Games With My Father

One time, my dad gave me advice. He was watching me strategize while playing a game of chess. He told me to never move a piece unless it's protected by another. Now every time I move his words stay with me. If I could take a bird's eye view of my game and the overall method of my strategies, I'd say that I am defensive, cautious, and easily overcome by more daring players.

I recall this rare memory while I stare at my phone on a chess app trying to strategize my next move against an anonymous player. I consider my options, run through scenarios, and remember my father's words. Over time, my game has developed. I've won a few. I've lost many more, but I enjoy the functionality provided via online applications of chess. I am able to plan out my moves, anticipate my enemies, and carefully select my strategy. Still, there are many times I am surprised by moves I did not predict, and each time I cannot help but feel a flash of frustration run through my body. While I wallow in disappointment mainly directed at myself, I wonder why I even play this game. What is even the point when I'm not even good at it? I ruminate on these words with bitterness, and they weigh like an anchor on my heart.

One day, I get a notification on my phone alerting me that I have an invite waiting from a player named CSNumber1. I accept the invite and also select the setting that randomly assigns each player their color. I end up with white and decide on a common opening: queen's pawn to D4. They respond in turn blocking my pawn's advancement. Next, I move my knight to defend my position in the center, and afterwards, I move my pawns in preparation for queen's gambit. They don't take it.

By mid game, I see that he has positioned his bishops side by side. I realize they couldn't be skewered except with a rook, but generally those pieces are reserved for the end of the game. The bishops ultimately became difficult to overcome and the game was quickly becoming one sided. Despite the inevitable, I continued doing my best to get a draw. The checkmate came but not without effort. CS messaged me.

"Do you want to play again?"

"Sure," I reply.

We play again, but unlike the first game, I was more pressed for time. I needed to make dinner for my family so by mid game I dropped off. The app allows for at least 24 hours to respond, so I did not see a problem with this. I returned to the game with an impatient message from CS.

"What happened? Do you quit?"

"No. I had to make dinner."

"You eat late."

"Why? What time do you eat?"

"My family eats at 4pm."

"You eat early."

"It's good for digestion."

We continue the game. I try to prevent the joint bishop attack but my attempts are in vain, by mid game they are next to each other. I can practically see CS smirking through the phone screen. I delay the king's capture as long as I can but end up losing again.

"Good game," says CS.

"You too," I reply

"When are you normally free to play? I like finishing games in one sitting."

I give CS some good times for me, and we begin to plan some regular games. Over the next few weeks we play many. CS wins most of them. I drew one and won one.

Peppered in these sessions we small talked and discovered many similarities.

"Did you catch the game last night?" I asked CS.

"Yes. Simmons is terrible."

"He's hesitant to shoot but his defense is elite," I respond, "Plus, he's young. He might develop that shot one day. It's too soon to give up on him."

"Perhaps he will. The referees made some bad calls last night. They wanted to give it to the Raptors."

"Yeah definitely." (This story clearly happened before the 21-22 season)

We both also shared a love of guitars, and it came out that I was tinkering around with some builds learning luthiering.

"I prefer the look of koa guitars. They have a nice grain and a warm color," I relate to CS.

"That is fair, but they are very thin sounding," CS replies.

"I heard though that the longer you play it, it opens up and mimics the sound of an east Indian rosewood guitar," I state.

"Sound like bullshit to me. East Indian rosewood was over-farmed so supply is low. They are just trying to get people to buy other types, but nothing beats it. I own a Guild built in 1973. It still sounds perfect. They don't make guitars like that anymore."

"Guilds are great," I concur, "but I think quality has gone down a little over the years."

"In their cheaper lines, they manufactured in China for a while, but even those were still good compared to their competitors' similar lines. Their high end models never lost quality."

"What do you think of Taylor?" I ask.

"They're great too. Their guitars have a brighter sound to me. I prefer the richness and fullness of sound I get with Guilds. How is your build going?"

CS also patiently offered tips on how to improve my game, and as the months went by I could see a minor improvement in my rank on the app.

One day, he sends me a math riddle.

"Can you get it?"

"Is it 40?"

"Correct."

He sends me another which I also answer correctly.

"Do you like math? You're good at math," CS asks.

"Thanks. Yeah I guess I do given that I studied engineering."

"I am an engineer too. Actually, I am retired now. I worked for 32 years as a Chemical Engineer."

I read that sentence again, and it suddenly clicked. Did he know it was me? Quickly, I realize he couldn't have because in all these months he never pestered me about leaving the family, and he absolutely would. If anything my parents never held back if I made any sort of mistakes in their eyes. My father was a terrifying specter and I couldn't even be alone in a room with him and feel safe. There were times when I believed my father enjoyed hurting me. In between tears and sobs I remember looking up at his face hoping to see some compassion, support, regret or empathy. Instead, I would see him suppressing a smile.

Now, here I am, and for the first time in my life I'm having conversations with my father. He offered me advice. He was polite. He was respectful.

My fingers were cold like all the blood had run to my heart. Unwillingly, tears filled my eyes, and I quickly brushed them away. I continued the game like nothing had happened but despite my best efforts I did terrible.

"You made so many small, dumb mistakes," CS said frankly.

"Sorry. Feeling sick. Need to log off," I replied.

I sat back on my couch feeling like I was in another world. The safe shield of anonymity had shattered, and I was that little girl again, curled up in a ball in the corner of my room, begging god or anything out there to save me, while my father's large figure stood ominously before me. What was it about me that made him hate me so much? Why was he able to offer Tomats83 the respect he could never give his daughter?

I didn't return to the app for a number of weeks, but then one day I found myself on it again. I received a message from CS.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yup."

We played a game and I pretended like everything was fine. I had honed that ability growing up. My mom always encouraged me to never share family secrets. Besides, what was I supposed to say to a father who can never show respect to me but could respect a complete stranger on the internet?

Still, every polite word from CS was a like a jab to my chest. My mother and father used to say that a parent's love is unconditional, but I have found that is untrue. In reality, a child's love is unconditional. A child would rather see their own ugliness, hate themselves, even sabotage themselves than face the monstrous actions of their parents. They'll do anything to feel close to them, to feel a belonging with them.

I lost the game against CS, and feeling sick again, I sent a short goodbye and logged off.