I couldn’t even bring myself to say the final words. “Uhhmm, check …?” I said. “You know goddamn well that ain’t no check. What is that?” “Checkmate?” “Why you puttin’ a question on it? Say it!” “Checkmate.” “Yup, good game.” Daddio shook my hand, grabbed his cigarette and his drink, and went inside. We never played chess again. For years, I thought it was because he was a sore loser. But as I got to understand him better, I saw that he wanted my final memory of playing chess with my father to be perfect. He wanted my mind to be programmed to winning and to savor victory. His training of me on
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