The first rule of living in the Tucker-Pritchett household: never make plans on a Saturday without running it past Cam. The second rule: always expect the unexpected. Like, say, DeDe and Jay Russell filing divorce for a very official-sounding "irreconcilable differences" on a random Tuesday with the same lack of ceremony as a Costco return line. Jay handled it with the grace of a grumpy bear woken from hibernation ("People split up, kid. Don't gawk at me like I'm a soap opera extra"), while DeDe fired off unhinged emails that even Mitchell refused to open. Somewhere in the chaos, my own life was ticking forward—While I did feel bad for Jay , I knew he would get better ."
Meanwhile, it was official: I'd moved up a grade. Kindergarten felt like it happened three lifetimes ago (which tracks, given my reincarnation sitch). Now, I was a proud 6-year-old marching into first grade—a whole year with a new homeroom, new books, and, as Cam dramatically put it, "new opportunities for greatness…or lunchbox espionage." He was only half joking.
Getting me into a good school was its own minor reality show. Cam lobbied for a progressive magnet academy across town. Mitch wanted something that didn't involve "traffic patterns reminiscent of The Fast and the Furious." I just wanted the same school as Alex—mostly because it was less of a hassle , going in some elite school wasn't worth it in my opinion .
After several rounds of "spirited debate" (read: passive-aggressive chart-making from Mitch and theatrical sighs from Cam), it finally went my way. Same school as Alex. Same old playground, same existential math quizzes. Score one for Ryan.
Still, Alex took it precisely as well as you'd expect.
Alex: "Great, just what I needed. Academic competition from inside the family."
Me: "Don't worry, I ain't interested in any of that as i barely study much of course me still scoring full marks is because I am the smarter one here "
She threw a pencil at me. Sibling bonding.
Life was normal , regular lectures , annoying alex , observing everyone that got improved a bit as there more drama here than in kindergarten, Although today i got excited from a news.
The excitement came not from the spelling quiz wars, but from a flyer taped (crookedly) to the school office window: "Community Chess Club—Mini Tournament! For kids under 10! "
I waved the flyer at Mitch and Cam.
Me: "Can I enter this?"
Mitch: "Is this what being a 'Chess Dad' feels like?"
Cam: (already looking for confetti) "We are going to get matching t-shirts! 'Proud Pawn Parent' has a ring, doesn't it?"
Phil, ever the wildcard, appeared out of nowhere to hand me a "lucky coin" from his "magician's bag of wonders" and wink like I'd just been selected for an MTV prank show. ("Heads for checkmate, tails for…uh, learning experience.")
Thus began my journey to chess glory.
Saturday dawned bright and horrifyingly early, Cam driving us to the rec center while humming showtunes. ("Chess is drama, honey. Don't be afraid to add some jazz hands after you castle.")
The tournament room? Picture a sea of folding tables, battered boards, and children who stared at you like they'd eaten a grandmaster for breakfast. There's a myth that nothing in the world is scarier than a chess kid. It's true. Forget horror movies. Five minutes in a room with twelve under-10s and you'll know fear.
Some kids warmed up by reciting opening lines in Russian. One boy practiced his "intimidation face" in the bathroom mirror. I saw a girl hug her king for luck and mutter something in Latin. I was playing for fun and points to my progress—but these kids looked like they fought for kingdoms.
Cam fussed over my "hydration" and "snack loadout" and tried (unsuccessfully) to braid my hair for "luck." As if I needed extra luck—Kazuma would never forgive me.
Opponents? I eyed my first round rival. Toothless grin, Death Note-level intensity. I decided on the polite approach.
Me: "Good luck!"
Rival: "You'll need it."
This is war.
My first game was almost suspiciously smooth—a textbook double bishop checkmate. Cam watched from the sidelines, phone poised to record history. As soon as I closed in with my two bishops and cut off all escape, my opponent let out a dramatic sigh that wouldn't be out of place after a breakup.
Rival: "How did you…?"
Me: "Mystery of the bishops, my friend."
Status screen: +10 EXP (Tal).
Next came a queen-rook ladder mate. My opponent slid their king along the back rank again and again, each move accompanied by more dramatic whispers. ("Not the rook… anything but the rook…") When the end came, I nearly felt bad—but the pizza table beckoned.
Games 3 and 4 were standard fare. Both ended in solid middle-game attacks, a flurry of pawn storms, and one accidental "J'adoube" flex from a kid who clearly wanted to sound French. (Fun fact: it means "I adjust," but here it meant "I'm panicking and need a time-out.")
