All my life I wanted to beat my dad at chess

All my life I wanted to beat my old man at chess.

“Check” with a grin on my face.

“Uncheck” he said in a melodic tone.

I’d attack and he always seemed to have the perfect counter.

He’d attack and I would be done.

I left for the Navy at age 18 and didn’t get to see my dad much after that. I’d come home for the holidays and shuffle around from place to place. I’d give everyone a day: Mom a day, Dad a day, Sister a day. Didn’t have much time for chess and didn’t really think of it. Was too busy catching up or thinking about where else I might need to be.

About ten years later, my dad invited me to go spend some time up in the mountains of New Hampshire. He picked me up at Logan Airport on a busy Friday afternoon. He was pissed about the state trooper that refused to let him sit in his car at the curb to wait for me. Since there is no waiting lot nearby, you have to make a loop through a good part of Boston and come back around again. On any day, this is a pain. On a busy Friday afternoon, this is choke-a-trooper maddening.

Once we got on our way the usual “Dad you left your blinker on” ensued. I hate that I nitpick but I somehow can’t restrain myself. It was good to see him and within a couple minutes my native accent returned. People can’t help themselves to pick on how I have to pahk my cah in the back yahd.

The sunset was beautiful. We stopped for gas and then food at Chili’s. We made it to the  motel by about 9. The air was cool and moist. In August, it doesn’t drop much below 85 at night in Florida. Here in the New Hampshire it was in the low 60’s.

We got settled in and I showed Dad my laptop. He was amazed at wifi in the hotel though didn’t much care for Squidbillies. Can’t say that I blame him though once again, I somehow can’t seem to restrain myself.

The next morning my dad woke up refreshed and I woke up irritable. I had forgotten the extent to which my father can snore. People do research to try to fix snoring like that. First thing on the list for the day: buy earplugs. We ate the continental breakfast at the motel which consisted of off-brand sugar cereal and blueberry Eggo’s. Dad commented on how good the waffles were and I replied “well, they’re just Eggo’s.”

We finished breakfast and drove to the center of town. My stomach hurt from traveling and I hadn’t slept much more than an hour. We got coffee and found the general store. I love towns that still have general stores. For those of you that have never been, they’re like hundred year old, well-maintained quick-stops with hardwood floors. I guess the Cracker Barrel gift shops are modeled after the old general stores.

Anyhow, I got earplugs at the general store. They were designed for dampening sound while shooting high-powered deer rifles. They should suffice to quiet Dad’s chainsawing.

After mainlining a half gallon of coffee I was good to go. We drove around the town and out on one the mountain roads. We stopped to take some pictures and saw a tree that was shaped like a heart. We both took pictures with our phones and sent them to our girls. Dad didn’t know his phone could do such a thing and was excited.

We cruised around for a bit longer and got some lunch. Restaurants and diners in the mountains are geared to look old-timey though they are all about the business here and now. Thousands of tourists must come through places like this each year, drinking in the beauty of the surroundings.

More coffee and I placate Dad with agreeing to go for a train ride on the Old Hobo Train. It’s a 1.5 hour round trip train ride on a stretch of track which was laid some 100+ years ago for carrying logs out of the NH forests. The ride takes us through some small quarries, over several streams and rivers, and through the beautiful stretches of the New England woods and countryside.

The conductor is a retired former conductor for the major railway in the area. He has ridden trains all his life. He sat at the open door of the back car, telling tales of the area and watching for cars as the tracks took us across the country roads. In between talking and making adjustments to the controls, he sat peacefully. He was exactly where he was supposed to be. I envy people that spend a satisfied life doing one thing.

After debarking, we head back to the motel to rest. At around 5:30 it begins to rain. It’s a cold rain and we decide to stay in. Dad has a chess board.

All my life I wanted to beat my old man at chess.

We play. We make idle moves for a few minutes. “Check.” I smile smugly.

“Uncheck” he says melodically.

After a few more moves, “check.” I stare at him as if a bird at its prey.

“Uncheck” he sings and smiles at the board. “Your move” as he laughs at me. I sigh.

An opening. I look for counters and check each angle for how he will get out of my check this time. I see nothing but check again. Holy shit.

“Check.”

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“Hmm” he says as he adjusts himself in his seat and clears his throat.

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“You little beahstid.”

I gloat.

I laugh heartily.

I say something along the lines of “in your face old man.” We laugh and he congratulates me. We switch sides and set up the pieces for another game.

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Win.

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Win.

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I find myself feeling a mixture of pride and guilt. When I was a kid, I’d occasionally get lucky and beat him. Now, I had clearly surpassed his ability. Something felt odd inside.

I played a lot while I was underway. Eighteen months of my life spent on ships afforded me an opportunity to see 12 countries, learn to play guitar, and improve my chess game. I struggled to improve my game to beat my dad though never necessarily with that intention at the forefront of my mind.

My dad never felt compelled to work on his game. He just lived his life, worked, and got older. My dad never knew of the sense of competition that I felt toward him. My dad never knew that I had researched strategies on the internet. My dad never knew that I went through what he must have gone through to one up his old man at something.

Or maybe he did.

It’s natural for us to want to best our parents at something. Maybe it satisfies some innate urge to improve upon the information from those that went before us. Maybe I’m just some smartass kid.

My dad lost well. He didn’t complain or stew but accepted his loss and complimented me on my game. He was just happy to have me around to spend time with and play some games of chess.

I left Massachusetts at age 18 because I felt I had to. As if it were yesterday, I remember that lonely bus ride from Plymouth to Boston, the flight to Chicago, and the man shouting orders at me as I stepped off the bus at Great Lakes Recruit Training Command. I remember standing naked at attention with 80 other people while being issued government underwear, socks, toothbrush and shower shoes (which evidently was the new name for flip flops). I remember having a sinking feeling in my stomach and asking myself what the hell I had gotten myself into. I had to leave. I had too much insecurity about just being me. I thought I needed to go away to prove to the world and myself that I could be a man.

It’s been seventeen years since I left home. I’ve done piles of stuff that my old man didn’t. I’ve served my country. I’ve graduated college. I’ve even flown an airplane.

After all these years, I think I’ve finally lost the desire to best my dad at stuff. I love him for who he is and I’m good with me today.

Looking forward to one day playing some more chess with Dad and maybe one day a with smartass one-upping punk kid of my own.

JS