I rarely am at a loss for something to write about, but every now and then I raise the ante. I pick some subject out of the blue and see if I can write 200, maybe 300, words on it. Today’s assignment is the game of chess, the idea of which just popped into my head from nowhere.
Yet, did it really?
I learned to play chess from my Uncle Jimmy, who has been dead over forty years and whom I haven’t thought about recently. But this connection makes an essay about chess less random after all.
Uncle Jimmy was an adult when I was eight years old. He visited his Mother, my grandmother who lived in the same city I did, one year and, to pass the time, commandeered me to play chess with him. I didn’t have a clue to the game, but that didn’t faze Uncle Jimmy. He taught me a few rudimentary rules and then proceeded to beat me time after time. I’m not sure why I even allowed myself to be set up for this, but then my uncle was a formidable person. Finally, when I became disenchanted with the title of Loser, he decided to spot me some pieces. He would remove a powerful piece or two — like a rook or a bishop — while I got to keep my corresponding pieces. The game grew closer, but I still owned the Loser title.
That was years ago. I went on to play chess in high school, badgering my best friend of the time to learn the game and then beating her soundly. Finally, I too spotted her and the inevitable happened. She beat me one day. Actually, we were both happy about it, as it’s more fun to play with an equal than it is to play with someone who struggles with the game.
So did the idea of chess come randomly to my mind? Or was it there all along, just waiting for an opportunity to become an essay. You decide.
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