By Kathleen Schaefer

Chess has no luck. If you lose, there are no cards or dice to blame. There are no teammates to accuse of incompetency. Losses come from your own failure to outwit, outsmart, and outplay your opponent. Chess is a battle of intellect. Chess is competition in its purest form.
I was never fond of competition. I detested the insistence of classmates who needed to compare each grade from every class. Ever since preschool, when I first realized that I could stay ahead of the majority of my peers, I wanted to remain that way. Each grade threatened me with the possibility of not being among the best. Competition only meant a chance for me to lose my position, a chance for failure.
Chess was the exception.
Chess was my childhood. I played nearly every day, sometimes sitting at the board for hours.
I progressed from being unable to compete unless my father removed half his pieces to being able to employ strategic openings for each game. My family invested in a fancy wooden chessboard, portable boards for trips, and a chess table for the living room.
I went to three tournaments and took home three trophies. Success left me euphoric, enough to dispel my fear of competition.
And just as some kids dream of becoming professional basketball players when they shoot their first hoop, I had some unspoken belief that I could become the next world champion in chess.
It never mattered that my own brother and father could easily best me in the majority of our matches. It never mattered that I only once placed first in just the local tournaments.
But when I finally did win the coveted first place trophy, I renounced tournaments. The next year would have taken me away from the younger division and placed me with the significantly more talented opponents of the older group. That was enough for me to consider the possibility of losing.
So I quit. I stopped attending tournaments. We pushed the chess table to the corner of the living room and it became nothing more than a decoration. I had ended with a victory and I would not risk losing.
But I did lose that day, even as I took home my first place trophy. I lost the enthusiasm I had for a simple pastime; I lost the clarity and reason I could find in a disordered chessboard; I lost something I loved because I allowed myself to forget that I did love it.
Competition comes every day. Every grade, rank, and number creates a thousand opportunities to compare yourself with your classmates. And while I never enjoy this aspect of school, I can appreciate the possibility of success rather than dread the risk of failure.
Over seven years of neglecting the game has left me with only vague remnants of the talent that I once possessed. And chess has a new meaning for me.
Chess is the peaceful break from the rush of schoolwork when I can sit down with my dad for a match. Chess is the delighted laughter of my little cousin when he finally beats me after switching sides of the board seven times during the game. Chess is my three trophies that still sit on my dresser.
Chess is that same wooden board whose pieces have rolled under every couch and table in my house, only to be recovered and returned to their proper position―the board that still sits in the corner of my living room, waiting to be played.