Today I was going to the venue of the chess tournament with my dad. We were in his car, and he was driving his old sedan, the one that rattled a little when you hit a bump and always smelled faintly of his aftershave and the air freshener he insisted on keeping clipped to the vent. He had the radio tuned to his favorite station, playing some old songs that he liked. He'd been humming along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him in weeks.
My dad actually took a leave from work for this—just for my hobby. He might not be the best human in the world, but he's the best dad for me. I glanced over at him, catching the easy smile on his face as he drove. He always had that chill vibe, like he got a gamers mind of his own
. When I asked him to come with me to the tournament—because apparently if you are not eighteen, you needed an adult or guardian with you—he didn't question me or make a fuss. He just said, "Sure, kid," and that was that. Unlike Mom, who would have had a thousand questions and probably a checklist.
I'd taken a leave from school too, which felt weirdly liberating. As we drove, I looked out the window and watched the scenery change—suburbs giving way to stretches of highway, the city slowly fading behind us. My stomach was a mix of nerves and excitement. This was the first time I'd play chess on a real board, in a real tournament. I didn't even own a chess board at home, yet here I was, about to compete with people who probably spent years hunched over one. I'd read a ton of books, solved puzzles, watched grandmaster games online—everything I could to prepare. But still, this was different.
To calm my nerves, I let my mind drift to everything else that had happened in the last few days. I'd met with Mitchell and registered the company. It didn't take as long as I'd thought—Mitchell was a pro, and he made the whole process feel easy. He was a good conversationalist, maybe that's why he's a lawyer. Looking back, I realized he'd managed to get a lot of details out of me about my plans, my goals, and even what I thought about Alex. Anyways, now I am the owner of a company called 'Pixel forge'. That felt good. This is the name that Leonard and I decided after a lot of bickering.
I'd also been practicing guitar and piano like crazy, watching tutorials, reading books, and grinding away at my skills. My singing was at a very high level where I was actually confident I could sing at a party and not get laughed off the stage. My guitar and piano skills were both sitting around level 50s—solid, but still plenty of room to grow.
For fun, I started singing along with the radio in the car. The song playing was "Take Me Home, Country Roads" by John Denver. I belted out the lyrics, not caring how I sounded, just enjoying the moment and even trying to imitate the singer's deep, soothing tone. My voice echoed through the car, a little off-key but full of heart.
"All my memories gather 'round her
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye…"
At first, my dad just looked at me, eyebrows raised, clearly surprised that I could sing like that. Then he burst out laughing, shaking his head in amusement but obviously enjoying it as much as I was. I nudged him, grinning, and urged him to join in. He hesitated for half a second—then, with a mischievous spark in his eyes, he joined me. Soon we were both singing—well, more like yelling—the chorus together, our voices bouncing off the car windows.
"Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads…"
By the time we finished, we were both out of breath, our voices hoarse from laughing and singing. We kept going, song after song, until we pulled into the parking lot of the venue, grinning like idiots and feeling like we'd just had the best road trip ever.
The venue was a hotel auditorium, and as soon as we walked in, I was hit by a wall of energy. The lobby was buzzing with life—kids clutching chess sets, teenagers hunched over their phones, adults in everything from jeans and hoodies to crisp suits. Parents sipped coffee and exchanged nervous glances, coaches hovered with clipboards, and a few grandparents sat quietly, their eyes twinkling with experience. The air was thick with excitement, nervous energy, and the faint, ever-present smell of hotel carpet and coffee.
Inside the auditorium, rows and rows of tables were set up, each with a chess board and two chairs. Digital clocks sat by every board, their red numbers ticking down the seconds. The low hum of voices filled the room, punctuated by the occasional click of chess pieces or the sharp beep of a clock being pressed. Some players were already warming up, setting up their pieces with practiced hands, or staring intently at their boards as if they could see their entire game already mapped out. Others paced the aisles, headphones on, lost in their own worlds. There was a seriousness in the air, but also a sense of camaraderie—a shared understanding that everyone here was a chess addict, chasing the same thrill.
