the aggressive inmates. I talked with former inmates, read prison message boards and watched America's Worst Prisons on cable TV, learning that I shouldn't cut in line and should sit with the white boys at dinner.

I thought I was pretty well prepared, or as well as a white-collar felon with no prison experience can be. But it turns out that I was not prepared at all, that once piece of crucial information was missing from all the advice I received. And what was this missing golden nugget? Much to my subsequent regret, no one told me that I should practice my dance moves.

You see, almost each and every week I'm asked (ok, pretty much forced) to stand before 100 fellow inmates and wiggle my arms and shake my butt to the beat of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" or some similarly uplifting song.

All by myself.

With 200 eyes on me.

Did I mention that this is in front of 100 inmates? All cheering and clapping and yelling "more, more, one more time!" And me looking like the world's biggest idiot. If this sounds like a nightmare, it more or less is. Except that in a real nightmare I'd be dancing naked. At least that's what I tell myself to make the reality a little less bad.

I suppose I should explain. Here at RDAP we have a daily meeting called the "Up Meeting". We do various things at this meeting, including serious things like informing the community about news, developments, program changes, etc. Former RDAPers who are being released from prison come to speak with us about their thoughts: what they gained from the program and how they plan to apply it to their life on the outside. In short, serious, useful stuff. 

We also dance. 

I suppose I should clarify. This isn't some prison version of the high school prom - no mass of inmates jiving in the rec room arm in arm. This isn't a conga line of men in greens or a group rendition of the chicken dance. This is a take-your-turn, individual style of dancing, akin to a ballet solo by the lead ballerina. Each inmate gets his day in the spotlight, his day to shine. Up in front of everyone. All alone.

If someone had told me before I entered prison that I'd soon be standing up in front of 100 inmates and putting on the moves I'd have told them they were crazy. Those who know me will immediately understand: this white boy really can't dance. I can feel the beat in my head, more or less, but somehow that doesn't translate into moving my hands and feet at the proper time or in the appropriate way. In short, I am a terrible dancer, the kind that should (and has, until this incarceration) stuck to wiggling in the crowd or crashing about in a mosh pit. I'm pretty much a realist, recognizing my dance limitations from an early age and pouring my energies into more fruitful pursuits.

My first attempt at prison dancing was pretty pathetic: a few wiggles and a huge blush of shame. But after that faltering first attempt my thinking changed. What the hell, I decided. Here I am in prison. I can't exactly sink any lower. So what do I have to lose? Compared to the humiliation of becoming a felon, the humiliation of public dancing is nothing.

So I decided to let it all hang out. And I did. I'm not sure what exactly you'd call my dance. Basically, it's a fairly unique agglomeration of random dance moves I've accumulated by osmosis throughout the four decades of my life: a bit of 50's style hands sliding on the knees, some 60's hippie swaying, a bit of 70's jive, even the arm wiggling of the chicken dance and the hands-over-the-head finale of Walk Like an Egyptian.

And you want to know the absolute strangest thing of all? My little dance, the worst dance in the history of the world - something more akin to the rain dance of some aborigines in the jungle than anything that might be recognized as modern movement - became the hit of this prison.


I'm now known as the inmate dancer. My dance is referred to at times as the Sprague dance, at times as the "dolphin". At least 10 times per day, inmates come up to me and ask me to show them my moves. When I walk around the grounds I see people imitating me. They cheer me on when it's my turn to dance. The roar is deafening. Last time around, I received a standing ovation. If there were a prison version of youtube, my dance would have at least 100 hits.

I'm under no illusion that they're cheering because I'm actually any good. But I like to think that they're cheering at more than just the inanity of it all, the vision from hell of a middle age lawyer making a fool of himself, a real-life Pee Wee Herman, esq.

What I hope they're cheering at is an introverted guy making an effort to connect, to change, to break out from his shell, by showing the world (or at least this little sub-section of it) that it's ok to make mistakes, that we're not always perfect.

Because, I've realized, the only way I'm going to recover and become a better member of society is to break down the walls I built up and learn to dance to a new tune. Both literally and figuratively.

Our Incarceration Policy is Failing

A Few Interesting Statistics on Inmates, Prisons and Recidivism

With my budding interest in all things prison related, including issues related to incarceration, recidivism and crime, I read with interest a few fascinating statistics from a recent issue of the Economist that demonstrate that incarceration as a crime-reduction strategy is misguided, expensive, ineffectual and just generally stupid. I'll comment more on these later, but in the meantime I thought I'd set them out for consideration:

- In the U.S., the ratio of prisoners to violent crime is now four times what it was in the 1980's. This has resulted in a nearly 10-fold prisoner increase over the last three decades with a concomitant increase in expenses. 

