Life lessons I learned as a competitive chess player
Not the ones you expect
I started playing chess when I was nine. One afternoon after school, my stepfather showed me how to set up the board: white squares in the bottom right-hand sides, Queens on their matching colors, pawns in the second row. He also taught me the pieces’ names, values, and basic moves.
I defeated him a few days later (he was a terrible player), and everybody thought I was a reborn Capablanca or some genius of the like. Except for my soon-to-be coach. He said I was too old to be accepted at his Chess Academy, where children started at the age of five.
After a lot of insistence, he took me in.
That was the first time I was confronted with the fact that being older was a hindrance in some people’s eyes. (Given my age, it sounds ludicrous. Right?)
As I entered the world of competitive chess, here’s what I learned:
Never judge a book by its cover (Or should we say by its date?)
Studies show that age discrimination — or ageism, as coined by Robert Neil Butler in 1969 — persists in today’s society.
From rolling eyes to couples with significant age gaps, to giving compliments like “You look good for your age,” or favoring younger candidates over older ones in hiring, we could all be victims or perpetrators of this rampant problem someday.
When I started training at the Chess Academy, in 1991, I realized I had to work harder than my peers to gain my coach’s trust. I was too young to understand age-related biases, but not too naive to overlook the adults’ words and reactions.
The other kids were more advanced in terms of castling, en passant and other game tricks. I, on the other hand, had the “maturity,” curiosity and own strategies to succeed.
I loved the game and wanted to make the most of the learning experience, even if that meant giving up some typical childhood fun.
Don’t mistake me: I didn’t see the time spent solving problems or studying openings and defenses, as a sacrifice; nor was I a clear-sighted child with just but noble intentions.
I wanted to win. I wanted to defeat the all-male brats (guess I’ve always been a feminist, ha!). Most of all, I wanted to prove my age was not a constraint.
My first tournament was a complete disaster — I made only one and a half points out of mere luck. But my performance would soon improve. At 10, I became the Provincial Champion in my age-group category (11–12 years old). At 12, after winning several competitions (some in senior categories), I received a Chess Expert certificate.
My coach admitted the mistake he would’ve made had he not taken me in.
We’ve heard this countless times: to err is human and it may be difficult to avoid deeply ingrained stereotypes. But we can try to overcome them.
My advice and this applies to myself as well: Stop judging people based on their age. Stop rejecting them because of the grey hair or the dates on resumes; instead, try to consider these as assets.
Ageist prejudice might hinder you from finding the rare pearl, and this concerns both younger and older people.
“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” -Mark Twain
As I continued my journey in the competitive chess world, I faced other types of discrimination, mostly based on my countryside origin. But this is a different matter. For now, let’s move to my second lesson:
“Success” will bring you close to some and distance you from others
This sounds cliché, but my case is peculiar.
One day my father heard my name on the radio. We hadn’t seen each other for many years. He lived in the city, about 45 km from my town, with a family I’ve hardly seen in my entire life. The seconds of “fame” on a sports station, came from me being selected the best player in a provincial competition. I was 11.
My stepmother showed up the day I received the prizes — a certificate and a ticket to an amusement park. My father was working, as usual. The experience was awkward: she hugged me and told me how proud of me they were, and then invited me to spend some time at their house.
Unexpectedly, achieving some success in chess brought me closer to my estranged father. And though we’ve never connected in a deep level, I got to know and like him better.
Success, however, doesn’t come without its pitfalls. It comes with a price: one being the decline of some of your relations with friends and loved ones. As psychologist Steven Berglas asserts:
“. . . when you begin to succeed — some of your friendships become strained. (. . .) Some [people] might experience jealousy, resentment, and other negative emotions. Without realizing it, they might be facing a sense of their own inadequacy as they see you grow and thrive.”
It happens to everybody who’s achieved any level of success.
Chess players I considered my friends pushed me away. Some would make nasty comments when I shared insights on middle or endgames during competitions. I recall this one in particular, “Now that she’s winning she believes she’s better than us.” It broke my heart. Why were they so mean?
