Win Some, Lose More

My nine-year-old daughter and I sit across the table from each other, deeply focused.  Both our brows are furrowed.  Her delicate little brow, and my bigger, Cro-Mag brow.  The entire house around us is utterly still.  The air is taut with tension, the kind typically reserved for early morning duels: two opponents facing each other just before dawn, pistols raised, barely visible to each other through the fog clinging to the moor. 

Situated on the table between us:  a checker board.

Checkers.  Sport of kings.  Wait, that’s chess.  Ok, maybe not kings so much.  But definitely the sports of middle managers and higher echelon henchmen.

This is her first time playing.  It's a birthday gift from my parents, and she loves board games.

Which is tricky because the kid hates to lose.  At anything.  She's... uh, sort of like her Dad that way.

Before we started, I explained the rules, mapped out a few simple strategies, and said, “Remember, this is your time playing.  It may take a few rounds before you start to get the hang of it.”

“Oh yea?” she said, the spark of challenge lighting up her eyes, “How long have you been playing Checkers?”

“A few decades, kiddo.”

“Well we’ll just see about that,” she replied, giving me Smug.  This kid.  She’s all piss and vinegar at the start of a competition. 

“And Daddy?”

“Yea?”

“Don’t let me win.”

And with that, the gauntlet was thrown.

When I was young, my dad and I played a lot of board games.  I remember begging him to play a lot (only child), and to his credit, he rarely said no.  But you know that thing where you play games with your kid and artfully manage to throw it one direction or the other?  You let your kid win one, then maybe you win one, and in the process you teach a gentle, carefully crafted lesson about struggle and hardship?  I don’t recall my dad doing that.  In my memory, the man preferred to go for the kill.  He’ll deny it to this day, but I still remember the gleam in his eye when he rounded that final corner past the Molasses Swamp and made his beeline for the Candyland Castle.  Or when he snagged Marvin Gardens after I’d bought the other two yellow properties.  Or when he was the first to realize that it was Professor Plum, and only Professor Plum, who’d committed the grisly act of murder.  In the Ballroom.  With the Candlestick.  It wasn’t his fault.  He just couldn’t help himself.

We’re fine now, my dad and I.  We’re close.  I’m just saying.  I don’t remember doing a whole lot of winning when I was a kid. 

*

So here we are, my girl and I, bent over the checkerboard.  Despite several attempts to take a dive, I’ve somehow ended up with twice the number of men left on the board than she has.  She's pretty much surrounded.  I have no idea how this happened.  Seriously, I tried to throw it.  The kid just sucks at this game.

She seems to sense what's coming.  Her earlier trash talk is no more, and I can see that she’s frustrated.  Her jaw is clenched, and her body is tight as a wire as she sits up in her chair.  God, I remember that feeling so well.  I remember getting so mad at my dad after losing a game, and looking at him through rage-filled eyes when he extended his hand and said, “Good game, Son.”   My dad has always been a kind and gracious guy, but back then, I was convinced he was mocking me with that handshake.  More than once I came so close to throwing our backgammon board across the room, stomping down to my bedroom and slamming the door.

I could still turn this around for her.  It would take some creative maneuvering (Jesus, how did I manage to corner her like this?), but I could find a way.  Why does today have to be the day she gets a fresh lesson in how to be a noble loser?  Don’t we as adults have to learn that lesson over and over AND OVER AGAIN, goddammit?  If we tally up our Losses and Victories over the years – teams we tried out for, dates we asked for, promotions we worked towards – the Losses list would probably be longer.  That’s just life.  Why should all that start now?  Right now, every synapse in this girl’s brain is firing as she tries to figure out a way to avoid losing this game. 

How bad of a dad would I be if I threw it?

She takes her turn, moving one of her checkers and pressing her finger down on it for a full minute as she measures that move’s implications before releasing.  It’s a bad move.  She’s opened herself up to attack.  And she’s just realized it.

She looks at me with an expression I gave my dad many times.  Are you really going to do it? the look is asking.  

My move.