They say that chess is the game of gentlemen. For me—and for most other 12-year-olds—it was a game of nerds. My father, however, loved the game and he wanted me to love it, too. After retiring from the Navy, he moved our family to my mom’s hometown of Athens, Greece. There, in the downtown area, almost literally under the shadow of the Acropolis, a public square was the meeting place for amateur chess players on Friday nights. It didn’t take long before my father discovered this and dragged me along to this affair every week.
Only one chessboard was used for the tournament, but this wasn’t your usual chessboard. The squares of the board were large enough for two people to stand in comfortably. The pawns were about four feet tall, and the king was approximately five-seven. The pieces were made of wood, light enough to move but not without some effort. Spectators could sit on four rows of seats, surrounding the board on its three sides, like an amphitheater. The open fourth side faced the plaza, where curious evening strollers would stop by to catch the action.
The board was open to the public, but on Fridays it was almost strictly a father-son affair. At around six o’clock, the first regulars would show up. The fathers would sit, chatting away the time, while the children played each other. Summer days can get very hot in Athens, and it usually doesn’t cool off until 9 o’clock. At that time, the strong amateurs and even some professionals showed up and the games went on well past midnight.
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From six to nine, though, the board belonged to the sons. My father made sure we got there in time for me to squeeze in a game or two. Kids were always there, fooling around on the chessboard. Even if they didn’t know how to play, just moving those enormous pieces of wood around was fun enough. My father, however, taught me to take chess seriously and accept only serious challenges. I always got stuck playing against an archetypal nerd with taped glasses, pocket-protector and everything, when I really wanted to use the pieces in sword-fights, like the other kids were doing.
Still, my interest in chess intensified since the first day I played on the board. Pretty soon I was able to compete with Athens’ finest young chess players. We all felt a sense of pride and responsibility playing this game, on this board, at this location. At night, the lights on the Acropolis would come on, shining on the ancient ruins. On this very ground where Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle might have walked, playing chess seemed like the right thing to do.
Despite the nerdy veneer of the game, I discovered that chess has a war-like feel. After all, chess involves two armies out to destroy each other. My imagination ran wild, even in a serious game. Walking around that chessboard, among those tall pieces of wood, I felt like an army general. I was Alexander the Great most of the time, but also Patton, Napoleon, and, when I was in a really bad mood, Genghis Khan. While setting up the board, I was actually patrolling my troops, encouraging them for the tough battle that lay ahead.
As in war, chess has its casualties: captured pieces. Most of my opponents jumped at any opportunity to capture a piece, to draw first blood so to speak. I remember one game in which my opponent was leaning triumphantly on one of my captured pawns, trying to catch his father’s attention: “Look dad” he said. “I killed it.” “You didn’t kill it,” I answered. “He’s a POW.”
The audience laughed at this exchange, but for me this was a serious philosophical debate over the nature of the game. I refused to believe that the pieces, my men, were killed. After all, they were standing there at the edge of the board. I determined my captured men’s fate on the character of my opponent. If he seemed arrogant and annoying, like this particular kid, I imagined my captive men being dragged in to some dark, roach-infested dungeon where they were cruelly tortured and interrogated. Of course, this only increased my desire to destroy the enemy and heroically rescue my captured men. On the other hand, if my opponent seemed quiet and reserved, he was fooling no one, certainly not me. He probably had tricked my men into revealing my secrets to him, and he was just covering it up with his poker-face.
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If the players were the generals, the grownups were the politicians. They had the power to veto our decisions and impose their own. Some fathers were deeply involved in their sons’ games, screening their every move. Others were more hands-off, preferring an advisory role whenever they were needed. My father gave me complete control over my game, but kept a watchful eye. He showed his approval or disapproval only after I had made a move. When the battle was over, he went over my strategy, pointing out the faults and preparing me for the next game.
Later at night, the real games began. For the grownups it really did seem like nothing more than a game. They towered over most of the pieces and moved them around the chessboard quickly and effortlessly. They had become lifeless pieces of wood now, and it seemed to me that the magic of the game was lost. The children paced around the chessboard cautiously, careful not to disturb the game in progress. When a piece was captured and hastily put aside by the grownups, the children would innocently put their hands on the discarded pawn and bob it back and forth, while all along feigning interest in the game. The fathers had no clue that this was actually our way of breathing life back into the pieces so that they would be ready for us next week.
My father and I wouldn’t stick around too long for the late games, and although he wouldn’t admit it, I think my father felt the same way I did. There was no excitement in a game that could have been played with the same indifference and mechanical precision on a regular chessboard. This board belonged to the children. The grownups used it, but with us it came alive.
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