My worst experience was when a coach burst into tears, threw the pieces from the game we were playing, and stopped talking to me afterward. I had known her for a couple of years and looked up to her as a role model. We were fighting for the first position in an adult category competition when she had the outburst. My hypothesis today is she couldn’t stand being defeated by a child and preferred to lose in a non-traditional way.
Looking back, what I can tell you for sure is such experiences thickened my skin and put me on guard for unpleasant surprises.
Of course, we’re never 100 % ready for disappointments, but developing an acknowledgment mindset (i.e., letdowns can happen at any time and come from anyone), will definitely assist you to cope better with those.
As you continue to shine, you’ll get to know what the real colors of your entourage are.
But what happens when your light starts to fade? Because it will, eventually.
There’ll always be someone better than you. Accept it and move on
No matter how humble or uninterested in success we are. Throughout distinct phases in our lives, we’ll look to others for a benchmark by which we can assess our own accomplishments. That’s a blatant fact in competitive sports, regardless of our age.
When I started playing chess, I wasn’t interested in winning tournaments. To be honest, I never dreamed of becoming a Provincial Champion, let alone of keeping the title for three years with a quasi-undefeated streak.
But the fact that I did — even if I used to attribute my victories to good luck rather than talent or hard work — made me believe I was invincible.
Until one day.
My last tournament as a competitive child/teen player was in 1996. I was 13. The first adversary who defeated me was 9.
I looked at her the same way older players might’ve looked at me in the past, a mix of jealousy and self-blame exploding inside, “What the heck just happened?”
My “glory” days were over. I felt playing competitively wasn’t enjoyable anymore. It was time to quit. Period.
But there’s no simple answer to my decision. It didn’t come out just because someone was — or played — better than me.
Was it because I didn’t want to pursue higher education in a sports school? Because my teachers persuaded me to “not waste my talents” in a “game” that could only provide me with a “shitty job?” Because my parents didn’t guide me much?
(Sometimes it’s easier to blame the universe or others than to undertake the arduous process of self-awareness.)
As I grew up, what kept coming to my mind was the “fun” part. My passion for the game had turned into boredom.
When your passion becomes tedious work, it’s time to look for other roads
I’m not talking about your dreams or life goals. Let’s say, for example, you want to become a prolific author because you’re passionate about writing and sharing your words with the world. In this case, there’s no other way around it but to embark on a painful, occasionally dull journey.
I like the way Stephen King puts it:
“Writing fiction, especially a long work of fiction, can be a difficult, lonely job; it’s like crossing the Atlantic in a bathtub.” (On Writing)
What I’m talking about is raw self-honesty — i.e., asking yourself whether is worth it or not to keep doing something you don’t enjoy anymore. What are the pros and the cons? What are your choices?
Maybe you have no clue what your next move is. Maybe you’re afraid of jumping out of unsatisfying jobs or relationships because they make you feel safe. I have no answers to your own battles. My sole advice is to keep asking yourself what does and doesn’t make you happy, and try to make changes to achieve the former.
In my case, my passion for chess has been like an old marriage with lots of ups and downs. There’s been extended periods in my life, where I’ve played either every day or never. Nada.
I continued playing competitively as an adult. My last events in Cuba were a giant simultaneous match headed by former World Champion Anatoli Karpov, and a few University Championships where I won first and second positions. After moving to Montreal, I’ve participated in a couple of local tournaments and been active online, in sites like Gameknot and lichess.org.
In the last few years, I’ve been playing just for fun. Like Hemingway wrote, “When you stop doing things for fun you might as well be dead.”
Some Final Thoughts
In a nutshell, these are the most important lessons I learned as a competitive chess player:
- Keep challenging yourself
- Work hard to (im)prove your skills
- Be proud of your success. Embrace the good, the bad and the ugly that comes with it
- Accept your limitations
- Learn from your downfalls
- Question your choices
- Do what you love
Benjamin Franklin sums up the lessons of chess in life, in this most certainly quote to live by:
“. . . we learn by Chess the habit of not being discouraged by present bad appearances in the state of our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favorable chance, and that of persevering in the secrets of resources.”
