My Dad taught me how to play chess, probably in Grade 6. Before the year ended I was beating him, as it wasn’t something he focused on. For a long time, I had the rules written out on a piece of yellowed paper by his own hand. In pencil. I’m not sure where the paper went but my son and I have been playing quite a bit with that first chess set he gave me.
I was pretty good for a beginner into my teens, although it was all instinctive and not my favourite way to spend time back then. Only a few of my buddies could play and the high school club was a bit nerdy for me. I had enough troubles fitting in. There were moments of grandeur. My Uncle Ray liked to play and he took me over to a place in Sault Ste. Marie where old former steel mill workers hung out and played. It was either an Old Swede or Old Fin who owned the home and we were all packed into the corner of the veranda.
It’s like yesterday when I think about it, probably when I was in Gr. 7 or 8. Uncle Bill thought I was pretty good for a young lad and had made a bet with the Old Fin that I would give him a game. I don’t know if there was a wager but there was bragging rights and pride on the table, that’s for sure. And that old man howled when I took his queen … “he stole my whore!” he said, the onlookers where laughing and patting me on the back. He lost his smile when I surprised him with my rook for checkmate.
Of course, I taught my son the game early but we didn’t get into it until a few years ago. It took him a bit to beat me as our games were months between one and another. I knew I was in trouble when his buddies came over one night and they a tournament between them. And they got into it online. I had little chance when he came at me with real strategy instead of bull rushing at the start of games.
It got so tenuous, I’ve recently joined him on Chess.com to play online. The time I previously “invested” in endless doom scrolling of mind sugar. I’d pretend it was research. Playing chess is a step up in quality of procrastination.
One of his buddies kicked me in the rear the other day. He was in the middle of beating me on a long-term game, and then challenged me to a timed match giving us each 10 minutes to make moves. That’s two bad spankings after the little guy introduced me to it with a shellacking. He texted a ‘Ha ha!’ to rub it in.
I love this kind of thing. And I don’t even mind getting beat. Like I was telling Dylan last Saturday night, my fun comes from fighting my way out of a bad spot where any false step could be fatal. Victory for me is coming back from bad odds, which is folly in the long run if you want to be a great chess player. The first wave of attack strategy determines most games.
What I should do is get down to the Chess Studio and learn the game properly.
Until then, it’s no skin off my nose if my counter-punch mentality serves up confidence for my opponents. At least I’m making others feel better.
My handle is editordave.
Writer, photographer and proud father. My mom's family is from the Soo with its Algoma Highlands, dad hailed from Cobden in the Ottawa Valley and I spent my teen years in Capreol. Summers were at the beach on the Vermillion River and winters at 'The Rink.' Born in East York but Toronto never was my thing. Ever since a kid looking out the window on long trips, I imagined living on the highway in a little house with a big yard and trees growing all around me.
