Dad
played chess as a true Russian wages war.
Absorb.
Absorb.
Absorb,
deplete enemy resources,
stretch his supply lines to the point of
snapping
then, overwhelm his remains with an unstoppable
Kursk tank attack,
attack,
attack.

I,
on the other hand,
played like my Mike the Mick grandfather,
go in swinging,
keep on swinging, swinging
until there is nothing left of your enemy’s face
or your own strength.

I never beat my father.

Even when the smells of his Rusty Nail, his Black Russian
fogged the air around the board.

Ever wonder why so many Grand Masters are Russian?
Or why Irishmen get maudlin at wakes?

Who needs history lessons when there is
a chess game
to be fought?