Director's Cut

I’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER THE DAY the mysterious cardboard box was placed on the table for me to discover, as was the custom with many of the toys my grandfather bought. The contents seemed familiar, but when I shook the package like a Christmas present, the weight and sound and feel of the plastic pieces clanking together was distinctly different than that of my beloved checkers, a game I frequently played with grandpa when he came home from work. He would remind me that he was the “checkers champion” on his boat in the Navy; then we would eat twinkies and revel in tricky double jumps and mighty backward jumps that could only be achieved after crowning a king.

It never mattered if I won. Checkers was like Shoots and Ladders, or tic-tac-toe, or CandyLand--- games where the rules were easy and everybody had a chance. The box reinforced this notion by stating the game was “for ages three and up.” At the age of four and a half, I didn’t know how to read, but I learned to count and I knew (and was proud to tell anyone who would listen) that I was definitely older than three.

This new game was different; however… it was complicated and mysterious. Instead of the black and red checkerboard, this board had light squares and dramatic dark squares. The pieces didn’t look like cookies or chips, but were black and white with unique shapes and sizes resembling crowns and crosses and horses and castles.

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When I was sure nobody was watching, I opened the box and placed the chessmen on the unfolded board in front of me. As I did this, a world opened before my eyes which has managed to intrigue me ever since. Although I didn’t know the names of the pieces or how they worked, I was determined to learn.

I soon noticed this mysterious box again as it became a fixture underneath the checkers and the other games stacked on the kitchen table. When I finally worked up the nerve to ask grandpa if we could play together, he pointed to the writing on the box which indicated that chess (unlike checkers), was for people “ages FIVE and up.”

During my ensuing episode of disappointment, grandpa (ever a stickler for the rules) assured me that if I kept up with checkers, he would reward me by teaching me how to play chess. As time passed, my curiosity increased to the point where I think I was as anxious to learn about chess as I was to receive any other present on my birthday.

When the day arrived, it took one lesson for me to finally understand the object of the game and how everything moved and worked. At first everything seemed easy. It would take many years and frustrating losses before I could start to comprehend how complicated and profound the subject truly could be.

My first chess goal related to impressing my grandfather by recollecting the information he waited so long to entrust in me. I put my knowledge to the test during our first game and managed (I’m sure with some help) to evenly exchange the majority of my pawns and all of my major and minor pieces with his. I remember the excitement I felt as my king chased and captured his remaining pawns while his king did the same on the opposite side of the board.

Our two monarchs finally stood alone in what I’ve come to learn is an obvious stalemate, but then grandpa moved his king next to mine and allowed me to make an impossible capture to win the game. For some time, I remember bragging to grandma of how “I beat grandpa the first time I ever played him.” Despite the fact that he never refuted my boasts; I don’t have any memories of being able to make such a claim again.

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Soon after I learned to play, my grandfather began to struggle with his health. He spent many months in and out of the hospital during his final two years and our chess games became less frequent. Aside from my first lesson, I also remember a park in Prescott saturated in sunlight and the smell of evergreens. A low-standing butte hovered beyond the forest and overlooked the stony picnic table where my grandmother prepared lunch as my grandfather took out his chessboard and an old, rusted metallic box.

He opened the box and removed a set of odd and heavy chess pieces. As he did this, he told me he welded these pieces together during the Second World War. As each one was submitted to me for examination, I noticed that despite their homemade ruggedness, the pieces were smooth and uniformed and it was easy to determine which role they played. Since the boat constantly rocked back and forth, he told me, he created this heavy set so the sailors could enjoy their games without having to reset their positions on the turbulent sea.

Sadly, that chess set, along with my grandfather and my grandmother, have been lost to the ages. I will never find out how my grandfather developed those homemade pieces in his opening play, how sound his endgame strategy was; if he understood tactics and hypermodern theory… but in my mind, he will always be a great player, the player who shared the game with me for the first time. I am fully aware now, more than twenty-five years later, of what a special bond he and I began during that brief time, and I’m ever more aware of how the value of that bond has continued to increase ever since.

What I also realize now is that learning chess is a way to develop your mind as well as your friendships. That being said, the one thing my grandfather (and Milton Bradley) was wrong about is the idea that chess is a specific age. Chess has been around for centuries and will continue to thrive for centuries to come. The idea that I can connect with another person and share in something timeless is why I come back to the board again and again, regardless of how old I am, or whether I win, lose, or draw.

For a notoriously poor sport such as myself, I guess that’s all the proof necessary to reinforce the notion that chess is for all people of all ages throughout the ages. Thank you for the wonderful gift, grandpa… and thanks for letting me take that first game.