Chess Men

In Clark Park, I observe a ritual during the warm months. I go there on Thursday afternoons and eat a freshly BBQ'd half-rack of pork ribs or half chicken, prepared by an Amish farmer-family (blipped earlier). The Northern half of the park was refurbished during the past year, and though everyone agrees that it's improved, some interests simply didn't make the cut for this phase of planned changes, as there were too many for the budget. These are the present crop of chess players who gather every evening that the weather permits, all year round, for at least thirty years. Before the renovations, they straddled a concrete bench that surrounded a flag pole (which, for as long as anyone knew, never held a flag). After the re-opening, the tables supplied by the park were simply too small for a proper game, having no space for the dead pieces and the clock to be. So today I was told that the third man back on the left had made these tables for himself and his friends to carry on their age-old tradition. I always feel nostalgic when I see them, because as a boy I played several games most every day and was considered the man to beat, i.e. a very good player. I always vow to start playing again; never do.

Time wins all games, but still men play. Now I hear thunder roaring, which means they'll be losing the last bit of daylight chess time.