I was introduced to the world of chess on weekend afternoons, watching my mom and dad face off across the board. I was too little to understand the intricacies of the game, but it didn’t take much to understand its gravity.
Every time my dad lost—which happened quite often—he would become utterly defeated. He’d snap up from his chair, light a cigarette, and refuse to speak to anyone for the rest of the day. Meanwhile, my mom showed zero empathy. In fact, she practically radiated a smug happiness.
This dramatic weekly ritual demanded an explanation. Driven by pure curiosity, I started showing interest in the game at four years old.
The Fork in the Road
I learned how the pieces moved and began playing against my mom. She was the only one kind enough to let me promote a pawn to a Queen before gracefully resigning; I certainly didn’t get that same royal treatment from my older sisters.
Recognizing our interest, my parents hired a private tutor named Tibi, who came to our house once a week. It quickly became clear that I had potential. I loved the geometry, the calculations, and solving puzzles—but I absolutely hated studying by myself. I never did my homework.
One day, Tibi sat me down and said something I will never forget:
“You need to figure out one thing going forward: Do you want to be good at chess, or do you want to play it for fun? If you want to be great, the road ahead is incredibly difficult. If you just want to play for fun, the road is much easier, and you’ll enjoy chess as a lifelong hobby.”
Wanting to impress him, I boldly claimed I wanted to be the best player in the world. But in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn’t true. I just wanted to play for the joy of it. Pretty soon, that became obvious to everyone else, too.
Lost in Translation
Chess followed me through life, but its true power didn’t hit me until more than ten years ago, when I moved to China.
I had no friends, spoke zero Chinese, and felt an crushing sense of loneliness creeping in with each passing day. Sitting in a local restaurant where no one spoke my language, I was convinced I wouldn’t survive the year of my contract.
Then, one evening, I saw the restaurant’s chef playing Xiangqi (Chinese chess) with one of the bartenders.
I approached them, watching intently. Just like when I was a toddler watching my parents, I had no idea what was happening. The pieces themselves were mysteries—just incomprehensible Chinese characters stamped on wooden discs.
But the familiar spark was reignited. I went home and scoured the internet. I memorized the characters, studied the rules, and practiced against computer engines.
The Universal Language
A few days later, I went back to the restaurant. I ate, had a drink, and patiently waited. The moment the chef and bartender started setting up the board, I walked over and signaled that I wanted to play.
They looked at me with open curiosity and invited me to sit.
As the game began, the tension melted away. Luckily, the core tactics and strategies of international chess still apply to the Chinese version. All I had to do was survive the opening, and my calculation skills could take over.
Against the odds, I won.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The entire kitchen staff surrounded the table, customers hovered over our shoulders, and everyone was smiling at me. From that day on, I never felt lonely in China again.
What is it about this game that makes it more captivating than any other? I’ve tried to answer that question many times, and every time I fail to find the perfect words. But I know this: when words failed me entirely, I learned to communicate in the beautiful, universal language of chess.
Leave a Reply