I tend to be the ultimate gamester.
I didn’t mean “gangster” and will leave that to less desirable folks. What I’m talking about is the recreation side of life. Put some dice in my hands for a game of Parcheesi and suddenly I turn restless.
Perhaps that is the competitive side of me speaking. Some people play for fun. Others are more inclined to enjoy the power of victory.
I have 20 reasons to indulge at my summer place. All are games waiting to be played while fitting any mood or incentive. Ready for this?
If it isn’t backgammon, then it’s Boggle. Chess ranks up there among requests, then checkers. Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble have their moments of pleasure, along with Bingo, Crossword Cubes, Monopoly and Po-ke-no.
The little ones get their kicks from Nature Lotto, Crazy 8’s and Fish. Last but not least are such games as Battleship, Headache, Clue, Isolation, Password, Probe and Guinness Game of World Records.
I mention this because there’s never a dull point around my summer camp when it rains. On more pleasant days, we find ourselves swimming, boating and fishing.
Now, I haven’t looked at a chess board for 30 years after being an active player throughout high school. My cousin taught me how to play this game. I took out books, followed the serialized games in the newspaper and welcomed every opportunity to capture someone else’s king.
The last person I ever expected to learn the game was my 8-year-old grandson. This is the kid who cannot sit still for a second. He hates to lose, too. So, it was with some bewilderment that I took up his offer for a match.
His 6-year-old brother was waiting in the wings. Beat one and you have to face the other. So now, sunny weather and all, the chess pieces are waiting to be manipulated. The more we play, the better they seem to get.
I remember the movie, “Waiting for Bobby Fischer,” about the one-time world champion and his road to immortality.
During my years as a fledging sportswriter at The Gazette, nothing I ever covered, be it football or golf, could ever replace that moment in 1972 in what was billed “The Match of the Century.”
It pitted America’s Fischer against the Soviet Union’s Boris Spassky. Iceland was hosting the match as millions watched. The first move was made July 11 and went through Aug. 31 with the 40th move. Spassky resigned the following day without resuming play, yielding to the American, 12.5 to 8.5.
Might I also add that Fischer became the first American from the United States to win a world championship, ending 24 years of Soviet domination.
I was covering the sports desk and every time one of them made a move, the wire services sent out a bulletin. People were holding their breath, whether they played chess or not. It was the purest form of a Cold War our nation had ever faced.
Fischer wound up going into seclusion following his victory and Spassky lost all respect from his country. In recent times, I admired the Soviet-Armenian champion Garry Kasparov, another legendary player who racked up a trunk full of awards.
Whether my grandsons ever reach that pinnacle remains to be seen. Right now, they enjoy beating their “papa” at anything and having some success with it.
I learned my backgammon from the priests I met at a monastery while studying in Vienna. Every evening after dinner, they would gather in their recreation area and pull out the boards. I would join them and seldom won a game.
In my latter life, backgammon became a mild addiction at festivals and other social interludes. My cousin crafted me a Mother-of-Pearl board which was the envy of any opponent. I carried that set with me everywhere I traveled, taking on all comers.
Back home, I would challenge the computer and other players from around the world on the Internet. Log on and you’ll get a match within seconds.
Yesterday, I played some opponent from Turkey, the country I shall be visiting in September with my wife and friends. You might say this was a grudge match, given what the Ottoman Turks did to the Armenians a century ago.
All they give you online is the country of your opponent and no names. Some semblance of justice was served as he quit three-quarters into the game after nearly being shut out.
Where it really gets dicey is when I pit myself against my wife. She claims I’m a poor loser and perhaps so. I cannot escape the chance to admit she always has a penchant for throwing the right dice at the right time.
We always play a rematch.
Tom Vartabedian
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