My brother Dara says the day his son Cormac beat him at chess was one of the proudest moments of his life. Well, not to outdo him, but I’ve just achieved a far higher accolade. This week, I beat my five-year-old son at chess for the first time.
I’d never played chess before a month ago. There was no conscious choice to avoid it, I was simply never offered a game growing up. Perhaps my friends were deliberately hiding this secret hobby from me, out of fear I’d prove too powerful. Whatever the case, chess followed a familiar path in my life; I didn’t do it when I was young, and thus had zero interest in adulthood, since I refuse to engage in any activity I’m not good at.
Occasionally, in conversations with nerdy types like myself, I’ve revealed that I’ve never played chess and don’t even know the names of the pieces or any of their special powers. People are usually polite – especially when telling me that keen players don’t generally refer to the pieces’ movements as ‘special powers’ – but there is sometimes a muted sense of surprise which, owing to my own insecurities, I’ve intuited as a moral judgment on my intellect.
In fiction, this moralising is often explicit. There are few clichés more overdone than the chess-game argument. You know the scene: the hero and villain trading barbs between moves, the feints and parries of their debate mirrored, improbably, on the chess board, until the final mot juste is delivered just as the killing last move is deployed.
This has never made sense to me. I’ve always found it perfectly reasonable to imagine someone who might be right about something and skilled at debate, while not being very good at chess.
All of which is a roundabout way of saying I was a total novice when my son started asking me to play. I was only too happy to oblige – read: I did not want to, but couldn’t say no – and, due to our shared ignorance of the rules, our first few battles had an uncanny, dreamlike energy. We stumbled in the dark, unsure if any of the moves we made were legal. My son learned fast, however, neglecting his usual Minecraft YouTube videos for weeks in favour of chess streamers. Within days, his wins were entirely legal; he deployed strategic plays and instructed me on where I was going wrong.
Under his tutelage, I improved, leading to last weekend’s game, or rather the sixth game of six. He’d left his big fellow open – I’m still learning the names – and I was able to slide in and knock it over. The joy I felt was enormous, matched only by his fury.
I was dimly aware of him leaving the room in a huff as I called my wife in to tell her the good news. She was more concerned with how he was feeling, totally unaware of the importance of what had just occurred. I cared not for such trifles. The student had become the master, and I was glad.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
Follow Séamas on X @shockproofbeats
