Confessions of a Chess Mom

(originally published in The Independent in 2006)

Soccer moms of the world, beware! The chess moms of the world are about to usurp your title, sceptor and SUV. 

Let’s just look at the tools of the trade. Soccer moms need a plastic bag for muddy cleats, one hour of time, and plenty of Juicy-Juice. You’re in, you’re out, you’re done (so to speak). The chess moms need airline tickets, rental cars, hotel rooms, rolling suitcases, refreshments, snacks, money, and enough changes of clothes for five days. They must have good walking shoes, compasses, breadcrumbs, cell phones, walkie-talkies, and a quick command of lobbies, porters, and registration processes. 

Above all, the chess mom must be quick on her feet and keen in sight so she may jump into action when the all-important word “pairings’ has been announced from twenty miles away. If you have a bionic eye, all the better. The pairings for each match are printed on poster boards three football fields from the nearest chess board or eight-year-old player. 

On our recent trip to Nashville – nice enough city – and the Gaylord Opryland Hotel and Convention Center – nice enough behemoth – for the Supernationals chess tournament, my son and I had mostly the “right stuff”. Tickets, car – check; snacks, drinks, rolling containers – check. But, what we where tremendously ill-equipped for was the mass of humanity converging on the largest man-made structure resembling a rat-maze, east of the Mississippi. Actually, a river runs through it, but that’s a different story.

No one had prepared us for five days of five thousand young people (accompanied by their parents) running the five miles to and from the two thousand-five hundred chess tables. My son had taken chess lessons with the school chess club. We had done a stellar job in Jeff City at the state competition. I didn’t lose one cooler or snack in my eight-hour shift in mid-Missouri, so I figured I was well on my way to mastering the chess-mom bachelor’s degree, as my son was on his way to capturing another title. 

But, Opryland Behemoth Hotel got the best of me; it swallowed me whole. With its 13 lobbies, 43 restaurants, 12 pools, 475 ballrooms and exhibit areas, and 72 escalators and raised walkways in split-level heaven, I didn’t do anything right. The first afternoon, we met half the team in the wrong lobby. Who knew the Magnolia lobby even existed?   After parking the car in the Cascade lot, I found that our room was in the Garden district, only four and a half miles from the Delta Convention Center, the Ryman Exhibit halls, and Governor’s ballrooms. Oh well. With rolling bags in tow, we circled our Garden room like vultures, finally landing on the prey after avoiding a menacing escalator. We were greeted by a nice, comfortably appointed room with a flashing message light on the phone. 

“Yikes,” I thought, “I’ve left an appendage somewhere – quick! Child, check – rolling things, check. But the flashing light must be dealt with. After following the instructions on the two-line portable phone (for one mom, one kid, and 45 square feet of space?) I get the message center of the Behemoth. I must enter my room number (which starts with a letter – G for Garden) and then a password. A password? Which lobby would that have been in? So, I called Little Rock on line 2 (Line 1 didn’t work.) and got Rita. She allowed as how my password is the first four letters of my last name (my last name only has four letters, whew). But she’ll connect me and I may retrieve my message. Little Rock says, “Message Center, Goodbye.” No kidding. I call Rita back and explain that I’ve messed up somehow and she says she’ll reconnect. This time Arkansas says, “Behemoth is glad you’re here.” Gee, thanks. 

Next I go in search of ice and water, and maybe some O.J. for the morning. It is two doors from our room, and I now see that we circled the wrong half of the Garden section looking for the room. The major indoor highway for chess people is twenty feet from our door. No ice, though. But the nice employees (who must live on the mothership to get to work on time) gladly give me ice with my $3.00 bottle of water, and my $6.00 bottle of O.J. Must be the import taxes.  

Several thousand dollars in chicken fingers and Sprite later, we’ve mastered the map, only by memorizing landmarks. (If you get to the third gift shop, you’ve gone too far. I think I remember these stairs from Tuesday.) And, I was really downright comfortable in my command of room names when the time had come to “PROCEED TO THE AWARDS CEREMONY.” Behemoth beckoned, and we dared not be late, for fear of reprisal in the form of a confusing bill, or luggage relocation program. In a room that has to be large enough to house the residents of Texas and their cattle, we found chairs – hundreds of thousands of chairs – more chairs than Behemoth even knew it had. And, at the end of the rainbow we found trophies – gazillions of trophies lined up like the skyline of a great city. The drool flew from our children’s mouths as they ran down the runway to the stage, some sixty miles away. Never before had trophies been so plentiful, so tempting, so large. And, believe it or not, there were many chairs empty. So the parents ran (okay walked quickly) to the chairs in the front by the trophies. We claimed as many chairs as we had items in our purses to mark them. Our territory – we challenge anyone to encroach.

One of us must have read the time wrong. It was no wonder there were so many free chairs in the countryside. So we took naps on our chairs. 

After trophies depart, and children stop jumping up and down, and adults have taken migraine medicine, we take our leave of Behemoth. Sadly, it is time to return to the land of normal houses and affordable food. But, we have been enriched. Our children have played their best chess, and we have risen to the occasion. We can do anything, we can navigate anything, we can conquer even Nashville. Now, how on earth do we get to the airport?