Checkmate, Dad. You won!

I never really liked playing chess.

My Dad taught me how to play when I was a kid. For years, he won every game. Every game. To try and make it fair, and to prevent me from becoming discouraged, he would surrender a valuable piece like the queen or both rooks. This helped, and as time passed, I would win a game occasionally. Eventually, we played at even strength, and I could beat him, but not often. As adults, we split wins about equally.

Seems about right, doesn’t it. He wins one, I win one. Repeat. He is a much better player and frankly, much smarter than me. Far more patient and capable of envisioning moves three to four plays in advance. But I could beat him half the time which just happened to keep me interested enough in playing with him.

Hmmm.

I never saw it coming. Like I said, he’s much smarter.

When we played our last game, I did not know it was our last game. Five months ago, I would have bet that a centennial birthday was possible. But at age 98, time and a failing body finally caught up. He went to be with my Mom, and they are back together after fourteen long years. My son joked that she probably yelled at him for taking so long. He likely replied that even if he were on time, she would have been late anyway. They had that kind of relationship, and I so missed them teasing each other. But now she is in Heaven’s kitchen, and he is in Heaven’s basement workshop, and they will eat dinner right at 6:00.

He logged a lot of miles and watched the world change. Brilliant, but not tech savvy, he could tell you how a VCR worked but not how to operate it. The fact that phones were also cameras blew his mind. He never fully understood how Siri, “the girl on the phone”, could gather information so quickly.

The son of poor immigrants in Chicago’s Burnside neighborhood, their most

valuable asset was family. This never changed. I fondly remember picnics, holidays, birthdays, etc., that spanned from my childhood well into adulthood.

A proud member of the US Navy, he served for twelve years between active duty and the reserves. Then he served in the Army for one year. He was forever a supporter of the military and its soldiers.

He enjoyed a long career with General Electric until retirement. A loyal employee, we had GE products throughout our house.

He was strict but kind. Not one to show emotion, he still had a soft spot for

charities. He had a great sense of humor but never got carried away. He always pulled for the underdog, unless the Bears or White Sox were playing.

As a Dad, he was my hero. The best man I have ever known. Closer to Andy

Griffith than Clint Eastwood, he didn’t need to carry a gun. He was fair, logical, and decisive. Wisdom trumped temper with him.

As a Grandpa and Great Grandpa, he loved having the kids nearby. He often took my sons to Rowan Park, where I played as a kid, to play on the swings and slides. It was their special time.

A year after my Mom died in 2010, he fell and broke his hip. In typical fashion, he was reluctant to call (did not want to pay for) an ambulance. So, he crawled from the kitchen to the front door, planning to make it two doors down to get help from his friend Abe. However, it was the middle of the night, and he could not stand to unlock the deadbolt. Luckily, his cell phone was in his robe pocket, and he begrudgingly called 911 for help. Simply put, they were from a tougher generation.

After hip replacement surgery, he agreed to move in with us. His home was

reduced to a bedroom and some space in the basement, but he did not complain. Nor did he when the hardware became dislodged, damaging his pelvic bone and causing a MRSA infection, leading to a chronic wound. This confined him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He went from a young 84 to an old 85.

But that’s where his story becomes one of remarkable perseverance.

And faith. And strength.

His remaining health history became a laundry list from major organs to ongoing nuisances. Thirteen years of pain, suffering, and discomfort. I know there were days when waking up might not have seemed worth it. Yet he did not complain.

He stood in death’s doorway several times and turned up his nose, refusing to give in. We were told on more than one occasion to prepare for the end. Getting knocked down became a “challenge” to him and he just got back up.

Always an independent man, it was difficult for him to accept what he could not do anymore. From driving and walking to accomplishing everyday tasks, it became clear that help would be needed most of the time. However, he managed to maintain a strong mental outlook which allowed him to keep moving forward. Not one to readily dole out compliments, he floored me with a message on a birthday card a few years ago. He usually just signed “Love, Dad.” But this time he added, “I would be lost without you.”

In life, as in chess, he planned each move with careful thought. He guarded his castle and queen, dutifully protecting his players. No rash, stupid moves, or unnecessary risks. No bragging after a win or whining after a loss. When I became irritated after blowing a game, he reminded me that I was missing the point. It was not about who won or lost; the important thing was that we were playing together. A life lesson well taught. And one spoken like a king.

I am going to dearly miss playing that game I never really liked.