14/52 – My oldest likes to play chess. That is, when he isn’t kicking a soccer ball or shooting a hockey puck or playing a video game. Sometimes it is a little hard for me to reconcile these likes of his but I’m glad he plays. For all the reasons that are probably obvious, but a few different ones too. When he was born, he received a beautiful set as a gift from my dad, the grandfather who he only had a few short years to know and love. So somehow I like that perhaps he occasionally thinks of his grandpa, or the idea of his grandpa, when he plays.
He became interested in the set when he was four, and one afternoon he asked me to teach him how to play. He now routinely beats me (he’s a decent player; I’m a dreadful one). But he has never yet beaten his own dad. This Saturday morning was a slow and lazy one, spent up north at the cottage, away from the bustle of the city and the hockey and soccer games and the swimming lessons and the like. There’s not much yet to do at this time of year up north, so out came the chess set. His dad won. But I can see a day when he won’t.
