I am beset by shrapnel. Pawns fly through the air like exploded balcony segments, rooks plink and plonk off the floor and embed themselves deep within the recesses of our home. My five-year-old son stands above the debris, glowering like Godzilla. He has upended the board again following a defeat to his persistent aggressor. Me.
Chess pieces travel fast, so everything else you might wish to offer at this juncture – remonstration, comfort, a stern word, or a hug – must be put on hold while you chase down the disjecta membra in the tiny window of time in which they continue to live in this dimension. For those few seconds they will be visible, found rotating slowly under tables and couches, still energised by the explosion that’s just rent them from their grid. After that they’ll become mere memories, popping back into existence one by one over the next few weeks, in plant pots, slippers and, basically, anywhere you’re looking for something else.
The side benefit of this chore is it allows him to cool down as we return the pieces to their right place, and speak about what’s just happened. Michael Jordan once said, ‘Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.’ Well, he’d have loved my son, one of the worst losers in all of Christendom.
He – my son, not Michael Jordan – is still teaching me chess and, I should stress, beating me most of the time. Having never played chess before about six weeks ago, I suddenly find myself wanting to play constantly, and we have dozens of games each week. I win about one game in three, and 50% of those occasions results in us picking up the pieces afterwards.
He gets it from his mother, who has never given up in any game or argument since I’ve known her. If I lose at, say, tenpin bowling, the pain dissolves from my brain like vapour within milliseconds of defeat. My wife, on the other hand, will immediately begin drafting a strongly worded email titled ‘Justice?!?’ to Sheikh Talal Mohammed Al-Sabah, president of the International Bowling Federation.
I generally find if I’m good at something, I don’t mind losing, because I enjoy the sport of it. If I’m not good at something, I simply couldn’t care less. There may be a harrowing psychological process at play inside my brain. Some infinite capacity for emotional repression, perhaps, or a psychopathic propensity for wiping failure from my mind. It’s served me well through the many disappointments of my life, and I now face having to counsel my son through his own.
I say nothing, choosing instead the path of example. We reset the board. His face is pursed and sour. I tell myself maybe I’ll go easy on him, but then I see a killer route to his queen. I can’t be letting him away with that, I think. He needs to learn. Before I’ve even withdrawn my hand, his rook has swooped for my undefended king, ending the game.
He laughs. I feel a hotness in my throat and draw a blank as I think who I could send an email to. His eyes fill with glee, coaxing me to join him on the dark side. All equanimity is lost. I grab the board with both hands.
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Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
