It’s Not Always About the End Game
I’m out of my element. There’s no singing, dancing, or acting here. Instead, there are rows and rows of chessboards. It’s a Saturday morning and I have accompanied my husband, Jacob, to a chess tournament in Houston at the Poison Pawn Chess Club (poisonpawns.club). The waiting room, often called the “skittles room,” is filling up. The competitors are ethnically diverse from Indian, Filipino, Russian, Pakistani, Cuban and Chinese backgrounds.
Jacob whispers, “See those three teenagers?”
I spot a group of teenagers joking around. They are dressed in sweats and t-shirts.
“They are candidate masters.” He points, “See that kid over there? He’s 11 and he’s a candidate master too.”
I asked, “How far are you from being a candidate master?”
“It’s one rank above me.”
Pascal is credited with saying, “Chess is the gymnasium of the mind.” These players of all ages and backgrounds are like-minded. They are disciplined, analytical and focused. Jacob is one of the oldest here. He introduces me around. He knows about half of the players. A girl walks into the room. I recognize her from years ago when she was so tiny, she would perch with her feet on the chair to make a move on the chessboard. She has grown a few inches since then. Another little girl arrives. I observed her struggle to tie her shoelaces, but she looks confident to face her competitors at the chessboard.
I have prepared myself for a long day. I brought my laptop, iPad and a book to read. Parents have brought their laptops, books and snacks. They mill around the skittles room. A few people are engaged in a pick-up chess game. One mother fixes her young son’s collar as she encourages him to do his best. A father hugs his son and slaps him on the shoulder as he heads into the tournament room. Another father and son give a fist bump. A contestant walks by with a chess piece tattooed on his forearm.
Players disappear into the tournament room and sit at tables set with chessboards and chess clocks. The director announces that the tournament begins. There is a camera in the room that scans the games allowing the parents to occasionally see their child on the screen. The players will see their “standing” after each game and the name of the competitor they will play in the next round. There will be nine games today.
My husband emerges after 11 minutes; he’s all smiles. He won his first game. One by one, the competitors return to the skittles room. It’s abuzz with players analyzing their games. I listen to their conversations, “He blundered his pieces and made obvious bad moves” and “I lost in the end game” and “He played a different opening; I wasn’t ready for it.”
This game that originated in 6th century India will take all of the 43 competitors’ diligence and patience today. They will think in multi-step moves and will make decisions under pressure. They’ll make blunders but strive to control their emotions. They will analyze missteps, adapt and carry on with resilience. Sounds a lot like real life, doesn’t it? Benjamin Franklin nailed it when he said, “Life is a kind of Chess, with struggle, competition, good and ill events.”
As the day wears on, not all the players are smiling. I watch the little girl give her mom the thumbs up then the thumbs down after another game. At one point, her older brother, was winning the tournament. But in the end, the winner was one of the teens. Jacob placed somewhere in the middle. There was no whooping and hollering like a soccer or football game, just calm smiles, a pat on the back or a handshake.
My husband plays in these weekend tournaments twice a month and most Tuesday nights. This is his happy place where he is in his element. He often asks me if I want to come and watch. I usually say no, but I’m glad I went this time to observe these chess enthusiasts and witness their comradery. It’s not always about the end game, but it’s always about the love of the game.
Published in The Facts newspaper Brazos Living column May 13, 2026
