This was a very touching read – I'm sorry for your loss. I resonated with a surprising amount of this; the passing of my grandparents was similarly not significant for me (for the same reason – they were in India), but my first loss I felt came when I found out that the guy who ran the chess club I used to go to passed away at a surprisingly young age. His name was Melvin, but I only knew him as Mr. Patrick.
I played with him weekly, sometimes even 2-3 days a week, from the ages of 9 to 14, often for many hours. Similar to you, when I started I was much worse than him (he didn't teach me the rules, but in many respects he introduced me to the game), and eventually I got to the point where we were at comparable skill levels. A big part of chess club culture is trash talking, and a lot of my fondest memories from that age were of the casual insults and roasts we'd throw back and forth over 5 minute blitz games. He used to play an opening that I thought was dumb and boring – the London system – and I wasn't shy about telling him as much. Mr. Patrick would complain about me being young and brash, and I'd give him a hard time about being old and slow (he wasn't either, really – he beat my older brother, who ran varsity cross country, in a foot race despite being in his 50s).
I stopped really competing in high school since I lost my love of the game, but around the time I was 19 or 20 I had a renewed interest in chess and made a visit back to the club. Mr. Patrick was there, grumpy and gray as always, playing with someone I didn't recognize, and he sort of seemed to be ignoring me. Once they finished their game I asked if I could play, and he got up and gestured for me to play with the other guy as he walked out of the room and towards his office. I ended up playing with the other patron, nice fellow named Greg, and told him my name, and explained that I used to come to this club as a kid. Immediately after I said that, Mr. Patrick comes stumbling back in, with a look of disbelief: "Aman? Karunakaran?" I confirmed that it was indeed me and his face lit up as he told Greg to step aside. It felt just like old times – we were poking jabs at each other's chess skills, I was busy calling him old, he was calling me a naive youngster, and he was still playing that dull, drab London system, as always. I didn't see him regularly again; but it was a nice visit from the past, at least for a little.
Around 2021, I found out via Facebook that he had passed. I didn't know what to make of it, but I noticed that unlike other people in my life like my grandparents, this one was sticking around. It was rattling around in my head, despite not having had a relationship with him for about a decade. One night as I was in bed falling asleep, it really dawned on me that I was never going to play against his stupid London system ever again. Sure, I could play against someone else's online. But I wouldn't play against _his_. And I couldn't make fun of him for it. That was never going to happen again, for the rest of my life. And I just sobbed.
This turned out to be way longer than I expected, but it was very cathartic to write, and your experience with Civ really reminded me of how I felt. I'm so sorry for your loss.
also – that churro place is 100% a front and their churros are awful. I have no idea how they are paying for rent in that enormous LES location, that place is always empty.
Sorry man. I've been there, both having lost friends, and being friends to those who've lost someone. And conversations, or posts like this one, are part of what keeps those ripples of their impact alive.
This was beautiful. I really appreciate your writing for the technical insights you offer, but today your prose hooked me and your message kept me. Thanks for sharing, I hope you find peace.
This was a very touching read – I'm sorry for your loss. I resonated with a surprising amount of this; the passing of my grandparents was similarly not significant for me (for the same reason – they were in India), but my first loss I felt came when I found out that the guy who ran the chess club I used to go to passed away at a surprisingly young age. His name was Melvin, but I only knew him as Mr. Patrick.
I played with him weekly, sometimes even 2-3 days a week, from the ages of 9 to 14, often for many hours. Similar to you, when I started I was much worse than him (he didn't teach me the rules, but in many respects he introduced me to the game), and eventually I got to the point where we were at comparable skill levels. A big part of chess club culture is trash talking, and a lot of my fondest memories from that age were of the casual insults and roasts we'd throw back and forth over 5 minute blitz games. He used to play an opening that I thought was dumb and boring – the London system – and I wasn't shy about telling him as much. Mr. Patrick would complain about me being young and brash, and I'd give him a hard time about being old and slow (he wasn't either, really – he beat my older brother, who ran varsity cross country, in a foot race despite being in his 50s).
I stopped really competing in high school since I lost my love of the game, but around the time I was 19 or 20 I had a renewed interest in chess and made a visit back to the club. Mr. Patrick was there, grumpy and gray as always, playing with someone I didn't recognize, and he sort of seemed to be ignoring me. Once they finished their game I asked if I could play, and he got up and gestured for me to play with the other guy as he walked out of the room and towards his office. I ended up playing with the other patron, nice fellow named Greg, and told him my name, and explained that I used to come to this club as a kid. Immediately after I said that, Mr. Patrick comes stumbling back in, with a look of disbelief: "Aman? Karunakaran?" I confirmed that it was indeed me and his face lit up as he told Greg to step aside. It felt just like old times – we were poking jabs at each other's chess skills, I was busy calling him old, he was calling me a naive youngster, and he was still playing that dull, drab London system, as always. I didn't see him regularly again; but it was a nice visit from the past, at least for a little.
Around 2021, I found out via Facebook that he had passed. I didn't know what to make of it, but I noticed that unlike other people in my life like my grandparents, this one was sticking around. It was rattling around in my head, despite not having had a relationship with him for about a decade. One night as I was in bed falling asleep, it really dawned on me that I was never going to play against his stupid London system ever again. Sure, I could play against someone else's online. But I wouldn't play against _his_. And I couldn't make fun of him for it. That was never going to happen again, for the rest of my life. And I just sobbed.
This turned out to be way longer than I expected, but it was very cathartic to write, and your experience with Civ really reminded me of how I felt. I'm so sorry for your loss.
also – that churro place is 100% a front and their churros are awful. I have no idea how they are paying for rent in that enormous LES location, that place is always empty.
Sorry man. I've been there, both having lost friends, and being friends to those who've lost someone. And conversations, or posts like this one, are part of what keeps those ripples of their impact alive.
That was a beautiful tribute. I can only imagine what kind of a person your friend must have been to inspire these words. I’m sorry for your loss.
I'm sorry for your loss.
This was beautiful. I really appreciate your writing for the technical insights you offer, but today your prose hooked me and your message kept me. Thanks for sharing, I hope you find peace.