- America's incarceration rate is 707 per 100,000. The highest in the world! In comparison, England's incarceration rate - the highest in Europe and a place where prisons are undergoing a crisis of overcrowding - is "only" 149. Even this compares unfavorably to Germany's rate (78) and the Netherland's (75). If you ask me, the US incarceration rate and the vast sums we spend on a worthless and harmful policy is a national disgrace.

- The basic idea of the lock-em-up approach is that if criminals are locked up they are not able to commit crimes. Makes sense, right? But statistics demonstrate that "banging" up prisoners (as the British say) does not reduce crime. For example, in countries and states such as the Netherlands, California and New York where incarceration rates have dropped sharply, crime has continued to drop as well. 

- Prison is, in fact, an incubator of crime. In the 2000's, statistics show, up to 40% of felonies were committed by ex-cons. Recidivism rates push 70%. Statistics of a healthy, successful system devoted to rehabilitation? Hardly.

- Interesting factoid: the Netherlands actually has more prison guards than prisoners. My dream is that someday we'll be able to say the same about the U.S.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

If I Were in Charge….

Tongue-in-Cheek Ideas for Prison Reform

My posts lately have been pretty serious, even a little dark, focused as they've been on why I'm here and what I hope to gain. So in honor of the impending weekend - one of the last of summer, to boot - I decided to lighten things up a bit with a bit of humor. Or my attempt at it anyway. So without further ado, here are a few tongue-in-cheek ideas on how to improve the lives of inmates.

1. Casual Fridays: Prison is one of the last places in America untouched by the wave of casual Fridays that swept the country beginning in the 1990's. It's not as if we wear suits and ties here on the inside, but we are expected to dress up in our "greens" on Friday, just as any other week day. As I write, I'm sitting at the computer in my drab green shirt buttoned up to my neck, green khaki pants and yellow belt, dreaming of the gray sweats I'll be able to throw on at the end of the day. 

2. Conga Lines: Growing up, I spent my Saturdays at the roller-skating rink, locked arm-to-waist in long conga lines of fellow skaters, bobbing to the beat of Rock the Kasbah and Whip it Good. The aisles of the prison barracks, long and straight as they are, would be perfect for inmate conga lines. All we need is a bit of music and permission to groove on out. I vote for the chicken dance - my personal favorite.

3. Fart Zones: In prison you're hardly ever alone; privacy is a scarce commodity. The barracks are crowded, the chow hall lines are long and the bathroom is never empty. This presents a problem for those of us brought up with the notion that to fart in public is a social faux pas: where to let it rip? Many inmates do not appear encumbered by this social constraint, releasing their pent up gas whenever the urge strikes. But for me and others unused to cutting the cheese in public, what would be great are designated fart zones where we could go to relieve ourselves of all the gases created by the endless supply of chow-hall beans. Just a thought.

4. Prison Saying of the Day. Since I've been down I've heard certain sayings over and over again that I rarely, if ever, heard on the outside. These include "That's Craaazy" (pronounced similarly to "Heeeere's Johnny"), Uh Huh Uh Huh and I'll address these all in a later post. But in the meantime I propose that we have an official word or saying of the day, to be used as often and as loudly as possible by each and every inmate.

5. Tattoo Show and Tell. Tattoos here are creative and ubiquitous. But it's considered bad form to stare, to try to decipher the intricate curlicues that cover many inmate's every spare inch of skin. One funny example that I did see recently was a neck tattoo consisting of an arrow toward the Adam's's apple and the words: "Please cut here." In any event, my point is that, to overcome the taboo of unmitigated staring, prisons organize events in which prisoners show off their tattoos while describing them to other cons.

6. Theme Song. What could be better for morale than a theme song, a chance for all the inmates to lock arms, sway to and fro and let their vocal chords loose? We did as much growing up at Scout sleep away camp. In my view, something from the Sound of Music would work perfectly: uplifting, pro-social and encouraging of brotherly love. My vote goes for These Are a Few of My Favorite Things (with a few words adapted to our current reality): Bars on the Windows and Green Mush for Dinner, These are a Few of My Favorite Things....

7. Knit-Off. They teach knitting in prison, although here it is called "yarn welding".  This is not a joke but honest-to-god fact. Of an evening, many inmates sit at their bunks darning baby socks, caps and the like. Why not turn this passive pursuit into a competitive sport? I would move it out to the backyard, right alongside the basketball court and soccer field, where inmates gather for intense and competitive matches. Tie a knot correctly and earn a point for the team.