Page 26 of Niccolo

When I got older, he would pull a book from his library of chess books and give it to me. I would go into my bedroom and study the contents late into the night, mimicking the moves on my little magnetic chessboard. At our next session, Papa would demand I use the tactics from the book against him.

I liked chess quite a bit – but more than anything, I craved my father’s attention. He had never been particularly interestedin me before I demonstrated an aptitude for chess. If anything, he’d seemed indifferent.

After that afternoon when I pointed out Pietro’s mistake, Papa couldn’t get enough of me.

The only problem was that he was a demanding teacher.

Cruel, even.

He would berate me for mistakes. He would speak to me contemptuously if I couldn’t remember complicated gambits or defenses – even at seven years old.

Some children might have quit, especially as they reached their teenage years –

But not me. I just doubled my efforts, then tripled them.

As I studied chess books late into the night, I would think,If I just get better…

THEN he’ll love me.

My father was an adjunct professor rather than a full professor, which meant he didn’t have tenure, he only taught a couple classes per semester, and he didn’t make nearly as much as a regular professor.

Still, he made more as a part-time professor than he did as a chess grandmaster.

In the world of chess, you don’t make much money unless you’re among the top 10 players in the world.

My father was quite good, but he was barely in the top 10 players in all of Italy.

So, like other grandmasters, he supplemented his income by teaching students.

Papa instructed me privately at home, but he also dragged me along with him to the class he taught at the community center every Wednesday night.

It was mostly boys aged 10 to 15. There were no girls in the group.

I hated it.

Not just because the boys were snotty and condescending, but because my father held me to a higher standard than he did them.

At the start of every class, he would set up an easel with a large chess grid on a metal board. Then he would slap magnetic chess pieces on the board, demonstrate various concepts, and quiz the students.

He always asked me the hardest questions. Whenever I made a mistake, Papa would yell at me in front of the entire class.

So I did my best not to make any mistakes.

After the lecture, all the students would play one another.

I hated that part, too.

Not because they were better players, which they weren’t. I beat all of them all of the time.

At first they chalked it up to luck… then to my being the teacher’s daughter… and then, finally, they avoided me until Papa forced them to play me.

No, the reason I hated playing other students is because boys were assholes.

The ones in the chess club were either socially inept robots or overconfident punks. Sometimes both.

For example: the very first time Papa took me to a class, I played a boy several years older than me. After about 20 moves, he said, “Checkmate,” and stuck out his hand likeGood game.

I frowned.

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