Playing Dumb Is Really Smart

“I Play Dumb Really Good”

 

Playing Dumb Is Really Smart

Told by Cole Burnitt

The sun rose. The creeks didn’t. Gonna be a great day.

Me and Tuck rolled into the fairgrounds on Friday before the Saturday contest as the dew was still hanging on the grass like a promise. You know that quiet early hour at a comp—tents breathing, flags slack, pellet hoppers clacking, and one old generator coughing like it’s owed an apology. Tuck had that grin he gets when he smells prize money. He’s got a cleaner jawline than mine, looks like the kind of fella who can sell you life insurance and a weekend at the lake in the same handshake. He and I have a life full of stories and friendship to boot.

“Game faces, Cole,” he said, tapping the cooler. “But not too game. You’re doing that thing today.”

“What thing?” I asked, already knowing.

“The one where you play dumb really good.”

I made a face like I’d misplaced my glasses and then remembered I don’t wear any. “That’s always on my “to do” list.”chuckling “Oh, that thing.”

Truth is, there’s a way to learn that ain’t stealing. Folks in BBQ call it shiggin’—peeking over a fence, reading the room, listening with your eyes. The greasy version’s sneaky. That ain’t me. Mine’s neighborly curiosity with the volume turned down. I’m not there to lift a rub recipe; I’m there to catch the rhythm of another pitmaster’s song.

Our neighbor that day was a Champion—patches on his trailer door, banners like scalps, a trophy shelf braced like a storm shelter. He was the kind of man who taped times and temps to the inside of his eyelids. He was also the kind who preferred a crowd on the other side of the rope.

“Morning,” I said, hat tipped, apron buckled. “I’m Cole. This here’s Tuck.”

He squinted at my setup—blue denim, leather apron, tidy rack of knives, and a pile of wood chunks like poker chips. “You boys new?”

I widened my eyes a hair. “We get out some. Still learning what not to do. Got my brisket trimmed like a preacher’s haircut. Might be too conservative.”

Tuck coughed into his fist, badly hiding a smile. Love playing poker with Tuck cause I can read him but most can’t.

The Champion snorted. “Conservative trims win more than they lose. Waste less moisture.” After eyeballing our set up, “What wood you run?”

I looked at my bag like I’d packed a live raccoon. “I grabbed a little of this and that. Oak. Pecan. Hickory if I behave.” I held up a chunk. “This one smell right to you?”

He leaned in without meaning to. “That’s post oak with a little age. Good. Clean. Keep your splits thin if you want that thin blue smoke. Big splits’ll smother you.”

I nodded like a Sunday school kid who just learned Genesis comes before Exodus. “Thin splits—copy that. Appreciate you.”

He glanced at my spritz bottle, the way a cop glances at a glove box. “What you misting with?” (Note: This ol’ secret sharing goes both ways)

I held it up like evidence. “Oh, this? Apple juice and… well, I shouldn’t say. You’ll laugh.”

“I ain’t gonna laugh till I do and then I’ll apologize.”

“Little cider vinegar. Tiny bit of black coffee leftover from the pot this morning. Makes the bark sit up straight.”

He snorted again, but softer. “Coffee ain’t dumb. Helps color. Careful it don’t turn bitter.”

I clicked the trigger, made a fine mist hang in the morning like perfume in a honky-tonk. “Bitter like me when the awards run late.”

He grinned before he could stop it. That’s the moment you’re waiting for—the minute a man relaxes into his craft and forgets there’s a fence.

We got to talking about tenderness and the moment ribs sigh when they’re ready. He tapped his knuckle against his rack the way you’d knock on a friend’s door. “Don’t go by time alone,” he said. “Go by feel, by how the meat lets go but don’t fall apart. I probe for whisper-soft. A touch hotter fire toward the end to set the sauce—but not so hot it blisters. If it blisters, you panicked.”

I nodded like he’d just told me fire was hot. “Whisper-soft. Got it.”

Tuck hovered, pretending to count our turn-in boxes while he actually counted the Champion’s technique. “You wrap heavy?” he asked, like he was asking the time.

