I love the game of chess.
Each time I play a game or hold a chess piece in my hand, I think about the man who taught me how to play – my dad.
I loved my dad.
I had a wonderful father who was my best friend, counselor, and person I could talk to about anything.
Dad loved the game of chess.
I don’t remember how old I was when he taught me the game. I felt special.
When I was a small child, I watched dad play chess with quiet Mr. Kelley from across the street and several of my favorite uncles. Now it was my turn.
The lessons were long and confusing. Phrases like “queen on her own color” and “white always begins,” became dad’s often repeated mantra.
I forgot the rules a lot at first. But it was OK. I was spending time with dad.
Games started with dad’s big hands behind his back holding a different color pawn in each. The hand I chose held the color I played.
I tried to guess dad’s hands. I never did.
“Set up the board,” dad would say and smile.
I gently removed the vintage pieces from an oval-shaped, brown metal container in which they slept in, and occasionally shared with, a stray crayon or two.
I loved that chess set and memorized each piece.
The guardians of dad’s parquet kingdom of white and black stood about 4-inches tall. They were beautiful.
The plastic pieces looked carved and showed intricate details of each face and pre-combat stare.
I wanted to command an army of tower rooks, knights on reared steeds, and pawns behind ready shields. I loved the queens in molded royal vesture who stood by cherished kings. I looked fondly as the loyal couples were protected by prayerfully vigilant bishops clothed with crosses and period hair.
My imagination was deep. But the reality was quick.
Dad usually ended games in about five moves. He was great. I was terrible. But it didn’t matter. I was with dad. It was our time.
I miss those times.
It took years before I could compete. And while I could not beat him, we still played.
I learned at his hand and loved to hear “good move, son,” followed by a big smile.
As I grew older and busier with friends and work the games became less frequent. Teenage interests and then young adult pursuits took the place of chess.
But not dad. He still loved the game.
I often saw him working alone setting up pieces to coincide with games clipped from pages of a local newspaper or his collection of older books on chess. But Dad always took time for a Saturday match after “Wide World Of Sports,” or a late evening foray to our gray and blackboard, when asked.
It was during those times we quietly shared our day, our thoughts, and our world.
I miss those times. I miss my dad.
When Pop died, I became heir to his collection of sets. Some were carved, some electronic, and some traditional.
But I’ve yet to find the set I love.
I’m sure it’s still at the house tucked away on some obscure shelf or moved by unknowing hands.
I want to hold the pieces again and feel the cool smoothness of the board.
I hope one day I will.
But until I do, each time I see a knight, hold a rook, or move a king, I’ll be reminded of my dad and the wonderful kingdom we shared. It’s a memory I pray will never fade.
Take more than one day to make memories with your dad – they will last a lifetime.
