My Dad liked to play chess. My son, now almost eight, was always too young to play chess properly with his Opa, but at least the idea was introduced and some of the rules and strategies were discussed between them. I never learned to play. It was too hard to remember which pieces could do what and in which direction. I preferred reading or watching television or flipping through my Mom’s Good Housekeeping or Brigitte magazines.
Now that my Dad is gone, I’ve made a commitment to play chess with my son. And hopefully with my daughter when she catches the strategy bug. This past weekend I played two games. Or are they matches? I play conservatively and slowly because I still don’t know all the nuances of moves and attacks and traps. I think I may have misused the Bishop once or twice.
My almost eight-year-old son didn’t like that I won. Twice. But he liked that I played. And we’ll keep playing, thoughtfully and patiently. As my Dad always did.