“Grease-proof paper for ribs, foil only if I’m behind but some out here wrap with cling film before they wrap,” the Champion said. “Butter’s fine if you treat it like butter and not like a swimming pool. Honey? Use it. Everybody likes candy. And Judges got noses.”

“Judges do got noses,” I said solemnly, as if I’d only recently learned this.

We traded more not-quite-secrets—the language of pitmasters who’ve been burned enough to be gentle. He showed me how he angled his brisket to catch the best heat line. I noticed he trimmed his point longer than mine, left a little cap like a hat brim. He noticed me noticing and shrugged. “Renders sweeter.”

I thanked him with the warmth I reserve for people who don’t know they’re teaching. He looked me over and finally asked the thing some folks can’t resist: “You two ever win anything?”

I scratched my chin. “Couple of nice Saturdays and the Mother-in-laws approval.”

Tuck said nothing. If there was a trophy or two in my past, he let them float where they belonged - knowing every competition day is different.

Now, it’s one thing to play dumb. It’s another to listen like a gentleman. I never stepped in his lane. I never reached for a bottle that wasn’t mine. No photos, no measuring, no plants. Just respect. If he’d shut down, I’d have shut up. But he didn’t. Because a man who loves his craft can’t help but hum the tune when someone nods in rhythm.

On Saturday around mid-morning, the comp woke up proper. After a loud and proud version of the National Anthem, Country on the speakers, blue smoke curling and a 9:22AM shot of that brown water bourbon with our new neighbor friend to celebrate the day and with folks walking by with hands in pockets, doing their own version of shiggin’. That’s fine. Backyard America runs on borrowed ideas made honest by adjustments, mistakes and sweat.

When my brisket hit that stall, I didn’t panic. I coaxed. I let the fire do the teaching. I remembered what the Champion said about whisper-soft. I ran thin splits and steady breath. I spritzed with restraint. Tuck, bless him, kept me honest—checked my ego like a coat.

“Cole,” he said, “you learned all that without stealing a thing.”

“Neighbor talked, I listened,” I said. “That’s church and he was the preacher.”

Turn-ins came like a parade you weren’t ready to lead and had to anyway. Chicken first, then ribs, then pork, then brisket riding last like a grand marshal with sore feet. I walked the brisket box to the tent, hat in hand, the way you carry something you didn’t make alone. Tuck joined me cause there is a moment there. A moment that WE put our best out there for the day. All that’s left is for the judging.

We didn’t beat the Champion that day. He took brisket by that whisper, the kind of margin you only notice when the stage lights catch the grin behind your teeth. But we placed, and we placed clean. As the sun went low and the flags finally stirred, the Champion walked over with two paper plates—ends from his brisket, still warm. We offered a bourbon to celebrate his win.

“Taste,” he said.

I did. It was righteous—bark like church pews, fat clear as good intentions.

He watched my face. “Yours was close,” he allowed. “You figure out the rest of that coffee spritz, you’re trouble.”

I tipped my hat. “I’ll keep asking dumb questions till I do.”

He laughed outright. “You weren’t dumb.”

“No sir,” I said. “Just hungry.”

Driving home, Tuck rode shotgun, windows down, the night full of road and relief. He finally said, “You know, you could’ve big-timed him. Dropped your resume.”

“I don’t carry one since this isn’t a job,” I said. “I carry a notebook cause this is more like school.”

“You didn’t even write anything down.”

“I did,” I said, tapping my chest. “Right here. Where the smoke sticks.”

He let that sit. We passed a little river that always wins, and I felt that good tired you only get from doing a thing honest. Shiggin’ without stealing, learning without taking. There’s a way to be in this world—to be teachable without being a copy.

Back at the house, I set my apron on the chair and hung up the day. Summitt thumped his chocolate lab tail against the floorboards that he was happy to see me, sniffed my cuffs, decided I’d done alright. I scratched his ears and told him about the whisper-soft lesson at school today.

“I play dumb really good,” I said to the quiet kitchen. “But I cook to get smarter.”

And that’s the truth of the smoke. Cheers!