I saw kids as young as five, their feet dangling above the floor, and old men with trembling hands but fierce, calculating eyes. There were girls with ponytails, boys with wild hair, and adults who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a chess documentary. The diversity was amazing—chess really was a game for everyone, and today, this place was its temple.
I'd already registered online, but just to be safe, I made my way to the reception desk. The guy behind the counter was friendly, if a little harried, and handed me a slip with my player number on it. He explained the format: this was a Swiss-system tournament, running over two days. I'd play five games today, regardless of whether I won or lost. Each round, I'd be paired against someone with a similar score. Win, and you'd face another winner. Lose, and you'd play another loser. No one was eliminated, and the final standings would be determined by total points. It was a fair system—everyone got to play all rounds, and the best would rise to the top.
He handed me a schedule and pointed out where the pairings would be posted after each round. "If you have any questions, just come back here," he said, offering a reassuring smile.
I thanked him, clutching my number like it was a golden ticket. My dad squeezed my shoulder, his face proud but calm. "You ready, champ?"
I nodded, feeling nerves and excitement swirl together. "Yeah. I think I am."
We found a seat in the waiting area and I took a moment to soak it all in—the clatter of chess pieces, the click of clocks, the quiet intensity of players already lost in thought. I checked my phone and saw a 'good luck' text from Alex, which instantly helped calm my nerves. I texted her back, and we chatted for a few minutes, her encouragement giving me a much-needed boost. I promised to update her after each game.
Soon it was almost time for my first match-up. I made my way to the table listed on my slip, heart pounding in my chest. Sitting opposite me was a Chinese kid, maybe ten years old, with a serious expression and a water bottle bigger than his head. I immediately decided to give it my all—there's a saying in chess tournaments: if you see a kid, you'd better run. They're always way better than they look.
The game was a 25+10 rapid format—twenty-five minutes per player, with a ten-second increment each move. I had to play five games today, so I wanted to start strong. No blunders. My gamer's mind helped me focus, and I took a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment to use my new skill: Meditation. I'd absorbed this skill from a book just yesterday, and it was supposed to help a gamer recover MP, but I figured it could help with nerves too.
I tuned out the noise, letting everything fade until all I could hear was my own breathing. When the arbitrator came to start the clock, I opened my eyes, feeling calm and sharp. I got my score sheet, wrote my name, and the match began.
We both played our openings quickly, trading moves with confidence. The kid was good—defended well, didn't panic, and played fast. But I could tell I was on the winning side. He was rated 1600, but with kids, you never know—their real strength is almost always higher. I didn't underestimate him for a second.
Eventually, I won a rook and a pawn, but he still didn't resign. He played on, fighting for every move, until finally, with only a few pieces left, he tipped his king. I shook his hand, thanked him for the game, and got up, feeling a surge of relief and pride.
With time left before the next round, I wandered the hall, quietly watching other games. This was an open tournament, so all kinds of matchups were happening—kids versus adults, old pros versus newcomers. A crowd had gathered around one table, and I squeezed in to see what was happening. It was a young player, maybe twenty, facing off against an older man. I recognized the young guy—Daniel Naroditsky, a grandmaster with a 2530 rating. He was in total control, his pieces dominating the board. I felt a jolt of excitement—this was the guy I'd have to beat if I wanted to win and boost my official rating.
Later, I found my dad, who was checking us in at the hotel. We ate together in the hotel restaurant—sandwiches and fries, nothing fancy. I told him not to hang around the playing hall during my games; I didn't want any distractions. He didn't ask if I'd won—he never wanted to jinx it or make me feel bad if I lost—but when I told him I'd won, he lit up, practically bouncing in his seat. You'd think I'd just won the world championship.
After eating, I got ready for the next round. Like that, I played five games in one day—five opponents, five wins. By the end, I was exhausted but riding high. Evening came, and I got a video call from Mom. I told her all about my day and how easy it felt, and she was so proud I thought she might cry. Later, I talked to Alex, sharing every detail, before finally deciding to hit the hotel gym for a quick workout before bed.
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AN: I will not explain whole games because it will be boring to read.
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