Not so, Dovid says. When you keep your pieces safe, you’re not playing chess right

“Want to play chess, Ma?”

I stare at this teen, my son Dovid, wondering why he’s asking. Because he knows, good and well, that I hate playing chess. There’s something about the game that hits me the wrong way. It’s emotionally draining to kill precious pawns, figure out how my rook can best protect himself, and rodeo with that elusive horse.

But Dovid is standing there, anticipation tickling his face, and I can’t say no.

I say yes, one game. He nods, sets out the chess pieces while I get a glass of water, squirt in lemon juice.

What’s disconcerting about playing chess with my son, anyone really, is that it makes me feel inadequate. Hey, I can play games with my kids and lose graciously because it’s bonding time and all that. What I can’t do is play chess because I always lose.

It drops me back into childhood, those feelings of stupidity  that crept up my chest when I played chess with my younger sister. She always triumphed, leaving me, the big sister, scrambling for safer recreation, like reading and playing house. Then, when I was 12, I got smarter, and stopped playing chess with her — or anyone.

We take our initial turns, Dovid and I, surrendering a young pawn into the battlefield. I study the board to contemplate my next move, which piece I can keep safe. But Dovid, he hangs it all out, moves his queen into enemy territory. I shiver. For his safety. Queens are supposed to be moved for emergencies only. I consider saying so, but there’s intensity in his eyes, and I keep back. He’ll learn with time.

I gingerly move a second pawn, studying Dovid’s bishop encroaching my space.

“Checkmate, Ma.”