My eldest son reached forward. Picked up the chess piece. “Pawn to e4,” he said.
A classic opening.
I countered with one of the lesser known chess moves. But one I’ve been working on for years. I’ve perfected it. I am – at least as far as this move goes – a Grandmaster.
I reached forward. Picked up my glass. “Wine to mouth 1,” I said.
I pushed a pawn forward. “The Sicilian,” I confidently declared.
Two moves later and Dan had taken it. “Sicilian? I think you’ve confused it with the pizza, Dad.”
What happened this Christmas? My boys played chess.
Wind back the clock and they disappeared to their bedrooms, linked laptops and slaughtered aliens.
This year? Chess is the new Halo.
The black bishops are the evil spawn from the outer Galaxy.
They trooped into the dining room, decided who was white – and spent an hour in silent contemplation.
They had an unofficial mini-league. Dan, Alex and Lizzie. You-know-what meant she couldn’t go home for Christmas. So here she was: 10,500 miles from her mum and dad and checkmating my youngest son.
“What’s that?” Alex said. “Twelve all?”
“I think I’m winning 13-12.”
And there you have it. Shared interests? Shared sense of humour? Forget ’em. Want your relationship to succeed? You need the same chess rating.
I didn’t get involved in the Christmas games. Largely because I spent most of Christmas washing up, peeling potatoes or exhausted on the sofa. I wandered in occasionally, noted that Dan generally seemed to be winning and wandered out.
And then Alex and Lizzie betrayed me. They braved Nicola’s border guards and went back to Edinburgh.
“Do you want to play chess after dinner, Dad?”
Obviously I want to play chess with my son. But Dan’s doing a PhD. One that features equations. Equations that feature lots of Σ’s and those big, squiggly F’s.
So I wasn’t optimistic. The bookmakers were offering long odds on my survival.
And chess isn’t my game. I’m not sure it’s any writer’s game.
The wrong type of brain. Faulty wiring.
Creative, not analytical.
My brain especially. Definitely faulty wiring. But not the faulty wiring that Messrs Fischer and Spassky had.
I’d like to tell you that the game was close. That my ruthless execution of the Queen’s Gambit left him helpless. Floundering.
That after an hour of an intense battle between two intellectual titans we shook hands – whoops, bumped elbows – on a draw.
I’d like to tell you that. In truth it was the Chinese People’s Army against a primitive tribe who’d barely mastered the bow and arrow.
And it only got worse when he went back to Leeds.
Our games moved online.
See above. Faulty wiring. Inability to concentrate. And when you can’t concentrate, online is not a good place to be.
You’ve taken my Queen! I wailed into the chat box.
Yes, you moved your knight, he typed back.
Well I wasn’t concentrating
That’s not my fault, Dad
You took so long to make your move that I checked the football scores
So I checked the scores again. No change…
“I’d threaten his Queen if I had any pieces left,” I complained to my lovely wife. “I managed one cunning plan. Skewered his castle – ”
“And then you sat on your laurels.”
Yes. And drank some more wine.
“I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll offer him a draw. What could be a fairer result between father and son? A magnanimous draw, both players acknowledging the other’s skill and prowess?”
I reached for my mouse. Double-clicked the ‘offer draw’ button.
Dan’s response was simple and to the point. He checkmated me…
“Michael Brady had my interest from the first chapter. By the fifth I had a crush. Salt in the Wounds is an exciting story, played out in a location almost as engaging as the book’s characters. Can’t wait for the second book…”
The second book, The River Runs Deep, will be published on January 31st. You can pre-order it by clicking the link.