The other day I discovered someone had started teaching my 6yo son how to play chess! So, we dusted off the old marble and brass decorative chess set we’d jammed in a closet after the last move and set it up.

He’s well into the “I KNOW, DAD!” phase, and since I had no idea how familiar he was with the game, I tried to scout out how much he knew.

I soon discovered my son played “dirty.” But not like that.

Aside from his innocently hilarious pronunciation of “pawns,” he had a pretty good grasp of the game. I was really proud, in between trying not rupture a vein in my head from suppressed laughter when he mentioned a move of his… pawns.

One would think that “horsies” (as he called them during the game) were superheroes or completely drunk, judging by the way he tried to place them, but he was willing for me to let him know his valid options, and the game played out properly.

His eyes would go wide when I gasped at a move he’d made. “W-what???” he’d say fearfully. Then I’d energetically tell him what I would do if he went there and showed him other moves I thought he could do the most damage with.

I’m not very good at chess, though. Even with me playing both sides a bit, the game’s wild uncertainty was exciting for both of us.

It was priceless when I finally had him in checkmate. After I explained it, he crinkled up his nose and said, “No way. He’s just stuck? The king doesn’t DIE!?! That’s not right!” We laughed as he proceeded to execute his own king by hammering it with my few remaining pieces.

Good times.