Each win netted me more Tal EXP (+10 a pop), but the difficulty curve was rising. Sitting at 4-0, I tried not to get cocky. That's Kazuma's job.
Game 5 was the stuff of playground legend. I backed my opponent into a corner with nothing but a single pawn and rook. Just when she thought she'd slip away, I maneuvered my pawn all the way to the eighth rank, promoting with the flourish of a stage magician.
Me: "Ready for your new queen?"
Opponent: "No…"
Me, with a grin: "Checkmate with a pawn, then!"
Cam cheered like we'd just won regionals. Someone else's grandparent joined in by accident. 5-0 and riding high.
Status screen: +10 Tal EXP. But things were about to get spicy.
Game 6? A brick wall. My new opponent, Michael countered every attack. Lines I'd never even seen, precision you don't expect from someone with chocolate-stained fingers. The clock became my best friend, and for the first time all tournament, I played for time.
The next three matches followed the same pattern: fast, sharp, and utterly ruthless. Old "play-to-win" strategies went out the window. When creativity failed, I did what any self-respecting chess player does: I blitzed out pawn moves, forced time scrambles, and spammed checks until my opponents looked like they'd need therapy. Three wins—on time, by the skin of my teeth. All because i was faster on the board and won on time .
"Never underestimate the power of panicking last. Also, why do kids in grade school have opening prep better than mine?"
Final round, game 10: I drew the wildest of the wild—a kid whose pre-game ritual involved meditating and eating two bananas in rapid succession. No joke, he called it "fortifying his temples." The game was a slugfest, but somehow, I managed to survive the storm and clinch my last point as the buzzer blared.
Cam basically stormed the board with hugs. ("That's my Grandmaster!"). Embarrassment: +100. Dignity: -3.
Status screen: +20 EXP for each of my final five games—every move felt like a leap forward, every match like cramming a semester of tactics into ten minutes.
When the dust settled, the standings were announced. All top 8 players: perfect 10/10 scores. All 8 won 10 games straight but Turns out, winning on the edge of a flag falls short against speed demons. Because I won some games on time I ended up seeded third compared to the top 2 who probably won all on checkmate.
Me: "Third? Shoulda known those blitz skills would haunt me."
Cam: "Third!? In the entire city! That's extraordinary!"
Me, grumbling: "If only I was first."
Alex, who'd entered the tournament too, came by with a half-smile. She'd won five of her ten matches but was knocked out.
Alex: "Congrats, I guess. At least you didn't get checkmated by an eight-year-old."
Me, ever the comforter: "Hey, you'll always have spelling bees."
She threw her empty soda cup at me. Sibling affection: confirmed.
The other tournament kids? A mixed bag. Some fist-bumped, others treated me like I'd just canceled their birthday party. Chess is truly the sport of humble victories and dramatic defeats.
Back home, Cam declared it "Ryan Day" and organized a dinner with the kind of fanfare usually reserved for reality show finales. There was homemade pizza ("Look, it's a bishop!"), and a brief, emotional phone call from Jay that ended with, "Tell him I'm proud, and Mitch owes me $10." No context. None needed.
Mitch tried to keep things grounded. "Just remember, it's about enjoying yourself, not racking up trophies." Good advice, though my status screen seemed to disagree.
Jay texted a thumbs-up emoji—a digital olive branch.
Phil sent an "abracadabra!" gif.
If happiness is measured in family chaos per square foot, I was loaded.
Later that night, I rewatched my trickiest matches on replay, chessboard in bed, notebook open. Every time I spotted a missed tactic or a sneaky defensive line, I felt a little greener, a little sharper. I knew my real test was coming tomorrow: quarterfinals, best-of-three. And those speed demons? If I can't conjure up a little more Tal madness, I'd need to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Maybe literally—Phil had left the hat behind.
"Maybe Cam will let me bring it to the board for good luck. Worst case, I distract my opponent and sneak in an extra check."
But for now, I could rest easy. Not king yet, but definitely not a pawn.
[Status Screen: Updated]
Mikhail Tal – Beginner (610 / 10,000)
+50 EXP: Day 1 tournament wins
+100 EXP: Survived the "Savage Five"—final five games full of tactical fireworks,slightly improved time scramble instincts.
Kazuma Satou – Intermediate (10 / 10,000)
No change. Luck preserved for tomorrow's critical moments (and, maybe, pizza raffles).
Patrick Jane – Beginner (230 / 15,000)
No change. Observational awareness noted: "Chess kids' body language = more intense than cable news anchors."