Some nights, I try to calculate how many points I’d score if life were run like a Swiss tournament.
Like, if the family home was a five-round event, what would my standing be?
Round 1: Forgot to take out the recycling. Lost on time.
Round 2: Didn’t answer Dad’s text. Defaulted.
Round 3: Calmed Mum down after the water bill arrived. Small win.
Round 4: Survived dinner without anyone storming out. Lucky draw.
Round 5: Said something sarcastic during a silence. Instant loss.
Final score: 1.5/5
Buchholz: irrelevant—we’re all underperforming.
The sink’s been leaking again. Slow drip, metallic smell. Dad keeps saying he’ll fix it, then doesn’t. Mum says we should call someone. Then they both don’t. Instead, they talk around it, like the leak is symbolic and fixing it might somehow mean they’re choosing sides. I used a saucepan to catch the drip. No one noticed.
Mum works mornings at a language school—“temporary” for three years now. She’s tired. She does that thing where she zones out while talking, like her words are running ahead of her energy. Dad drives for a delivery app but thinks he’s above it. Wears a blazer over the uniform. Refuses to take jobs in certain postcodes. I think he’s trying to pretend this is all part of something bigger.
They don’t fight all the time. Just enough that it becomes the weather. Background atmosphere. Pressure drop. Storm warning.
Chess helps. Not just playing it, but thinking about it. Planning tournaments in my head. Making fake pairings for imaginary players. I sat down last night and imagined a 12-player event featuring:
- Me
- Mum (no show, forfeits)
- Dad (withdraws halfway)
- Don Emilio (wins)
- The cat (bites the clock)
- A kid from school who once called me “robo-boy”
- My future self (3.5/5, improving)
- Four random players with weird names like Fabrixio and Knuckle-Dan
In my head, it made sense. Everyone had a score. Everyone knew where they stood. No one screamed in the hallway about bills or Wi-Fi or whether I’d left the bathroom light on again.
I’ve been thinking: in chess, you always know where your pieces are. There’s no mystery. No passive aggression from the rook. No sulking from the knight because you didn’t promote it. The queen doesn’t disappear overnight and come back different
At home, nothing stays where you left it. Not objects. Not moods. Not people.
The cat sits in the washing machine now. No idea why.
Sometimes I wonder what Don Emilio’s home was like when he was my age. He never says. He talks about openings, sacrifices, old tournaments. Never about growing up. Maybe that’s why he plays so well. Maybe chess gave him the same thing it gives me: a place where things hold still.
I wish my parents could understand that. That when I’m studying tiebreak formulas at 1am, I’m not being antisocial. I’m surviving. I’m trying to find rules that don’t change halfway through the game.
The sink’s still dripping. I moved the saucepan. Let it drip on the floor.
Just for a bit. Just to see if anyone hears it.
—Leo