The Games we Play
I recall there always being a chess board with a game mid-play in our home when I was growing up. Eddie learned to play chess at a young age, though it was years later he became skilled at the game. The catalyst, he swears, was a gift from his father-in-law: a small blue book by Gerald Abrahams called, Teach Yourself Chess. He studied the contents so thoroughly that in the early 1980’s, when he received a fancy new electronic chess set from Gin, he challenged the computer’s brain, book in hand, and won game after game.
In Abrahams’ introduction of his book, he says, “Whatever learning (whether from books or from other players) a student of chess acquires is only valuable in the degree that it makes his mind receptive to the possibilities of the board, to the ideas and notions that pervade the board, and in so far as it widens and deepens his awareness of a rich and enjoyable field of experience.” Eddie was proof of this as he tactically and cheerfully defeated his opponents, whether it be in chess or cards. (It was true in board games too, but as his opponents were characteristically my siblings and me in our primary years, it can hardly be deemed a challenging conquer. He walloped us none the less.) He had a gift for strategy, and while Teach Yourself Chess may have been a contributor, my guess is that Eddie picked up a knack for it long before the little blue book came into his hands.
The middle of three boys, Eddie grew up in a small tenement flat in Glasgow, Scotland. His mom, who would succumb to tuberculosis when he was nine years old, was ill for some time, which meant the boys were often on their own. Eddie, however, remembers it as a happy childhood, filled with games to occupy his time. These, I believe, were the strategy-building years.
There were the usual games, of course, like boxing. One must quickly discover a strategy to keep from being pummeled by one’s siblings, but Eddie’s time in the ring had an added complication. His father had gifted the boys boxing gloves for Christmas, but could only afford one pair, which had to be shared. And so, the boys would enter the ring (their shared double bed, squeezed into a small alcove off the living room) and duke it out, learning the importance of dodging their opponents gloved hand, all the while keeping a keener eye on the one with the power to deliver a blinding blow. Their mother’s absence is acutely evident in the fact that they used one of her lovely decorative brass bowls as a gong, hitting it with a hammer to mark the rounds. This beautiful time-keeping piece, covered in chips and dings, now sits on my bookshelf surrounded by other volumes of terrific tales.
Ah, but I would be remiss not to include Scotland’s national sport of football (known as soccer in this part of the world.) It was played everywhere and anywhere, and if you think it couldn’t be played in a 300 square foot apartment space, guess again! Confined to their surroundings, the brothers altered the game to crab-football, the soccer ball a large wad of cloth balled up and held together with string. The game was often interrupted by Mrs. McInnes from the flat downstairs who would rap on the ceiling with her broomstick, signaling that the game had become too wild. The day Eddie’s younger brother accidentally left the sink running till it overflowed and ran through Mrs. McInnes’ ceiling was likely her final undoing. The boys however, always seizing the moment, simply donned their bathing suits, making a quick pivot from crab soccer to surfing. They were versatile like that!
But before you get the idea that the three brothers were a trio bent only on rambunctious physical play, let me steer you toward their scientific endeavors. Eddie and his brothers frequently had their friends over to play in the minute apartment– another key indication of their mother’s absence! On one of these occasions, Eddie’s older brother, Ian, informed the gang of youngsters that he had created the ultimate science experiment – a heat-seeking missile – as he showed them a wooden device housing some dials and a sewing needle. He went on to explain that the high-tech scientific contraption had a timer and when it went off, the sewing needle would be launched in the air to seek its victim. He warned them that as soon as he set the timer, they should run and hide because the needle would soar through the air in pursuit of a place to land, which would likely be someone’s tender rear end. As he set the timer, the boys would race through the flat screaming and seeking shelter. Then, with everyone secured away, Ian would take the pin from it’s base, hide next to some gullible young chap and promptly jab the needle into his hind quarters. That Eddie’s friends were that naïve is remarkable. That they agreed to succumb to this experiment time and time again is a mystery I’ll never understand.
What I am beginning to understand more and more though is how childhood games give us valuable tools and skills as we grow. Strategy, versatility, ingenuity, laughter – all invaluable gifts from the games we play.